The room next to the dressing room was a makeup and hair salon, with two steel folding tables piled with an array of black makeup brushes and a layered box full of compacts and foundation. Models in lacy bras and slips sat on folding chairs, orange crates, and boxes while stylish men and women painted their eyes, contoured their cheeks, and styled their hair. One model was having a French twist combed out, and her head jerked back with each stroke. Mary winced. She was a lawyer, but she couldn’t take that kind of pain.
Beside the makeup room was a final fitting room, with models going from one station to the next like a fashion assembly line, though Mary couldn’t tell the order from all the milling around. In the corner stood a portable steam presser and movable racks of clothes, a quick glance revealing they were Young & Hip. From what Mary could tell, the Young & Hip biz was really thriving.
The operative word being Young. Mary got close enough to see the models and they looked like kids playing dress-up. They were preteens, starting at about age ten, up to fifteen or so. There wasn’t a full breast in the crowd, though the kids appeared to be modeling slips that were supposed to be dresses. One model, a sprout of a blond with large blue eyes, looked barely twelve. She sat in a cloth-back director’s chair while a man in black glued false lashes to her eyelids. Her feet, in strappy black sandals, didn’t touch the ground and she clutched a Totally Hair Barbie, with coincidentally matching sandals. There was no mother in sight.
Suddenly shouting came from the largest room, which was merely a huge sheet of clean white paper hanging from a story-high steel brace. Background for the photographs, it curved onto the concrete floor like a paper carpet. The kids kept tripping on the paper’s edge in their high heels, and a man kept yelling at them “not to rip the seamless.” One of the mothers apologized for her daughter and grabbed her off the paper. Mary didn’t get it. If anybody had spoken to her like that, her mother would have threatened to break his face. But Mary wasn’t here to stop child labor. She had a client to defend.
She approached the closest man in black, a wavy brown ponytail snaking to his waist. He had his back to her and was bent over a large steel trunk of photographic equipment. Lenses, camera bodies, and flash units nestled in gray sponge cushioning, and Mary realized instantly that the cameras were treated better than the kids. “Excuse me,” she said, but the ponytailed man didn’t turn around. “I’m looking for the photographer, Caleb Scott.”
“I’m his assistant, one of the million. He’s over there but don’t bother him. He’s on the warpath for a change.” The assistant glanced over his shoulder, through the smallest glasses Mary had ever seen. “I can tell you right now what he’s going to say, honey. Save you the time.”
“Go ahead,” Mary said, surprised.
“You gotta lose thirty pounds, maybe more. You’re too old for what he does. You need a nose job and you gotta do something with your hair. The color sucks and that cut is so last year.” He turned back to the trunk, and Mary considered giving the finger to his ponytail.
“I’m a lawyer, not a model.”
“Then you’re perfect,” he said, and didn’t look back.
Caleb Scott simmered on the paper carpet, resting his Hasselblad on his slim hip like a gun. He was tall, reed-thin, and wore a black turtleneck, stone-washed jeans, and soft-soled Mephisto shoes. His spray of gray hair and a faux English accent served to distinguish him, in addition to his foul mood. Caleb Scott was angry about a yellow light on a tall steel stem, which kept firing at the wrong time. From the terrified attitude of the assistants struggling to fix the thing, Mary guessed that for Scott, anger was the status quo. But he didn’t express his anger in a way familiar to Mary — shouts, tears, or the decade-long vendetta — he just got wound tighter and tighter.
“Mr. Scott, I have a few questions, but it won’t take long,” Mary said, hovering next to him.
“Take all day. I evidently have it.”
“I represent Jack Newlin and am investigating the murder charge against him. You may have read about it in the paper. I need to know about Paige and her mother, Honor.”
“I don’t have time to read the newspaper. I have to get to work, where I stand and wait.” Scott scowled at an assistant, hurrying by with a new lightbulb. The kids in slips held their position under the lights, and their mothers stood off to the side, watching them sweat.
“You didn’t hear that Honor Newlin was killed?”
“I didn’t say that. Of course I heard it, from one of my assistants. Everybody knows about it. If we waited for the newspaper to get news, we’d wither and die. Like me, right now.” His thin lips pursed in martyrdom, and Mary figured he, at least, was Catholic.
“You photographed the Bonner shoot, didn’t you?”
“I do all of Bonner’s work, in town.”
“I understand that Honor and Paige had a fight at the shoot, in the store dressing room. Did you know that?”
“Of course! Do you think that anything is a secret in this business?” Scott gestured toward his assistants, who swarmed around the offending light. It still wouldn’t fire when they pressed a black button on top of what looked like a car battery. “We’re the biggest group of gossips ever. You could dish all day if you had nothing better to do, but most people have better things to do. I, on the other hand, have to stand around and talk to lawyers. When I’m not baby-sitting.”
“So you knew there was a fight in the dressing room?”
“Honey,” Scott said, turning to Mary for the first time, “they fought wherever they went. That mother was the biggest bitch, and that kid was the biggest princess. When I heard the mother was killed, I thought, ‘you go, girl.’”
Mary couldn’t hide her shock. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I thought the kid killed her.”
“Because of the fight, is that why? What was the fight even about?”
“Not because of the fight, no way. The fight was about what they all fight about.” This time Scott gestured at the mothers, sipping coffee near the paper carpet. Two were on cell phones, and Mary could hear them changing their kids’ bookings now that the light had broken, delaying the shoot. “Look at them. Can you explain this? Mothers who would put their children through this? I can’t.”
She shook her head. She actually agreed. “They do it for money, don’t they?”
“No, I’ll explain in a minute. Look at the girls.” Scott gestured at the kids, trying hard to stand in place, now going on five minutes. “They’re beautiful, right? Each one of them.”
Again, she had to agree, though their beauty was hidden by their makeup.
“None of this is about money, it’s about a much stronger pull. It’s about that their kid will become the next Claudia, Naomi, or Elle. That their kid will be the one to hit the jackpot. And after that, who knows? She can marry the prince. Or the rock star. Make movies. Be Julia Roberts. This is the lottery, with flesh and blood.”
Mary scanned the young faces as he spoke. They were all so pretty, like a lineup of dolls. “But one of them will make it, won’t they?”
“You mustn’t interrupt.” Scott paused, apparently to punish her. “The truth is, none of them will. They’re kids from Philly and they look cute in catalogs and newspapers. Some of them will get go-sees to New York, but none of them is truly special. I have twenty-three of them here today and twenty-three tomorrow and twenty-three the day after that. They all have cute faces, but none of them have The Face. None of them will make it, and when they turn sixteen like Paige, it will be very clear. And the shit will hit the fan.”
Mary was finally understanding. “Paige couldn’t make it?”
“No way, but her mother didn’t know that. ‘If only you light her this way’ and ‘if only the makeup were better.’ It was everybody else’s fault. It always was, especially with Honor.”
“You fought with Honor?”
“Each time I shot her daughter. Paige lost bookings because of her mother, I swear it. Nobody wan
ted to deal with Honor. It was about her, not Paige.” Scott scoffed. “Soccer moms got nothing on model moms. This is the Little League for Anorexics.”
Mary didn’t smile. “Did you think Paige knew that she wouldn’t make it?”
“Of course, at some point.”
“Did you talk to her about it?”
“No, I don’t talk to the kids, I shoot them. But I know. The kids are the honest ones. The kids know it before the parents do. They see the truth.” Scott looked away, distracted by an assistant who was giving him a relieved thumbs-up. The light had been fixed. “Brilliant chatting with you. Back to the salt mines,” he said, and walked off, raising his camera.
When Mary looked at the kids, she couldn’t disagree. She lingered a minute to watch Scott work, clicking away as he shouted orders to them: turn your head three-quarters, no, less than that, somebody fix her bra strap, stop that giggling, stand completely still while I focus, not so much teeth, honey. When she turned away from the scene, she could almost understand why they’d grow up and want to kill their mothers. She wanted to kill their mothers.
She checked her watch and hurried for the exit. She had a lunch date to keep.
22
“Thank God,” Jack said, hoarse by the time a guard showed up in the lineup of holding cells. “I have to call my lawyer!”
“Shut up, Newlin.” The guard was burly and young, with a brushy mustache and an angry expression. “You’re nobody special in here.”
“I have a right to call my lawyer, like anybody else.” Jack was controlling his temper. He had to get to Trevor.
“Your rights. That’s all I fuckin’ hear all day.” The guard took a ring of keys from his pocket as another guard appeared for backup. “Here’s your rights, pal. You have the right to three frees a day, delivered to you like room service. You have the right to free heat and utilities and the right to be in the news like a friggin’ celebrity.” The guard shoved a key into the lock in the cell. “You got so many goddamn rights I can’t count that high. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“I need to make that phone call.” Jack turned his back and presented his wrists, as the guard opened the door and slammed the cuffs on.
“Tell them at the house, counselor.” The guard yanked him out by the elbow and shoved him down the hall, but Jack exploded in frustration.
“Goddamn! I’ve waited hours for one lousy call!”
“Shut up!” the guard shouted, and pushed Jack so hard he lost his balance, stumbled forward, and fell.
“No!” Jack cried out. He couldn’t break his fall with his hands cuffed, and his chest hit the concrete squarely, knocking the wind out of him. His chin bounced on the floor and he felt dazed for a minute. When he looked up he was eye level with the laughing man.
Who abruptly stopped laughing.
23
The lab at the Roundhouse was busy, the criminalists bright-eyed except one. She was the one Brinkley had had working all night, liaising with the FBI and running the DNA tests he needed. He’d had to rush the report of the result, to stay ahead of Davis. Brinkley thought about saying thank you to the tech, but didn’t. It was part of her job. If she didn’t like it, she should find another. “What did you find out about the earring back?” he asked, standing with Kovich at the black-topped lab table. Before them was a row of microscopes and slides, which were carefully stored and numbered by case. “It’s hers, isn’t it?”
“The stiff’s?”
“No, the daughter’s. The earring back is Paige Newlin’s, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not. I took some flakes of skin off the hair you gave me and compared it with the earring back. There’s no match.”
“What?” Brinkley couldn’t hide his disappointment. “You’re sure about that?”
“Hair? What hair?” Kovich asked, but Brinkley ignored him.
“You damn sure about that?” he repeated. He would have bet his life it was the daughter’s earring.
“Absolutely, Detective. I did a visual inspect and double-checked with a DNA analysis, just to make sure—”
“Hold on.” Kovich smiled crookedly. “Let’s get back to the hair.”
“The hair’s not your concern,” Brinkley said, but Kovich pushed up his glasses.
“Excuse me, Mick, I’m very interested in this hair. You may not know this, but hair is a hobby of mine. In fact, if I get to see this hair for even one minute, I bet I can tell you where it came from. I am a fucking hair expert.”
The criminalist looked from Kovich to Brinkley and held up her hands. “Don’t get me in the middle, okay? I was told to look it over on the QT, so I looked it over.”
“S’all right,” Brinkley said, but Kovich held out his hand.
“Cough it up. Gimme the hair. I can carbon-date it. I amaze my friends, really. You oughta see me at parties.”
“Here.” The criminalist slid the bagged hair from an unmarked case folder and handed it over.
“Well, well.” Kovich took the bag and held it up to the fluorescent lighting. “Yes, it’s quite clear that this is very special hair. Subject hair belongs to a gorgeous young model who is innocent of any major felony, but who is so good-looking she should be locked up.”
Brinkley could hear the edge to Kovich’s voice. He said to the criminalist, “Did you check what I asked you?”
“Yeh. Lookit.” The criminalist turned around and peered into a large black microscope that rested on a white lab table. She took a second to bring the scope into focus, twisting the chrome knob. “Check it. It’s a match.”
Brinkley elbowed Kovich aside and looked in the microscope. A perfect circle of bright white stared back at him, and through the center of the circle was a thick stalk of red, with a line in the middle. “That’s a hair? What’s that line in the middle?”
“It’s the cortex. The center of the hair, basically. Now look at this slide.”
Brinkley watched as the circle went bright white and another red stalk appeared. “It looks the same.”
“It is.”
“Nice,” Brinkley said, under his breath, and Kovich nudged him out of the way.
“Let me play.” The heavy detective bent over the scope. “Ah, yes, even more hair, my specialty.”
“A hair found on the decedent’s body,” the criminalist said. “One of several actually. It is the same hair as those in the bag.”
“You dig, Kovich?” Brinkley asked. “We got the daughter’s hair on the mother. What’s that tell you?”
Kovich came up from the scope, his expression sour. “It tells me you and me are goin’ for a ride, Mick.”
“You know it’s good, Stan.”
“We’ll talk about it. Let’s not fight in front of the lady. Foul language may be involved.” Kovich turned to the criminalist. “Thanks.”
“You’re not gonna make a stink, are you, Detective Kovich?”
“Nah. I’m just gonna bitch-slap my partner here. You wanna watch?” Kovich turned to go, with Brinkley following.
“Don’t forget the reports,” the criminalist called after them, and she thrust a set of papers at Brinkley. “By the way, the dirt in Baggie A, from the coffee table? It was gravel, soot, silica, and particulate of dog feces. Like you’d get off a sidewalk.”
“I coulda told you that, Mick,” Kovich said, as he led Brinkley out. “I am a particulate-of-dog-feces expert.”
Brinkley didn’t reply and tucked the reports unread under his arm.
It was impossible to keep a secret in a police station, so Brinkley and Kovich always fought in the Chrysler. It wasn’t that they planned it that way, it was just that the fights always seemed to break out when they were driving. Or maybe that was the only time they talked to each other, Brinkley didn’t know. “The hair on the mom is the daughter’s,” he was saying, increasingly exasperated. “You tellin’ me that that doesn’t mean anything?”
“No. It means something.” Kovich was driving aimlessly in the north end of to
wn. He squinted over the steering wheel into the bright sunshine. “It means the mom hugged her daughter.”
“But the daughter told us she wasn’t with the mom that day.” The Chrysler, a shitwagon, hadn’t warmed up enough to turn the heat on, so Brinkley kept his jacket buttoned up. The car was an ’88 model, left over from another unit. Homicide got all the castoffs; their motor pool was a disgrace.
“So she hugged her mother another day. A day the mother was wearing the same blouse.”
“What’s the likelihood of that? They didn’t live together.”
“They worked together and they hugged.”
“And the hair didn’t fall off since then?”
“No. I’m the hair expert and I say hair sticks. Half the time, I got dog hair all over me and the dog’s been dead a year.”
“Shit. Come on, Stan. We wouldn’t charge on that kind of evidence, but we’d sure as hell follow up. But we’re not. We’re lettin’ the daughter go free.”
“We already charged, Mick.” Kovich slowed the car to a stop at the light. “We locked the guy up.”
“So we unlock him.”
Kovich laughed, his head jerking back like he had whiplash, though the car was at a standstill. “That’s not happening and you know it.”
“It should happen.”
“Yeah, right.”
“We go to the lieutenant and we say, look, we got some doubts here.” Brinkley gestured, palms up. “I tell him, gimme a day. Gimme two days. Let me talk to this kid and open her up. Lemme get down to it.”
Kovich sighed audibly as the light changed and the car cruised forward. “Davis is sure of his case.”