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Lock Combs. I don’t know whether to applaud or put a bullet through the sign.

Elena Randolph’s 2013 Honda Odyssey has the vanity plate DO-OR-DYE. I frown. I wish Myron were here. He enjoys these sorts of puns. He and Ms. Randolph would, no doubt, get along.

“We just gonna sit here?” Gino asks.

My phone rings. It’s Kabir.

“Articulate,” I say.

“No calls,” he says.

I am not surprised. We’d been monitoring Mrs. Parker and Mr. Rowan since I’d left a little more than an hour ago. My hope was that they were lying to me and once I left, they would reach out and warn Edie and Billy that I was searching for them. But alas, that didn’t happen. Onward.

“Anything else?”

“I did some research on Trey Lyons. You were right. Ex-military. Works security in a variety of countries.”

I consider that. “Put two more men on him.”

Trey Lyons will be a festering problem if I don’t take care of it soon. How had he put it in the van? He can’t let me live, and I can’t let him.

I check my watch. It’s half past three p.m. and Shear Lock Combs—the name is growing on me—doesn’t close until five. Enticing as the prospect of chilling with Gino for the next ninety minutes may be, I choose to forgo the pleasure and get moving.

“Wait for my signal,” I tell Gino.

“You’re the boss.”

I step out of the tow truck and head toward the salon’s door. When I enter, all eyes turn to me, though some do so via mirrors. There are three chairs, all in use. Three women clients in black chairs, three women beauticians. Two more women lounge in a waiting area. The coffee table is blanketed with gossip magazines, but both waiting women prefer their phones.

The ladies all smile at the male interloper, save one. Elena Randolph is tall and slender. Despite being sixty-five years old, she wears tight slacks and a sleeveless top, and it works well enough on her. Her hair is gray and spiky, her face birdlike, her expression harsh. Reading glasses hang from a chain around her neck.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“We need to talk,” I say.

“I’m with a client right now.”

“It’s important.”

“We close at five.”

“No, sorry, that won’t do for me.”

There is what some might call an uncomfortable silence, but as I think we’ve established by now, I find no silences uncomfortable.

The fleshy redheaded beautician working the chair next to Elena’s says, “Uh, I can finish Gertie for you.”

Elena Randolph just stares at me.

The redhead bends down to an old woman whose hair is covered in tinfoil. “I can finish you up, can’t I, Gertie?”

Gertie shouts, “Huh?”

Elena Randolph slowly puts down a comb and scissors, places both hands on Gertie’s shoulders, bends down, and says, “I’ll be right back, Gertie.”

“Huh?”

Elena’s eyes shoot daggers at me. I deflect them with a smile that could best be described as disarming. She marches out the door so that we are now both in front of the window of her salon. All eyes stay on us. No one goes back to work.

“And you are?” Elena asks.

“Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third,” I say.

“Am I supposed to know you?”

“I believe you spoke to my assistant Kabir on the telephone.”

She nods as though she expected this. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“It would be wonderful if we could just skip this part,” I say.

“Pardon?”

“The part where you say you won’t talk to me and then I start my barrage. It really is such a waste, and in the end, you will cave.”

She puts her hands on her narrow hips. “Are you a cop?”

I frown. “In these threads?”

That almost makes her smile.

“Tell me about Ralph Lewis.” I hand her the scan from the yearbook with the medieval band. “You two dated at Oral Roberts University.”

Elena doesn’t so much as glance at the page. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I sigh dramatically. I had hoped to avoid this, but my patience is wearing thin. I raise my hand and snap my fingers. Two seconds later, the tow truck pulls into the lot and stops behind her Honda Odyssey. Gino jumps out, slips on a thick pair of gloves, and pulls a lever to start lowering the flatbed.

“Hey,” Elena shouts. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“That’s my main man Gino,” I say. “He’s repossessing your car.”

“He can’t—”

I hand her the orders. “You are in heavy debt, Ms. Randolph. On your vehicle. On your house.” I point to the salon. “On your place of business.”

“I’ve made arrangements,” she says.

“Yes, with the old collection agency. But I’ve purchased your debt, and so now you owe me. I’ve examined your financial situation and feel that you are a bad risk, ergo, per my rights, I’m foreclosing on your assets as of right now. Gino here will take the Honda. I have two men who are at this moment padlocking the front door of your home. In ten seconds, I will open the door to your business and inform your customers that they will have to vacate the premises immediately.”

Elena Randolph’s wide eyes scan down the first page. “You can’t do this.”

I sigh, though this time with a tad less spectacle. “Your denials are tiresome.” I reach for the salon’s door. Elena shifts her body to block me.

“I don’t know where Ralph is, I swear.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I would put my hand on my chest and say, ‘The truth,’ but I feel it would be over the top, don’t you?”

Elena is not in the mood. I don’t blame her. I’m not naturally a needler, but this is something else I learned from Myron. Needling keeps your adversary off-balance. “And if I don’t cooperate?” she asks.

“Really? Have I not made this obvious? Your car, your house, your business will all be mine. By the way, what’s the redhead’s name? I’m going to fire her first.”

“There are laws.”

“Yes, I’m aware. They favor me.”

“I know my rights. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“That’s correct.”

The flatbed reaches