“Thanks,” Drue said. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got some beer and some prosecco in the fridge, and I’ve got a bottle of Tito’s too.”

“Okay, yeah,” the hairdresser said, holding up the Mountain Dew. “You could just pour some of that Tito’s right in my soda bottle. My nerves got kinda worked driving over here.”

Drue siphoned a good six ounces into the bottle and Neesa took a sip. “That’s smooth,” she said. She took another sip, and then another, and then snapped her fingers. “Damn. I shoulda told you about the coconut oil.”

“What about it?”

“At cosmetology school, we tell our clients to put coconut oil all over their hair the night before and sleep on it like that. You know, to protect the hair from getting damaged by the bleach.” She shrugged. “Oh well.”

“How badly could it get damaged?” Drue asked nervously.

“I mean, the ends could break off, but then we just trim it.” Neesa took a long gulp from the Mountain Dew bottle and held it out to Drue. “How about you top me off, and then we’ll get started?”

Drue did as she asked. “How far along in cosmetology school are you? I mean, you’ve done platinum-blond before, right?”

“Yeah, well, on a wig, I’ve done it twice. And my instructor said my toning technique was excellent. Tell you what,” Neesa said, handing Drue a small plastic tub of coconut oil. “Why don’t we put some of this on your hair now and let it sit for a while? You know, just have a cocktail, and then after an hour, that oughtta be good enough to get started.”

“Great idea,” Drue said, seizing on any delaying technique available. “Be right back.”

She went into her bedroom and shut the door. Rae Hernandez sat on the bed, paging through a magazine, looking bored.

“Are you hearing everything okay?” Drue asked.

“Good thing there’s no insulation in this old house. I can hear every word,” the detective said. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t let that stupid bitch touch my hair.”

“That’s why I’m stalling,” Drue said. She turned to the mirror over her dresser and began lathering coconut oil into her hair.

“Try to get her talking about the Gulf Vista,” Hernandez urged. “How much vodka has she had?”

“A lot. Like, half a fifth,” Drue said. “If I’d had that much, I’d be on the floor.”

Drue went into the bathroom, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her head, turban-style.

When she returned to the kitchen, she found Neesa mixing chemicals in a large plastic bowl. The odor of bleach filled the room and stung her nostrils.

“How’s it going?” Drue asked.

“Okay,” Neesa said. “Lemme see your hair?”