Chapter 54

Pickering stared into the two-way mirror, his body rigid, his jaw clenched. “Lower,” he said. The lights dimmed. He paused. “More,” they dimmed some more. “Okay.” He swiped his crinkled handkerchief over his brow and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “Bring her in.”

The door opened and Victoria, in chains, was led in by two hefty cops, one with a crewcut, the other with a thick, wavy head of hair.

“Shall we wait, sir?” the wavy-haired cop asked while seating Victoria, her chains rattling as they hit the table. “She is, after all, you know,” he leaned in toward Pickering and whispered, “coo-coo, coo-coo.” He rolled his eyes while swirling his fingers around his healthy doo.

“No,” Pickering snapped, turning from him. “And Buckley,” he added “get a goddamn haircut, helmet-head.”

Buckley nodded, his face reddening, as the two men left, Buckley’s crewcut partner snickering and nudging him in the ribs on the way out.

The door closed. Victoria looked hard into the mirror, then stared down at her hands, which were folded and resting on the table. "Where’s my lawyer?” she asked. “You said he’d --”

“Talk,” Pickering ordered.

“I’ve told you everything I know, Detective,” she said, not looking up.

“Everything?

“Everything."

“Well, I have reason to believe that you’re not telling me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, Chemiste.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sighed. “Just send me back to my cell now please.”

“I’m glad you like the accommodations because I plan to make sure you stay for a very long time.”

“Detective, I’m hungover and tired. And I really don’t have anything more to say.”

Pickering grabbed her by the wrists and came nose to nose with her. “Look, I’m done playing games, Chemiste.” He studied her newly acquired pallor, the dark circles around her eyes. He knew she’d crack soon; she’d have to.

“Done?” She didn’t flinch, or back away. “Already, Detective? If it’s the ‘good cop/bad cop’ game you’re talking about, we never did get to the good cop part.”

He let go of her wrists and walked toward the mirror. “Tell me about the bodies,” he blurted.

“I told you --”

“How did you do it?” A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“I didn’t.”

He seemed to not hear her. “Better yet, why?”

“Detective Pickering, I told you I --”

He swooped toward her and slammed his fist on the table. Her chains clattered as he did. “The DA tells me I need more,” he rasped, his eyes were ablaze, spit spewed from his mouth on each consonant, “and, damn it, you’re going to give it to me or I swear I’ll --”

A knock at the door interrupted him. It was quiet a moment, but for Pickering’s panting.
“Come in!” He roared, plucking his handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

Buckley opened the door. He stood flattening his hair with his palm a moment, then pointed to the opened package he held in his hand. “This just came in.”

“For me?” Pickering asked, annoyed, blotting his hairline with his now soggy handkerchief. “Damn it, Buckley, just put it in my office.”

“Not for you sir. For Ms. Chemiste.”

Pickering sneered at Victoria warily. “Expecting something?”

She shrugged.

Pickering said to Buckley, “I presume you’ve checked it thoroughly.”

“All the usual checks, of course, sir.” Buckley scoffed, “It’s just some girly stuff.”

Pickering snatched the box from him and pulled out what appeared to be a long, curly hair extension. “I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re gonna look good as a red-head,” Pickering said, studying the hair and furrowing his brow. “Chemiste, what the hell is this?”

“I have no idea.”

“There’s a note too, sir,” Buckley said.

Pickering pulled out the note and read it, “‘At your service, Mistress. As you requested. Will run the shop while you are detained. Signed, You’re Most Loyal Servant.’”
Pickering glared Victoria’s way a moment, then proceeded to examine the hair in his hand.

“I have no idea what that means,” she said, shaking her head. “And I never wear wigs.”

“Oh really now,” Pickering crooned. There was a few seconds of silence as no one moved. Then he bellowed, “Buckley, get me some gloves!” Everyone jumped, Victoria’s chains jangling. “And get Forensics in here NOW!”

“Forensics, sir?”

Pickering hovered over Victoria. “No idea huh?” Then he shouted to Buckley, “Yes! Are your brains being replaced by your hairline or what?!? FORENSICS!”

Buckley hurried out, slamming the door behind him.

Pickering spoke directly to the mirror, “Gentlemen, it looks like our lovely suspect has more sway than we thought. She’s got people on the outside doing her dirty work for her.” He held the flowing mane in front of Victoria, and eyed her response suspiciously.

She gasped as she got a closer look. For, dangling from the strawberry blonde tresses was a pink and moist hunk of scalp.