By the time the sun came up, Janeal had formulated a plan to get herself out from under Sanso’s all-seeing eyes, at least temporarily.
Bill Dawson had left a message for her confirming an appointment at the Desert Hope House for Jane Johnson’s “friend” early that afternoon.
She made a hair appointment, hung up, consulted the phone book, and programmed the number of a taxi service into her cell phone. She donned a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, then went through the items she had brought with her from New York. She transferred from suitcase to satchel only what she couldn’t live without: cash, credit cards, false ID, PDA, phone, keys, contacts care kit, and ultraslim laptop. Prescription pills. Anything that could be identified as belonging to Jane Johnson. When she left the hotel at ten, she also left her clothes, makeup, accessories, and toiletries.
She’d buy replacements when she returned to New York.
She drove her rental car to the Goodwill store she had located the previous night. Keeping an eye on her rearview mirror, she narrowed her potential Big Brothers down to a silver Escalade—subtlety, Sanso style—or a blue Camry. Not that she actually cared who was following her.
At the secondhand store, she selected a set of wicker baskets and a denim tote bag and took them into the dressing room, where she shucked her Jimmy Choo sandals and slipped into a pair of blue canvas tennis shoes. When she exited, no one appeared to notice the switch. From there she went to the clothing racks and quickly picked out a pair of olive green pants and a pink blouse in her size, both clean and presentable but slightly dated. She grabbed a pair of sunglasses off a revolving display before reaching the cashier.
Janeal purchased everything but the shoes—she figured the store got the better end of that transaction—and before leaving the building she put the clothes and the tote into her roomy satchel. She carried the baskets in their oversize plastic bag out of the store and threw them into the backseat of her car. Their only purpose was for show.
At the salon, she parked in a space that faced the street where anyone driving by could see it clearly, and then went into the shop to surrender to the stylist.
This was no New York studio. Linoleum flooring and wood paneling from the seventies still served their function. The hairdresser who greeted Janeal introduced herself as Carol, then sat her down in the vinyl chair and examined her auburn locks with unnecessarily long plastic fingernails. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the cluttered shelf. Silk flowers had been draped over the tri-fold mirror at the station.
It was perfect.
“I want to go short,” Janeal announced. “I want a towel-dried look. And dark. Not black, but maybe chocolate.”
The overweight woman picked through Janeal’s hair like an ape, grooming. “Short will be nice. But you’ve got some pretty good-looking highlights in here to be covering up with chocolate.”
“I’m ready for a change.”
“Change is what I do, honey. Can I talk you into some lowlights?” Janeal shook her head. Carol went to a drawer and withdrew a white plastic card with synthetic hair in various shades looped around the edges. “Got one here called burr noyer.” She showed it to Janeal.
Beurre noir, she read.
“No idea what that means, but it’s dark. Where do you think they come up with these names?”
“That’ll do fine.” Janeal didn’t honestly care how she ended up. In fact, if this woman butchered her locks, so much the better.
Leave it to her luck at this stage that the stylist would be a genius.
“You sound like you’re fighting a bug,” Carol said. Janeal didn’t have to reply. Carol kept up her end of the conversation without needing a partner.
As it turned out, the woman, while no award-winner, was no hack either. She worked quickly, applying color first. She touched up Janeal’s brows. The yellow undertones of the brown made Janeal’s skin look slightly sallow, but that wouldn’t hurt when it came to the impression she wanted to make.
Carol cut Janeal’s shoulder-length waves to follow the line of her ear and nape, then coated them with a heavy mousse to give them a windblown look. Or a slept-in look, depending on one’s point of view.
She turned Janeal in the chair to give her a front and back view, and Janeal caught sight of the silver Escalade in the parking lot across the street. She was so pleased to see her plan working that she tipped Carol ten dollars before asking if she could use the restroom. Carol pointed it out before launching into a new monologue with another customer.
Behind locked doors, Janeal dialed the cab service and gave them her location. She pulled out her “new” clothes and changed, then shoved everything she’d been carrying around into the old denim tote.
She shoved the empty Dolce & Gabbana satchel behind the toilet and only felt a small pang of disappointment about that. Someone would snatch up that find no matter where it had been.
Sunglasses in place, she slipped out the rear door of the salon and hoped the cab would be as punctual as their yellow pages ad declared them to be.
In fact, the driver beat his ETA by three minutes.
Better and better.
She rifled through the floppy bag as if looking for something and climbed into the cab without raising her head.
“Desert Hope House,” she said, giving him the address.
The driver nodded understanding and pulled out of the lot, not needing to chat with her like all the New York cabbies she’d ever encountered. Thank goodness for small gifts.
He turned left so that he passed directly between her rental car and that conspicuous silver Escalade. Janeal dared a look out the corner of her eye.
The driver was reading a newspaper.