Trista let out a whoop.
“Uh, am I missing something?” I wanted to ask if she was having some kind of health emergency, but I was professional enough to keep that to myself.
“No, no. I’m fine. But I have an idea of where you can find him.”
“Oh?”
“Every four weeks he goes to Salon Blaise. The only person, and I do mean theonlyperson, who can cut his hair to his specifications is Fabiano.”
“Surely he wouldn’t see that barber if he’s trying to keep a low profile.”
She laughed, but the sound held no humor. “Fabiano is more than a barber. He’s a stylist!”
I rolled my eyes but said nothing. My last haircut had come from CheapClips, and there would be no trims for me in the near future.
“If his hair is over the collar, you might be able to catch him at Salon Blaise. In fact, go ahead and mark your calendar. We have sixty days to serve the papers, and if you don’t catch him this time, then you can try again in another four weeks. Mama did always say to have a plan B.”
Her accent slipped a bit on the last sentence. Slowly but surely, Trista was reverting to her natural state. She’d shed the posh affectation of her accent almost as quickly as she’d traded in couture for yoga pants.
“Your mama is wise,” I said, making a note to look up Salon Blaise and Fabiano. “Trista,thatwas very helpful. I’m headed over to your attorney first thing on Monday to get those papers.”
She sighed. “I’m going to make an awful confession.”
“I’m not a priest, but I’ll try to absolve you anyway,” I said, my mind already racing to how easy it would be to get information out of the famous Fabiano.
“I was a terrible snob the day that I met you.”
“Oh? I didn’t think so.”
She snorted in response.
“No, really. I mean, it was obvious you had more money than I do, but that, I can assure you, is a low bar to clear.” Maybe she’d been a little pretentious, but it wasn’t my job to judge anyone for that. While working with Ken, I’d learned that pretentious people had no problem spending money. That said, working-class folks—especially olderones—often had even more money and were more likely to pay the first bill that came their way. Basically, it paid to treat everyone with respect. That was my philosophy.
Trista sighed. “I knew you were a private investigator and that you did process serving, but I chose to go with ... someone else to serve papers on Blake. When it became clear he wasn’t going to be able to do it, I called you.”
“Let me guess: It wasn’t going to be as easy as he had hoped, so he decided he didn’t want to do it.”
“Something like that.”
“And he probably wouldn’t have taken you seriously about the haircut thing.”
“Oh, definitely not. It still could be nothing.”
“Hey, don’t second-guess yourself.”
“Thanks for that,” she said softly, showing she’d picked up what I was putting down: to trust her instincts on things both big and small.
I almost steam-burned myself removing the plastic film from a less-than-appetizing chicken marinara situation. “I’m trusting your instincts. If you think of any other oddities like the haircut thing, you text me. Any time of day or night. Let me know before you forget about whatever it is that came to mind. The last guy I served papers on loved this one bar. Ken—that’s my ex—made fun of me for waiting outside his house every night forweeks. But I somehow knew this guy was going to cave and head for his favorite place eventually. On day fifty-nine at ten p.m., probably thinking he was in the clear because who would serve papers on him in a bar that late at night, he sneaked out of his house. I got him.”
She made a sound that could’ve been a sob or a laugh or something in between. “I hate to sound like Princess Leia, but I think you’re my only hope.”
“Hardly. You’ll make it. But if there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s this: I’m stubborn as hell.”
Later that night I went to Finnegan’s to meet other clients. I’d managed to save up a little over $5,000. With six days and a few jobs to go, I just might make it. I’d have enough to make rent, cover my annual car registration, and get straight on my student loans.
As for then getting the title to the car, I would figure something out. Maybe Ken would inspire me to new heights of pettiness.
But I needed to think quickly because I had to have that title in my name in order to renew my car’s registration, which was due on my birthday. Dadgum birthday tax. Who the heck wanted to get an emissions test and pay a lump sum for their birthday?
