Rubbed Out by Barbara Block Page B

having?” He rolled his eyes. “God. I’ve been spraying those curls for ten—no, eleven years. Or is it twelve? I don’t want to do the math. It’s too frightening. Scary how fast time goes, isn’t it?”
    I agreed that it was.
    He gestured with his free hand. “The principessa has a standing appointment every Thursday at nine-forty-five in the morning. Not that her majesty is ever here on time.”
    He fastened a black nylon cape over my shoulders and told me to look down. Then he began to cut. I could hear the snick-snack of the scissors.
    â€œFrankly,” he continued. “I’m surprised she left. I didn’t think anything could pry her out of that house of hers. The way she talks, you’d think it was the Taj Mahal.”
    I looked up.
    â€œDon’t do that,” John said. “I don’t want to cut you.”
    I went back to looking at my knees.
    â€œWell, at least her husband is having a rest,” John added.
    â€œI take it you don’t like her.”
    â€œLet’s just say that she wants me to do back flips through burning hoops and then doesn’t tip me.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I just couldn’t imagine living with her. She’s one of those people that polish their grievances up like precious stones and take them out every time they have a chance.”
    â€œIt sounds as if she and her husband were a match.”
    He grunted, put his scissors down, and ran both hands through my hair, pulling it out to either side as he studied my reflection.
    â€œDo you think she’s suicidal?” I asked thinking of what Wilcox had told me.
    â€œOh, please. She’s a bitch.” He pronounced it beatch. “People like that don’t kill themselves, they drive other people to it.”
    Okay.
    â€œDo you have any idea where she could have gone?”
    He laughed. “Oh, yes. I think I can make a pretty good guess.”
    And he told me what I wanted to know.

Chapter Twelve
    E xcept for a woman wading through a snowbank to get to her car, the sidewalk was empty when I stepped outside the salon. The weatherman had promised it wouldn’t get below twenty. The weatherman had lied. It felt as if we were into the single digits, but maybe that was because of the wind, which had kicked up again.
    I jammed my hands in my pockets and headed for my vehicle. By the time I got there—a minute at most—my earlobes were stinging. After I pulled out onto James Street, I called Walter Wilcox at his office, but his secretary informed me he’d already gone home. I tried him there.
    He picked up on the third ring. “Mike,” he said, sounding out of breath, as if he’d just run up the stairs.
    â€œNo. This is Robin Light.”
    â€œSorry.”
    An SUV cut me off. “Idiot!” I yelled at the guy.
    â€œWhat?” The phone crackled.
    â€œNothing.” I tried the heat. It still wasn’t working. By the time it got going, I’d be where I had to go. “I might have a lead on your wife.”
    Wilcox exhaled. “Thank God. I’ve been so worried. Where is she?”
    â€œDown in the City.”
    â€œYou mean New York City?” Alarm undercut the relief in his voice.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s impossible.”
    â€œNot according to my sources.”
    â€œBut she hates that place. I could never get her to go down there.”
    â€œWell, she’s down there now.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œModerately.”
    â€œAll those people.”
    â€œEight million.” Or was it more? Or less? I forget.
    â€œHow will you find her?”
    â€œI think I can narrow down the odds considerably.”
    Opera was playing in the background. I wondered if Wilcox ever listened to anything else. I wondered if he had a glass in his hand. I was willing to wager he did.
    â€œThen you know who she’s staying with?”
    â€œI’ve