KillerHair
Chapter 16
In the morning, thanks to Brooke’s take-no-prisoners advice, Lacey was able to calm her panic down into something resembling mild indigestion. Going to the office on a Saturday to meet the FBI was not something she relished. Nevertheless, she almost convinced herself this was a great opportunity to find out more about the FBI, Marcia, and maybe even Angie’s death.
She was also very curious about The Eye’s publisher, Claudia Darnell. Lacey had heard tales of the notorious woman who had purchased The Eye less than three months before, but there had been only a couple of confirmed sightings in the newsroom. She was a new publisher with an old score to settle with Washington, D.C., which three decades earlier had branded her the scarlet woman in a Capitol Hill scandal.
Lacey met Mac in the lobby next to the elevator. He was waiting for her in a navy suit, white shirt, and subdued striped tie, indicating how seriously he took the matter.
“Planning any surprises today, Lacey? I’d like an idea, just in case it’s real good. Or do you think keeping me in the dark is healthy for my blood pressure?”
“I was going to tell you about the FBI, Mac, but you seemed busy. I referred them to you.”
“So I gathered.” He enjoyed seeing her squirm. “This is not what I call keeping me in the loop, Smithsonian. Could have a bright side, though. Maybe you can spend some time in a D.C. jail cell to prove your love for the First Amendment.”
“Hey! There are shield laws for reporters in D.C.”
“They can still make your life miserable. You can write a column on those orange jumpsuits they make you wear.”
“You’ve been reading my column. How sweet. Are you enjoying yourself, Mac?”
“Yes, I believe I am.” He hummed something to himself.
Lacey wore a dark blue crepe dress, circa 1942, that always made her look good and feel in control. It had a V neck and three-quarter sleeves. A splash of bright embroidered flowers on the left shoulder and right hip took it out of the ordinary. She hoped it worked today.
They ascended to the upper floor, a far more rarefied atmosphere than the proletarian newsroom, where the furniture was propped up on OSHA regulations and copies of the Federal Register. Mac and Lacey were ushered into the conference room, which was outfitted with cream-colored Chinese carpets and an impressive Georgian cherry conference table and chairs. The soft peach walls featured framed front pages of The Eye. The paper’s attorney, Sophia Wong, wore a tan linen suit, looked elegant, said little, and was utterly lacking in humor. Wong sat with two FBI agents, one of whom was wearing a familiar ugly tie.
The guy from the Bishop’s Garden. Lacey broke the silence. “Agent Thorn, I presume. I see your tie goes just as badly with your blue suit as with the tan.”
Mac’s mustache bristled. It was a warning.
Agent Thorn coughed. He looked like the second banana to the hero in a comedy. He had thinning pale hair cut very short, light blue eyes, and a slightly long nose. He seemed terribly earnest and tendered a crooked smile. He introduced his partner. Agent Josiah Watkins was black, stocky, and equally earnest. Everyone shook hands and then sat in uncomfortable silence until the door flung open and Claudia Darnell sashayed in.
She looked as if she had flown in from Palm Beach just for the occasion. Perhaps she had; that was her home base in the winter. All eyes turned toward her. Claudia was a knockout for a woman in her mid-fifties. Her tan was creamy toast, her eyes glittering aquamarine, and her hair a straight platinum pageboy. Her butter-soft chamois suit clung to her well-maintained curves. Claudia Darnell was stunning—a lioness—and Lacey marked the rise in the testosterone level of the tame male house cats in attendance.
Following the introductions with Claudia, Agent Thorn cleared his throat. “I have to say, I really think you’re all overreacting. We just wanted to talk informally with Ms. Smithsonian concerning her articles about Marcia Robinson. Of course, if you prefer a group discussion with your lawyer, that is acceptable.”
Claudia laughed. “I know that when people say they want a lawyer, the FBI immediately assumes they’re guilty of something. But if you knew me, you’d know I should always have my conversations in front of lawyers.”
Lacey took silent notes. Wong squirmed perceptibly in her seat and the FBI agents shared a look. Mac played with a pen. Lacey decided she liked Claudia—unless she was about to be fired. The notorious Claudia Darnell had been a secretary in a Capitol Hill office. She had a messy and public affair with a married congressman and became famous for not typing. The obligatory scandal ensued. But she was smart. She got out, got educated, and got rich without posing naked for anyone. Claudia’s bright white smile spelled trouble, Lacey thought, for anyone who crossed her. “I put off my flight to Palm Beach to be here, gentlemen. So, let the games begin, shall we?”
Thorn directed his questions to Lacey. “How did you contact Marcia Robinson? And what made you think she knew anything about the hairdresser’s suicide?”
“That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? She called me. And are you aware that Angie Woods was probably murdered?” Lacey countered.
“I’ll ask the questions, Ms. Smithsonian,” he said. “Now—”
“Will you at least tell me if the Bureau is investigating Angie’s death?”
“It happens to be a simple suicide, according to—”
“Could you define ‘simple suicide’?” Lacey asked.
“There was no indication anyone else was involved.”
“You’ve seen the police report?” Thorn was silent. “So this was like so many other simple suicides who simply need a little help?”
“Ms. Smithsonian—”
Mac tapped his pen on the table, another warning. “I thought this was just an informal chat,” Lacey said. Everyone glared at her except Claudia, who seemed amused.
Thorn started over. “We are interested in Marcia Robinson, not Angela Woods.”
“Even if she killed herself because of something Marcia told her?”
“And that would be?”
“Marcia said she didn’t know. But she was suffering from a major case of guilt.”
Thorn pressed on. Lacey told him everything he wanted to know—everything, that is, that she had already written in her stories. He probed for more information on Marcia’s pornographic Web site, which she was glad she did not know. Nor did she know how Angie’s death, suicide or otherwise, might be related. “I cover the fashion beat. I just ask fashion-related questions.”
“Come now, Ms. Smithsonian, fashion?”
“Okay, what passes for fashion in D.C. The city that fashion forgot.”
Thorn stared her down. “Let me get this straight. You spend your days taunting people in print with your tasteless opinions?”
“Basically, yes.”
Claudia broke in. “Whether ‘Crimes of Fashion’ is tasteless or not, Agent Thorn, it sells papers and it adds an air of levity in a town that takes itself far too seriously.”
“But these articles are not levity.”
“In this case, my dear agents, an Eye Street reporter is shedding light on a suspicious death that would otherwise be swept under the carpet.”
Mac cleared his throat. “I ordered her to write the story and conduct the follow-up. We had a unique take on it.”
Lacey turned to look at him. Really, tough guy?
“Is there anything you discussed with Marcia Robinson that you did not include in the story?” Thorn asked.
“Only her personal philosophy on the wearing of orange apparel when incarcerated. I actually prefer black-and-white stripes, only not horizontal. Is the special prosecutor interested in that?”
Mac broke in. “You ought to see what she has in mind for next week.”
“Well, Ms. Smithsonian?”
Lacey looked at Mac. He nodded as if they had already agreed on a column. “I think you’ve inspired me with your unique neckwear choices, something like ‘Too Ugly to Die: My Tie Fights Crime for the FBI.’ After all, Elliott Ness was supposed to be a snappy dresser and we all know how J. Edgar Hoover loved his party dresses and tutus. Now there’s a real fashion role model for the Bureau.”
Agent Watkins coughed into his fist, and Agent Thorn’s ears turned red. He sighed deeply and closed his notebook. “I think we’re through here. We may need to call on you again as our investigation goes forward.”
“One more thing, Agent Thorn,” Claudia warned. “The Eye Street Observer stands behind our reporters all the way. We know the shield laws. We know the Constitution. You cannot bully us.”
“We’re just doing a routine investigation, ma’am. We don’t care how people live their lives. We aren’t the morality police.”
She answered him with that dazzling smile and purred, “Of course you are. So nice to meet you.”
After the junior G-men left, Claudia grinned at her bemused staff. “I’m not the FBI’s biggest fan. If they call again, you call me right away. No matter where I am.”
Claudia pulled Lacey aside as they left. “Just remember, Lacey, the center of a scandal is a scary place to live. You have a duty to look for the truth and print the truth. But make sure it is the truth. And always be careful when you’re poking the bear.”
“I will.”
“And if you simply must poke the bear, call me. I love a good bearbaiting.” Claudia strode out without further ado, attorney Wong trailing behind.
Lacey nudged Mac. “You lied to the FBI. You didn’t order me to write that story.”
“I wasn’t under oath. Ain’t life grand? And by the way, Lacey, there’s a moratorium on surprises for the rest of the month. Let’s make this ‘Be Kind to Mac’ month.”
At home that night, she was glad to be spared a blow-by-blow with Brooke, who was working late preparing a brief. And Lacey made sure by leaving a message and then unplugging the telephone. She was too tired to talk, even to Brooke.
She opened a large bag of caramel corn and poured herself the last Dos Equis. She opened Aunt Mimi’s treasure trunk and spread some patterns around her while she watched Sullivan’s Travels and looked for inspiration in Veronica Lake’s gorgeous 1941 wardrobe. That is, when Veronica wasn’t dressed like a bum.
The caramel corn was too sweet and the beer chaser was not a good idea. However, Lacey was feeling brighter just for watching a smart comedy. And Aunt Mimi’s evening-gown pattern would be stunning in a cream-colored crepe with gold insets at the waistband and cuffs. If Lacey could find just the right materials. It would help keep her mind off Vic.
Lacey’s thoughts kept drifting back to six feet of testosterone and grass-green eyes. She had always been drawn to Victor Donovan. Why is my timing always off? That was the trouble. And if once she had felt she could conquer a man’s heart the way a climber scales a peak, she had lost that feeling long ago.
On Sunday, as soon as she plugged in the phone, it rang. Lacey picked it up. “Hello, Brooke.”
“Good, you’re not dead. I didn’t actually think you were. You’re not on DeadFed dot com. I checked.”
“I can always count on you, Brooke. And you were right. It went okay and I still have my job. And about half my nerves.”
“By the way, Lacey, nice piece on Marcia Robinson, the little squealer. Glad you stuck to describing her clothes this time. I think you should consider writing a primer on how to dress and prepare for court. I know someone who knows someone who knows John Grisham’s agent.”
“Brooke, let’s stop thinking for a change. Let’s do something instead. New York City. Small bite of the Big Apple. What do you say?”
“Keep talking, Lacey.”
“An invasion. You and me. Bag some cavemen, drag ’em back to our caves. Make ’em invent fire and cook for us.”
“Can’t. The pheromone jammers will get them.”
“Could we at least go ogle them? We could wear sunglasses.”
“Tell me, Lacey. Have you gotten a whiff of testosterone lately?”
“Only on video.”
She half hoped that Vic would call, but he didn’t. She returned the videos, shopped for fabric but didn’t find anything, and took a long walk along a secluded path on the river. She passed a man at an easel who was mixing paints with a palette knife. He appeared innocent enough, no earpiece, but Lacey took another long look and nervously checked her surroundings.
She shook off a feeling of unease and told herself she was being ridiculous. No one was going to take her simple pleasures away from her.
First thing Monday morning, Marcia Robinson’s attorney put out a press release that he was severing his professional relationship with his notorious client. He complained of leaks to the media. In the break room, Mac informed Lacey that Peter Johnson was already working on that story.
Mac hovered over Lacey’s desk all morning like a tropical depression. Her phone rang and she picked up, a signal for her editor to leave her alone. A chirpy voice was on the other end.
“I’m only calling because something weird happened today. Not that it has anything to do with Angie, but when you wrote about her hair being cut off, it got me thinking,” a woman said. “I know Angie would never cut her hair like how you described. She was totally into her hair, you know. I knew Angie. She was my best friend.”
“And you are? . . .” Lacey asked.
“Oh, Tammi, Tammi White. I’m the manager of the Stylettos Salon in Virginia Beach. I was at the funeral, but I didn’t get to meet you. Stella said I should call you. You know Stella.”
Lacey stifled a sigh.
“Um, I kind of thought I should call because Angie used to work here in Virginia Beach before she went to Washington. Stella said you knew all about Angie, you know, how she died.”
“I’m listening, Tammi.” Lacey picked up her coffee, took a sip and flipped open her daybook to see if anything important was on the schedule. Slow day in the style biz. She looked at her e-mail. Too many messages.
“But anyway, this guy called the salon this morning and he said he wanted some of us to cut our hair if it was really long and he was willing to pay us for it.”
Lacey stopped flipping pages and picked up a pen. “Really? Go on.”
“His name was George something. I forget. Anyway, he said he was working on a photo layout of haircuts for his portfolio, as an example of a marketing campaign,” Tammi said. “For school or something. I wasn’t really listening to that part.”
It was pretty exciting to Tammi White that the guy was offering stylists $250 to cut their hair from “very long to very short and very dramatic.” George Something was willing to pay $100 more if he could videotape the haircut. Several stylists might be willing, Tammi said, herself included, because they needed the money. “I mean, who doesn’t?” George told her he had a great stylist for the cut and he would videotape it himself. He was just looking for models with the right kind of hair. Long. Really long.
“I’m kind of interested myself. I have long, curly black hair, almost to my waist, but I’ve been thinking of cutting it for a while now. High maintenance, you know.”
Lacey asked if there was anything else that struck Tammi about the guy. Tammi had no idea what he looked like, and he sounded “like anyone” on the phone. But one thing bothered her.
“He wants the hair,” Tammi said.
Lacey rubbed her neck. She felt a prickle run down her back. “Excuse me, the hair? I’m not getting this.”
“He offered five hundred dollars for the haircut, the video, and the hair.”
“He wants the hair?”
“Yeah, weird, huh? Nobody wants the hair.”
Lacey pointed out that stylists often train with model heads, set with real human hair.
“Yeah, I guess so, but I never heard of anyone paying that much for hair around here,” Tammi said. “And then I read your column, ‘Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.’ Stella faxed it to me.”
Tammi also thought there was something strange about the mysterious George’s request to make a videotape. According to Tammi, Stylettos occasionally videotaped guest stylists who flew in and demonstrated the latest techniques. The tapes were produced at the chain’s headquarters, the same training salon where the funeral reception for Angie was held. The studio was equipped with lights and camera equipment. But George said his amateur video would be okay and he’d call back to arrange a meeting with Tammi. He wanted to meet tomorrow night.
“Why spend all that money and not even get a professional video? And he said it would be better to meet somewhere else, not at the salon, like this was a top-secret project.”
“If you’re really nervous about this guy, maybe you should call the police.”
“I don’t know. What would I tell them?”
“Good question. Did this George guy leave a number?”
“Nah. He said he’d call back.”
“If he does call again, keep me posted. It was probably just a crank call.”
“Yeah, it was probably a dumb joke. Five hundred dollars for your hair is way too good to be true,” Tammi said.
Lacey hung up and turned her thoughts back to simple tasks, like the mail. There were the obligatory press releases, items still addressed to Mariah, some fan mail, ranting hate mail. The usual stuff.
She absentmindedly opened a puffy business-sized envelope with the address printed in block letters to LACEY SMITHSONIAN, CRIMES OF FASHION. A thick lock of pale blond hair tumbled out on the desk like a furry critter, which she at first thought was a bug or a mouse. It bounced up at her, catching her off guard, and she shrieked. She held her breath and hoped no one noticed. She looked around. Everyone had noticed.
The newsroom was used to yelling, laughing, and cursing. That was merely environmental noise, but shrieking tended to stop traffic. She was acutely aware of the silence and people staring. Tony Trujillo, Dingo boots and all, was by her side in a flash. Mac nearly busted a gut running to Lacey’s desk, arriving right behind Trujillo, eyebrows in motion. “Now what the hell is going on?”
“Is that hair?” Trujillo peered at it.
“It’s nothing. Fan mail. Go away.” Lacey reached for the envelope to see if a note was also enclosed, but Trujillo stopped her hand.
“Hold it, Smithsonian. You got any tweezers?”
Her Swiss Army knife had a pair, which she handed over with a groan. He smiled at her. “You gotta love a woman who was in the Swiss army.” Trujillo carefully reached inside the envelope and extracted an anonymous-looking note, obviously from a laser printer. She read it, Mac and Trujillo at each elbow. “YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO THE HAIR? HERE’S A SOUVENIR.” There was no signature. Trujillo held it up to the light.
“Are we to assume this is from one of your admirers, Smithsonian?”
“That would be my luck.” She stared at the note.
“I know. It’s tough being popular. Don’t touch that note.” Trujillo headed back to his desk and returned carrying a box of plastic Baggies.
It was pointless to tell the small crowd that gathered around to go away and mind their own business. They were, after all, reporters. Being a busybody was everybody’s business at The Eye. And a shriek in the corner was better than old news releases and an assignment editor’s list of boring press events to cover.
“Somebody’s idea of a sick joke,” Lacey said. “You know. After last week’s column. The hair thing.”
Trujillo carefully tweezed the hair off the desk. The small lock of hair, curled softly at the ends, was tied with a rubber band and a black ribbon. Some strands looked as if they had been yanked out by the roots. He dropped it in one plastic bag and carefully placed the note in another. It seemed very paranoid to Lacey. “Do this often, Tony?”
“Nope. You’re the psycho magnet. But if it was evidence, we don’t want to contaminate it. Now, does the hair look familiar?”
She was dumbstruck. Sure, it looked like Angie’s hair, but thousands of women—or men—could have hair like that. Besides, Lacey had described Angie’s hair in her column. Any crude jokester could be capable of this prank. “You watch too much television,” she said. But what if it was Angela’s hair and sent to her by the murderer? Tony arched one eyebrow; he obviously thought it was.
“No! That would be too stupid for words, Tony! Not to mention dangerous.”
“The beautiful thing about most criminals, Lacey, is that they are not smart,” Trujillo informed her. “Prisons are loaded with stupid people.”
“Okay, fine, smarty-pants. Why not find out for sure? Let’s get it tested for DNA,” she said.
“Cool.” Trujillo was all for it. Mac grumbled about the cost, but he agreed. Before the morning was over, Lacey had contacted Adrienne Woods in Atlanta to find out if she had a lock of Angie’s hair and was willing to part with it for comparison. Lacey had rightly guessed that Mrs. Woods was the type of mother who would save all kinds of mementos. Adrienne had saved curls from Angela’s baby hair and her first haircut, as well as from her grade-school braid. She assured Lacey she would send a clipping.
“If you’re so sure about this, what about the police? Are we going to tell them?” Lacey asked Tony.
“It’s a closed case. We don’t want to give away anything too soon, and the police wouldn’t want something to mess up a nice closed suicide.” He paused for a beat. “Why not call your pals at the FBI?”
“You’re right, no one needs to know.”
Mac concurred. “If it’s not her hair, no one’s embarrassed by jumping to conclusions. If it is, then we’ve got a scoop. Hot stuff, Smithsonian. Why would you ever want to give up the fashion beat?”
Bravado was her only choice in front of the newsroom, but it couldn’t stop her frenzied thoughts. If the hair matches, the actual killer is contacting me. And what about Tammi White? The mysterious George? Marcia Robinson? The FBI? DeadFed? Oh God.
Suddenly nothing about Tammi’s George Something sounded right to Lacey. He wanted to lure Tammi away from the salon, arrange for a mysterious stylist, take an amateur video, and collect the hair. Had this George’s path ever crossed Angie’s? Maybe he had followed her to Washington. And now he’d found another stylist from Virginia Beach with long hair.
Way too melodramatic, Lacey. He’s probably just some wacko who stumbled into a weird coincidence. But at the very least, if Lacey could talk to him, she could find out why he wanted the hair. She picked up the phone and called the Virginia Beach Stylettos.
“Tammi, I don’t think you should meet this George guy alone. Has he called back yet?”
“Not yet. Why?”
Lacey made a sudden decision. “Why don’t I drive down to Virginia Beach tomorrow? We could talk. You could tell me about Angie. After you get off work, we’ll meet this guy together.”
It sounded fine to Tammi, especially the part about the lunch that Lacey offered to buy. If she could be mentioned in “Crimes of Fashion,” even better.
Getting the next two days off from Mac was much easier than she expected. She left Tammi and George Something out of it; no sense borrowing ridicule if it turned out to be nothing. Lacey pleaded stress.
“Yours or mine?” Mac asked. “Stay out of trouble. Wait, what about your column? At least give me a ‘Fashion Bite.’ ”
Don’t tempt me. “I’ll write you something tonight and e-mail it.” It was time to pull an idea from her fashion notebook, maybe that piece on packing. And the idea of getting away from Washington in the middle of the workweek sounded like heaven.
Lacey had never been to Virginia Beach or anywhere in the southern part of the state. She thought about wandering around, taking in some sights, and strolling down an empty beach without a crowd of roasted and toasted sun worshipers. She’d probably have the whole afternoon to herself and she’d spend the night. Because it was still off-season, a cheap hotel room could be had. A place where no one—Stella or Vic or the FBI—could reach her.
Lacey had the rest of the day to plan her wardrobe. Mac walked by and found her deep in thought. “What are you working on, Lacey?”
“List of murder suspects.”
“Who’s on it?”
“Everybody. Now you’re on it too.”
“I like to see my reporters happy.”
Felicity offered Lacey a juicy apple tart. Lacey put Felicity on her unwritten suspect list on general principle. She realized that she couldn’t put everyone she hated on the list. Nevertheless, Felicity stayed on.
That night Lacey needed to pack and clean up the apartment before she left town. The last thing she wanted was to return to a dirty place. It was a holdover lesson from her childhood. Kill yourself cleaning before you leave home. God forbid burglars should find a dirty dish in the kitchen.
As soon as she let herself into the apartment, the phone started ringing. Brooke had a heavy schedule this week, so Lacey knew it wasn’t her. It better not be Stella. She picked the receiver up gingerly.
“Hey, Lacey.” Stella, of course. “So what’s this about Virginia Beach? You talked to Tammi?”
“Obviously. You told her to call me. And obviously she called you.”
“Yeah, but I thought you’d call me with an update. You left me out of the loop. Thank God Tammi let me back in. Hey, it’s a long drive. Maybe I could go with you and help you investigate. Michelle could cover tomorrow—Wait. Leo’s out. I’m stuck.”
“I’ll be fine, Stella. And keep quiet about my trip, okay? I don’t want this on the Stella Broadcasting System.”
“Anything else, Your Majesty?”
“There are things people shouldn’t know.”
“Like who?”
“Like killers, Stella. Killers shouldn’t know.”
“No way, man! You think the Feds are there?
“There are Feds everywhere.”
“But this Virginia Beach guy wants to buy hair.”
“Right, and somebody wanted Angela’s hair. Only she paid the price.”
“You think this is really dangerous?”
“Probably not. If we keep our mouths shut.”
“And what if Victor Donovan comes by?”
Lacey did not like the way Stella purred when she said Vic’s name. “Don’t mention my name. What Vic doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“He likes you.”
“Shows what you know. He’s just trying to suck information out of me. And you. Believe me, Stella, it takes one to know one. Besides, Virginia Beach probably won’t lead anywhere. I’ll call you when I get back.”
As she hung up, she noticed the answering machine was blinking. Lacey sank down on the sofa and hit the Message button. “Lacey, this is Marie Largesse.” Lacey tried to place the name. “You know, darlin’, your friendly neighborhood psychic? Little Shop of Horus? I got your number from Stella.”
Lacey had a clear picture now. She started to rub her temples at the headache that was beginning. Marie continued. “I just called to let y’all know a couple things before y’all head down to Virginia Beach.”
Only Stella would consult a psychic about my business.
“Don’t be too hard on Stella,” the message continued. “She’s a little nosy, but she’s a good friend. First, I have to warn you, it’s going to be a little frustrating. Psychic congestion. I’m feeling that very clearly. Just relax and go with the flow. If y’all just give in and let things take their natural course, things’ll go better.”
At least the weather’s supposed to be nice, Lacey thought.
“Oh, and take a warm raincoat. I don’t care what the weatherman says, it’s going to rain like Katzenjammers.”
A second message was from Vic Donovan, asking her to call. She hesitated for a moment, then lifted the receiver. She put the receiver back.
My own psychic hotline and do I get advice about the guy? The tall, dark, handsome man? No, I get: Take a raincoat.
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
The Getaway: Packing in a Hurry
You need a quick vacation getaway. Or simply to escape those rather large men in dark suits with earpieces who always seem to be crossing your path. So run away. Simply jump in the car and go. Wait! First you have to pack. But if you just toss things in a brown paper bag the way they do in the movies, you won’t emerge in the next scene glamorously clad for your hideout on the Riviera. You’ll look like a fugitive from reality, or worse, a tourist. That’s right. You’ll be wearing the plaid shorts, the striped top, the neon T-shirt, and some hideous flowered thing you don’t remember buying. And if you can’t look like a romantic fugitive from justice, why bother? Here are a few tips on how to avoid that thrown-together-in-a-suitcase-just-ahead-of-the-federal-1-marshals look.
Keep your luggage handy. Remember that a wheeled bag is so much easier to run with.
Bring something comfortable to wear while hiding out in the hotel room, perhaps a cotton shirt and shorts or leggings. However, your choice should also be presentable for those awkward times when you leave to retrieve a bucket of ice and return to your room to find that the magnetic key card no longer works and you’re nearly naked and have to call security and wait outside your room like the world’s most incompetent cat burglar. It happens.
Nothing screams “on the run” like a pair of clunky running shoes with flashing reflectors that say “chase me” as they hurdle chain-link fences in back alleys on a reality cop show. Instead, choose chic leather flats, which will allow you to outpace Interpol in style. Carry a sleek leather bag large enough to stash the essentials: a clean wrinkle-free top and an elegant scarf for an instant change of look—or climate.
Keep a small bag of toiletries ready. It cuts down on the panic when you find you’ve forgotten your contact lens case and solution and your guidebook doesn’t have the French word for toothpaste. And while many nicer hotels provide shampoo, conditioner, and lotion, some motels, the kind where you might find yourself hiding out until the scandal blows over, have only those cheap little chips of soap that make your skin itch like you have a guilty secret.
If you’re going economy, remember that hair dryers and full-size towels are rare on the run. And do you need that special pillow, sentimental teddy bear, or other security-blanket items you can’t sleep without? Pack them.
And do remember to pack a pair of tailored black slacks or skirt and an attractive blouse or sweater for that unexpected dinner out at an exclusive restaurant. Who knows? Maybe your lawyer will call, the charges have been dropped, all is forgiven, and you’re a celebrity! The champagne is on the house, and when the paparazzi arrive, you’ll look fabulous.
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