“You should eat,” Miranda told her, sounding like Parker. “Do your employees know what’s happened?”
Olivia nodded. “They were here yesterday when Imogen didn’t get off the bus. Except Roberto. I filled him in this morning.”
Roberto. The one with the mustache and purple hair who was going on the apricot cleanse. “I’d like to talk to them.”
“Why?”
“They might have seen something.”
“Okay.” She looked a little lost.
“Why don’t you and your sister get something to eat. You both need to keep up your strength. Holloway, go with them.”
He gave her a questioning look.
“The three of us might be too intimidating. We’ll get more information if they’re at ease.”
And if the theory about the ex was right, an extra body with Olivia wouldn’t hurt. Wesson could handle herself, but if the ex decided he wanted his old flame back as well as his daughter, and tried to nab her on the street, things could get dicey.
Seeming to understand he drift, Holloway nodded to Wesson. “C’mon. You can show me where the best Danish is.”
“Ask the hair washer to come in,” Miranda said to Olivia as they moved out.
Olivia frowned. “Hair washer?”
“The shorter one. She was washing brushes.”
“Oh, Nanette. Sure.”
And the three of them shuffled down the hall.
A moment later, Nanette appeared in the doorway.
She gave Miranda a huffy glare. “I’ll have you know, Ms. Steele, I’m a full-fledged hairstylist not a hair washer. We’re all responsible for keeping our equipment clean.”
Touchy, wasn’t she?
Miranda glanced at Parker.
His bland look told her he was bracing himself for a rigorous interrogation.
Miranda pulled out a chair from the small table. “Okay, Nanette. My mistake. Would you have a seat, please?”
But full-fledged hairstylist or not, Nanette couldn’t tell them much. She had been with Olivia’s salon only a couple of years and had known Imogen since she was five. She’d never seen Olivia’s ex. Or anyone suspicious hanging around the salon recently.
The flamboyant Roberto couldn’t tell them much, either. He lounged in the chair, waving his arms as he talked about his tenure here at Lavish Looks, and how all the customers requested him.
Miranda leaned over the table. “I understand you called in sick yesterday.”
He blinked and straightened his back, surprised at the question. “Yes, I did.”
“How come?”
“I—I had a case of the sniffles. I, like, usually call in sick when I’m feeling bad. It would be like horrifying to give something to one of my customers.”
“Are you sure you didn’t go to pick Olivia’s daughter up at school?”
“What are you saying?”
Miranda leaned in closer. “I’m saying—like—maybe you like little girls.”
“How dare you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, pinky raised. “Oh, all right. I’ll admit it.”
Miranda’s heart jumped. “Admit you took Olivia’s daughter?”
“Heavens, no. I’m admitting I went to Sydney McAllister’s for a private consultation.”
Miranda turned to Parker. “Sydney McAllister?”
“A woman who starred in a high-grossing film series and won an Academy Award last year.”
Miranda must have missed all that.
Roberto spread his hands. “She called me personally. I couldn’t tell her no. Like, a stylist has to do what a stylist has to do.”
This arrogant guy was stealing clients behind Olivia’s back. Sheesh.
But that didn’t have anything to do with Imogen Wesson.
“You can go back to work now,” Miranda told him flatly.
Finally Tennille came to the back room.
She had been with Olivia from the beginning, so she had a little more information.
“Olivia had like, such a hard time after she broke up with that creep, Axel,” the woman said pouring herself a cup of coffee. “She worked like, really hard to get this place going. She did great. It’s a competitive business, but she managed to snag some like, well-heeled customers? We’ve got a high end clientele and a reputation to like, you know, match it?”
She sat down and stared at the cup.
Miranda folded her arms. “And what do you get out of it?”
Tennille blinked at her with her ultra-long lashes. “Me?”
“Aren’t you still just an employee? After all these years?” She gave Parker a glance.
His face was unreadable. But she knew he had also considered the possibility Imogen’s disappearance could be the work of a disgruntled employee.
“What are you like, saying? I’m proud of this place. I work at an up-and-coming salon.”
“Wouldn’t you like, oh, maybe to be co-owner one day?”
Tennille rolled her eyes as if the idea was beneath her. “I’m happy with what I do. I don’t want the headache of like, keeping the books and doing the marketing and worrying about the numbers. I’m an artist.”
Okay, Miranda could buy that. The woman did seem trustworthy. “Who do you think took Imogen?”
“I have no idea.” She glanced around the small space. “I didn’t want to say anything, like, you know, with Olivia within earshot. But kids get snatched around here every once in a while. You hear about it on the news. Mostly like, celebrity children. Somebody wanting to make a quick buck? Know what I mean?”
She did. But why go after a beauty salon owner when there were much richer targets? Beverly Hills was just down the street. There were tons of folks in the area with more money than Olivia.
No, this had to be personal.
“Have you noticed anyone hanging around outside lately? Someone who doesn’t belong here?”
“No one I can remember. We stay like, pretty busy.”
“What about when you take a break?”
“We come back here to the break room or go out back.”
“Have you ever seen Olivia’s ex?”
“Axel? One time. He came to the shop like, about four years ago.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
She made a strange face. “He was the type who was hard to forget.”
“Describe him,” Parker prompted.
“He was about five-nine.”
“Muscular?”
“Yeah. He looked like a biker, which he, like, was. Wore a lot of leather and chains. Rode a Harley. Parked it out front.”
“Anything else?”
“Let’s see. His hair was thick and dark. Raven, I’d call it, but with hints of like, gold. He wore it almost to his shoulders, parted on the side. Had had stubble on his face. And thick brows.”
A hair stylist’s description. “Tattoos?”
Tennille thought a moment, then nodded. “On his forearms. A black design. A swarm of bats. It was like, creepy.”
Creepy mark of a creepy guy, Miranda thought. “Why did he come here?”
“Four years ago? He said he wanted to see his daughter.”
“And did he?”
She nodded again. “Imogen was about three then. She was here in the break room, playing while her mom worked. Olivia let him go back and see her. He stayed, oh, like maybe fifteen minutes? Then he left.”
“Did he ever stop by again?”
“Not that I know of. I’m sure Olivia would have told me if he had.”
The back door Tennille had mentioned opened, and the party returned from their food run.
Olivia stepped into the room with a large bag in her arms. “I brought doughnuts from Bianchi’s for everyone. I thought we could use them.” She looked at Tennille and her eyes went wide. “Am I interrupting?”
“We’re finished,” Miranda told her.
Tennille got to her feet and glanced at her cell. “We’ve got Carmen Stauffenberg in fifteen minu
tes, Olivia.”
“Right. She’s our movie star. One of them.”
Wesson’s mouth fell open. “You do Carmen Stauffenberg’s hair?”
“Yes. Well, Roberto does.”
“I’ve seen every one of her movies. I love her.”
“Her off-screen persona is a little different.” Olivia looked at Miranda. “She can be very particular.”
Miranda got the hint. Not good for business to have a bunch of PI’s hanging around. Besides, there would be too many questions.
“We’ll be heading out now,” she told Olivia. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks.”
“If you receive another phone call, be sure to let us know immediately,” Parker told her.
“Yes, I will.”
“And don’t forget about that recording app,” Holloway added.
“No, I won’t. Thank you, all.”
“Thank us when Imogen’s back.” Miranda leaned in close. “And by the way, Roberto’s moonlighting.”
And with that, she gathered her crew and headed out, just missing the movie diva.
Chapter Thirteen
The traffic in LA was even worse than Atlanta.
On Santa Monica Boulevard, they came to a standstill with both lanes packed with compact sedans and minivans. Miranda eyed the palm trees growing in the median. If she planted one now, it might be full-grown by the time they reached their destination.
“My sister owns a high-end hair salon in West Hollywood and does Carmen Stauffenberg’s hair,” Wesson murmured from the backseat of the Navigator.
She seemed bewildered, but Miranda knew there was more to it than that. Wesson really cared about Olivia, and the lost years between them had to hurt.
Holloway cleared his throat. “What did you learn from the staff?” he asked to change the subject.
“Not much,” Miranda said. “But Tennille gave us a description of the ex. She saw him four years ago.”
Miranda repeated the description.
“That sounds like the guy,” Wesson said bitterly.
“What’s your take on him?” Miranda asked her.
“What do you mean? I think I’ve made my opinion clear.”
“Do you really think he’s the type to snatch his own daughter?”
Wesson thought a moment. “He never seemed like the responsible type. But it wasn’t as if I got to know him. Livvy and I fought every time he was around. After a while, I just kept my distance.”
Parker made a turn onto a side street. “If Axel Cage was too irresponsible to care for a child, it’s unlikely he’s after custody.”
Good point. Unless he was going to sell her, Miranda thought. It was easier than snatching a celebrity’s kid. They were more likely to have body guards. And the police would be on it fast. But sell your own flesh and blood? Was Axel Cage that ruthless?
She didn’t dare utter her thoughts aloud or Wesson might have a fit.
“If he wanted to take his daughter,” Holloway said. “Why didn’t he do it when he came to the shop? It wouldn’t take four years to hatch a scheme like this.”
“Especially not if the guy’s a career criminal.” Miranda reached for her phone. “I’ll have Becker do a background check on the guy.”
She dialed Becker’s number and was greeted with the sound of a child crying and pots and pans banging. She could hear Fanuzzi fussing in the background.
“You have to heat it slowly or it burns.”
“Hey, Steele,” Becker said at last. He sounded weary.
“Is this a bad time?”
“No. Of course not. I was working from home today. Hope that’s okay. We just finished lunch.”
It was after one-thirty in the afternoon there. “No problem. I need you to do a background check for me.”
“Sure thing. Anything to help on this case.” She could hear the fire in his normally timid voice.
“His name’s Axel Cage.” She gave him what little information she had.
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Everything okay there?”
He sighed. “Yeah. We had a bad night. Joanie had a terrible migraine and she’s got a big party tomorrow.”
At least the nausea had stopped. “Is she going to be all right?”
“I hope so. Coco’s here helping. We’ll be okay. I think.”
“Just hang in there. You’re almost halfway there.”
He laughed. “It seems like a lifetime already.”
“I know. But it’ll pass faster than you think. Soon you’ll be holding your new baby in your arms.” That would be a happy day.
And now Miranda felt herself tearing up as memories of holding her own baby flooded her. She needed to have a heart-to-heart with Mackenzie when she got back and find out what was going on with her.
“Thanks, Steele. I’ll get your information ASAP.”
“Thanks.”
She hung up, thinking about babies and lost children.
They had to find that little girl.
She realized Parker had surreptitiously reached over to hold her hand. And he had pulled along the curb about a half block down from Imogen’s school.
“What’s your plan, Steele?” Wesson said.
She sounded eager to get started.
Miranda gave Parker’s hand a squeeze and pulled herself together.
She pointed out the window. “See that fence around the school?” A blue security screen covered the chain link.
“Yeah,” Wesson said.
“There’s a narrow gate in it. Imogen could have come out there.”
Holloway shifted to get a better look. “She could have come out that front door, too.”
“True.” The school’s entrance wasn’t far from the gate.
“But she was supposed to go out the side door and get on the bus waiting in the parking lot,” Holloway reminded her.
“Right. See that apartment building just across the street?” Miranda pointed up at the sandy-colored abode-hut-style structure.
Wesson followed her gaze. “Uh huh.”
“Each apartment has a balcony facing the school. Each balcony has a pair of sliding glass doors.”
Holloway leaned over and squinted out the window. “If anybody was home at that time.”
“School lets out at two,” Miranda continued. “The buses pull off by two-thirty, so that’s our timeframe. All we need to do is find a resident who was on their balcony or who peeked out their glass doors then. They might have seen Imogen.”
“Let’s go.” Wesson was out the door and crossing the street before Miranda’s feet had touched the sidewalk.
She hurried to catch up to her.
“We’ll split up,” she told her team, once everyone had gathered beside the building. “Wesson, you and Holloway start on the first floor. Parker and I will start on the third. We’ll meet in the middle.”
“Roger that.” Wesson spun on her heel and started for the entrance.
“Text me if you get a lead.”
“Likewise.”
They hurried up the sidewalk, past the patches of stone-and-shrubbery landscaping, and found the front door.
They waited for a man who’d been walking a pudgy white bulldog to use a keycard, and slipped through the entrance behind him.
He headed for an elevator.
“Let’s catch it,” Miranda murmured to Parker, while Wesson and Holloway started off down the hall to the first floor apartments.
They zipped over to the elevator, and Parker put out a hand to catch the door just in time.
They stepped inside. Parker pressed the button for the third floor. The man had already punched the one for the second.
As the elevator rose, the dog yawned noisily and sat down. The man looked nervously from Parker to Miranda to Parker again.
He was short and thin and dressed in a yellow-and-blue exercise suit with a matching headband over a shaved head. He was maybe in his late thirties.
Miranda gave Parker a ha
lf-grin and began. “Excuse me, sir. I’m wondering if you could help us.”
The man started. “Um. I don’t—I—like, what do you want?”
No doubt, he thought he was about to be mugged.
“No need to be alarmed, sir,” Parker said.
The man turned his head and stared at him.
Miranda looked down at the bulldog. “Not much of a watchdog, is he?”
The man straightened his thin shoulders. “What do you want? I don’t, like, have any money.”
“A lot of crime in this area?”
“Some. Like, like everywhere.”
“We’re not criminals,” Parker said. “We’re private investigators.”
“Say what?”
“Investigators,” Miranda repeated. “We’re on a case and we’re looking for information.”
“Wh—what sort of like, information?”
“Does your apartment face the street?”
“Yeah. So?”
“We’re wondering if you saw anything unusual outside yesterday between two and two-thirty.”
“Like, what do you mean by unusual?”
“Any sort of activity that caught your attention. Especially outside the school over there.” Miranda nodded in the institution’s direction.
Blinking, the man thought a moment. “Between two and two-thirty? That’s, like, when the kids get out. It’s usually pretty noisy then.”
“I can imagine,” Parker said. “Do you watch them through your window?”
The man glared at Parker. “I’m not, like, a pervert, if that’s what you mean.”
“He means, did you see anything unusual yesterday? Such as a child who seemed lost?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I work the nightshift at the Ramada. I get off at like ten, come home, have dinner, walk Giorgio and go to sleep.”
Miranda let out a huff of frustration. “But don’t the noisy kids wake you up sometimes? Don’t you ever look out the window to see what’s going on?”
“Not in the last two weeks. I, like, got earplugs.”
The elevator stopped at the second floor and the man hurried out as if he were escaping with his life.
“We struck out with that guy,” Miranda sighed as she watched the skinny man and Giorgio scurry away. “And why does everyone here sound like Wendy Van Aarle?”
The Stolen Girl Page 6
