“We don’t talk about Rachel. My mother goes off. Rachel’s like, I dunno, the family Satan.”
“You and Rachel are cousins?”
“Uh-huh. My dad and her dad are brothers. Her dad is my dad’s big brother.”
“So you must be younger than Rachel.”
“Uh-huh. I’m seventeen. Rachel is like twenty-nine? I’m not really sure.”
Twelve years was a large gap.
“So you were pretty young when she left Visalia.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know her much when you were little?”
“Um, yeah, Rachel was fun. She was older, but we all got together. NFL game day every Sunday. Barbecues and family stuff. Rachel used to babysit for me ’til she started acting out.”
Acting out.
“Have you stayed in touch with her?”
“Um, not really, no. She went to Los Angeles. I guess you know that.”
“Yeah.”
“Staying in touch has not been encouraged. Not in my house.”
“What about her mom and dad? Do they keep in touch with her?”
“Her mom passed. They got divorced, and, I dunno, her mom got real depressed or sick or something? She up and left. Nobody talked about it, at least not to us, but, I dunno, a couple of years later maybe—I was in ninth grade, so maybe three years—Uncle George called one day and told Daddy she passed. My mother, of course, the saint of Visalia, says it’s on Rachel.”
“I understand Rachel was older, but do you know if she had a friend named Kimmie?”
“Yes! I love Kimmie! OhmyGod, she was my babysitter!”
My shoulders tightened. If I could reach Kimmie, Kimmie might know how to reach Skylar.
“Kimmie and Rachel were tight?”
“The bestest of besties, which was kinda crazy, them being so different. They didn’t seem different to me, but you should hear my mom. Even my mother loved Kimmie.”
“Is Kimmie her actual name?”
“She’s a Kimberly. Everyone calls her Kimmie.”
“Okay. I understand she’s here in Los Angeles.”
“She is! She comes up all the time to visit, though. They’re different that way. Rachel never comes home.”
“Are they still close?”
“Um, I don’t really know. When Kimmie’s here, she never talks about Rachel, not to anyone in our family.”
“I need to talk to her, April. It’s really important. Do you have her phone number?”
“Um, I don’t, no, but I know where she works. Or used to work. I don’t know if she’s still there.”
“Terrific, April. Where?”
April sounded thrilled to help.
“A place called Stennis. She does hair, you know? I don’t know what Stennis means, but it’s a salon in Santa Monica.”
“One more thing. What’s her last name?”
“Laird. L-a-i-r-d. Kimberly Laird. She’s really sweet. You’ll like her.”
“If she’s anything like you, I will.”
April Bohlen giggled.
“Bye, Mr. Cole.”
“Bye, Ms. Bohlen.”
I hustled out to my car and left to find Kimmie Laird.
27
Stennis was a small salon on Wilshire Boulevard between a vegan cupcake shop and a children’s store with a for lease sign in its window. A stylish black entrance fronted the salon with a large window so private eyes could see inside. The window revealed a receptionist’s desk and three salon chairs facing three mirrors. A middle-aged woman with bits of foil in her hair occupied the chair nearest the window. She was watching a tall male stylist paint the foil like an angry school principal watches a class clown. A thirtysomething man in the last chair watched a younger female stylist run an electric trimmer over his scalp. The stylist sported a shaved pixie cut with a subtle magenta streak. I phoned the salon as I watched.
A woman I didn’t see answered.
“Stennis Salon.”
“Hey. Is Kimmie Laird in today?”
“She is, but, um, she doesn’t have anything available.”
“I’m calling for a friend. We’re driving down this afternoon and she’d love if Kimmie could squeeze her in. Kimmie knows her really well. Would you please ask?”
“Of course. What’s her name?”
“Rachel Bohlen.”
“Lemme ask.”
The invisible receptionist appeared with a handset phone and went to the pixie cut stylist. They traded a word and the pixie cut snatched the phone and stepped away from her client.