“Thanks.”
“Anytime, Milo. Glad it’s you not me dealing with it.”
—
No home numbers for the four friends, but those of the salon and the café were public knowledge.
He tried Christopher Van Vliet Hair & Beauty first and asked for Tori Burkholder.
A slow-talking man with a nasal voice said, “She’s not in today. Would you like me to book an appointment for tomorrow?”
“No, thanks, I need to talk to her.” Milo identified himself.
The man said, “She’s in trouble with the cops? I find that hard to believe.”
“A friend of hers is in trouble.”
“And you want Tori to rat the friend out?”
Milo exhaled. “The friend is deceased, sir. I’m gathering information.”
“Deceased. Oh my. Hold on, I’ll give you Tori’s cell.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Deceased,” said the man. “The world has gone insane.”
—
Voicemail at Tori Burkholder’s number. Milo moved on to Bistro Genial, talked to a harried-sounding woman and worsened her mood.
“We arebusy.”
“It’s a police matter, ma’am—”
“Whatever. Quick, quick, what do you want?”
He began explaining.
Click, then static on the line.
He said, “She hung up on me?”
A soft, accented voice came on. “This is Beth. What is going on?”
Milo said, “This is Lieutenant Sturgis from the police department. Sorry to drop this on you but something bad has happened to a friend of yours—”
“What friend?”
“Marissa French.”
“We’re not so much friends,” said Beth Halperin.
“I see. Well, I thought you might be able to help me with information.”
“Information?” Hardened voice. “You are one of those—trying to get my data?”
“No, ma’am. Unfortunately, Marissa is dead and I’m the detective—”
