Ink Flamingos

by Karen E. Olson

  Joel gave a quick nod at me, indicating I should sidle over toward him. I did. As all three guards were now hunkered down in my car with flashlights, Joel took my hand and we began to slowly back up toward his car.

  “I’m breaking you out of here,” Joel whispered.

  Sounded like a plan.

  The guards were clearly not very good at their job, because they barely noticed what we were up to until we were already in the car and Joel was backing out and then pulling toward the exit. The little Prius didn’t have a lot of oomph, but it had enough, and the guards were too startled to move quickly. They weren’t exactly high-end rent-a-cops.

  We passed a police car with its lights flashing as we turned out onto Koval.

  “We’d better get lost and quick,” I said, indicating them.

  Joel knew his way around the back roads, and soon we were a couple miles away, no sirens anywhere. The guards had not taken his license plate down, hadn’t really paid much attention to his car, because they’d concentrated on him. I had told them, though, where I worked, and I said as much to Joel.

  “They probably already knew that. You might want to call Tim,” he suggested.

  I’d left my bag in my car, not even thinking. Could this day get much worse?

  Joel handed me his phone, and I punched in Tim’s number, knowing I’d be interrupting the interrogation over at the Golden Palace but not caring at this point. The good news was, Tim answered right away because he didn’t recognize the number.

  “Kavanaugh,” he said.

  “Tim, it’s Brett.”

  “Brett?”

  “I’m going to tell you what happened, but you can’t interrupt me and you can’t yell at me,” I said, then quickly added, “The security guards at the Venetian stopped me, said they had to detain me, started searching my car, and Joel came, we took off, and now I think the cops are after us.”

  He was quiet for a couple of seconds, most likely digesting this new bit of information.

  “Did they say why they had to conduct a search?” he finally asked, the restraint remarkable.

  “No.”

  “Let me see what I can find out. Where are you?”

  I glanced around at the street outside and didn’t recognize it. “We’re just driving around,” I said. “I don’t want to go back.”

  He must have heard the desperation in my voice, because he said, “Have Joel take you to Murder Ink. But stay put there, okay? I’m worried about all this, that someone’s targeted you for some reason, and until we find out who and catch her, you could be in danger.”

  I gave a deep sigh of relief, tears springing to my eyes because he believed me. And then I pounced on the one word that came through loud and clear. “Her. You said her. You think this is Ann Wainwright, don’t you?”

  He didn’t confirm anything, just said, “I’ll call you later when I know something,” and then he hung up.

  I turned to Joel. “Tim says you should take me to Murder Ink.” Jeff would be surprised to see me, but considering his criminal tendencies, he would be perfectly willing to harbor a fugitive.

  Joel gave me a sly smile and pointed the Prius in that direction.

  “What?” I asked, when the smile wouldn’t go away.

  “You and Jeff. It’s cute.”

  Cute? What was cute? Oh, right, that thing. “There’s nothing going on,” I insisted.

  Joel’s smile grew into a full-fledged grin. “There’s always been something going on with you two.”

  That was for sure, but not the way he thought.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

  “Ace is gone,” Joel said, completely switching gears.

  I sat up straighter in my seat, the belt pulling against my chest. I stuck my thumb underneath it and loosened it slightly. “Gone for good?” I remembered how he hadn’t been in his room when I left, but it was as if he’d just gone down the walkway to the oxygen bar. It seemed as though he really meant it when he said he quit.

  He hadn’t even said good-bye.

  “He’ll be back,” Joel said confidently.

  “How do you know?”

  “He did this once before.”

  This was the first I’d heard about that. “When?”

  “Right before you took over. Flip told us about how he was selling the business to you, and Ace wasn’t thrilled with the idea of working for a woman.” Joel shot me a look. “I had no problems with it.”

  I touched his arm. “Thanks. But what happened with Ace?”

  “He left. Said he was never coming back. But he left his paintings. The day before you started, he was there again, never said a word, acted as though he’d never left.”

  I mulled that a few seconds. “But this is different.”

  “No. It’s not. He didn’t take his paintings.”

  I didn’t see the significance of that, but Joel was satisfied, and he knew Ace better than I did. Maybe Ace would be back, after all.

  We’d been closer to Murder Ink than I’d thought. Joel pulled into the alley behind the shop, the scent of the Chinese food from the take-out joint next door hanging in the air. He gave me a smile. “You’ll be okay here.”

  “I have a client later.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. I’ll tell Bitsy everything.” He leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Everything’s going to be fine. Your brother’s going to catch the bad guy; you can get back to normal. You always do.”

  He was right. I smiled back. “Thanks for everything,” I said, climbing out of the car. It felt good to stretch my legs. I was too tall for that car, and I couldn’t imagine how Joel felt, all three hundred pounds of him squished into that little Prius.

  I didn’t see Jeff’s Pontiac, but the back door was slightly ajar, so maybe he parked in front today.

  I waved at Joel and started to push the door open, but something was jamming it from the inside. I peered around the door and saw what was obstructing it.

  Another pink flamingo.

  Chapter 49

  They were breeding like rabbits.

  Plastic rabbits.

  This one wasn’t wearing a tiara, though, and I couldn’t see any red paint, so obviously whoever had left it did not feel as much animosity toward Jeff as she did toward me. Maybe she’d seen us together at the Golden Palace, before or after she disposed of Sherman Potter. Maybe she knew about our thing.

  Joel hadn’t pulled away yet, and I heard his door open.

  “What’s wrong, Brett?” he asked when he got out.

  I sighed. I felt like I was in a Fellini movie, where everything was in black and white except that pink flamingo.

  Joel came over and stood next to me. I pointed around the door. He craned his neck so he could see, then straightened up again.

  “Whoever’s doing this is nuttier than a fruitcake.”

  He’d just described Sylvia to a T, but it wasn’t her. It was crazy Ann Wainwright, who had some sort of personal beef with me.

  Where was Jeff? I wondered, pushing a little more forcefully on the door now so I could squeeze inside. I was halfway in when Joel asked, “You sure you want to go in there?”

  He was right. What if whoever had put this flamingo here was still there, in the front of the shop or lying in wait in a corner or the bathroom or something? I came back out.

  Time for Plan B. As I poked my head through the door opening, I shouted, “Jeff? Are you there?”

  All I heard was the rattle of the old air conditioning unit.

  “He’s not here,” I said, remembering that he had Sylvia with him when we left the Golden Palace. He was probably taking her home.

  “Call him,” Joel said, handing me his phone.

  I punched in his number, but there was no answer. I shrugged at Joel and said, “I probably should call Tim.”

  I didn’t wait for Joel to agree; I just dialed. Tim picked up on the first ring.

  “Someone called the Venetian and repo
rted that you were a suspect in a murder,” he said without saying hello. “That’s why they detained you.” He snorted. “Rent-a-cops. They should know better than to listen to an anonymous caller.”

  “So is it all straightened out?” My hopes rose. Maybe I could go back to work now; Joel and I wouldn’t have to be fugitives.

  “Stay where you are,” he said. “I’ll call you when it’s okay. You’re at Murder Ink?”

  “That’s right, but Jeff’s not here yet. I think he might be with Sylvia. I tried to call, but he didn’t answer.” I paused, then added, “But someone’s been here. Left Jeff a little present. A pink flamingo, like the one in our house.”

  “You didn’t touch anything, right?”

  “No. It was wedged in the door, so I think I might have crunched it a little when I pushed the door open, but I didn’t go in, I didn’t touch it.”

  “I’ll send someone over there to dust for prints. We found a fingerprint at our house. Maybe whoever it is was as careless there.”

  “Whose print was it?” More hopes.

  But then he dashed them. “No one we know yet. But we’re still looking. Wait for the cops; wait for Jeff.” And he hung up.

  I handed the phone back to Joel and shrugged. “He says to stay here.” As I looked around the alleyway, the Chinese food smells mixing with those in the Dumpster, I realized it was the last thing I wanted to do. I felt like a shark: If I stopped moving now, I might die. Well, that was an exaggeration, but you get what I mean. I needed something to do, something that made me think I was being helpful. Sure, Tim would think otherwise, but he wasn’t here.

  Neither was Jeff.

  Although as we turned, a familiar orange car swung into the alley. He slammed on the brakes, parking right behind Joel’s Prius. Jeff got out of the Pontiac with a frown.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  I quickly told him about being detained at the Venetian, but adding the stuff Tim had said about how someone called saying I was wanted for murder, then went on to include how Joel had helped me escape. I must have been going on a little too long, because Jeff held up his hand to interrupt.

  “Get to the point, Kavanaugh. Why are you outside my shop?” He noticed the door was open, and he went over to it, pushing against that pink flamingo, just like I had. “What the hell is that?” he asked, spotting it.

  “Tim said I should come over here,” I said, “but I found that flamingo in your door. You weren’t here. He’s sending someone over to take fingerprints.”

  Jeff was shaking his head, running a hand through his buzz cut, the tattoos on his arm flexing with each movement. Joel and I exchanged a look, but neither of us said anything. Finally, Jeff looked at me.

  “You’re full of trouble, you know that, Kavanaugh?”

  “I thought you liked that about me,” I quipped before I could stop myself.

  A smile spread across his face. “And you are way too sensitive.” He paused. “I guess the cops aren’t exactly treating a plastic flamingo like an emergency.”

  “It’s not like it’s going to walk away,” Joel piped up.

  Somehow that struck me as really funny. Guess you had to be there. But within seconds, the three of us were laughing so hard it hurt. In retrospect, though, it wasn’t so much funny as it was a chance to let off some steam.

  A lot of steam.

  I realized Jeff had stopped laughing and was studying the door to his shop. Joel and I stepped forward, and I could see it then. The scratches on the dead bolt, the deep grooves in the side of the door.

  “Someone jimmied the lock,” Jeff said. “And did a damn poor job of it, too. I’m going to have to fix that.” It was a casual statement, as though he had a drawer full of locks in his office and he’d just have to replace this one with one of those. “What I don’t get is this thing with the pink flamingos. I mean, I understand the symbolism and all, but do they really think a pink flamingo is going to scare anyone?”

  Scared the daylights out of me. I tried to look nonchalant.

  “I’m going around the front,” Jeff announced. “See if anything’s up over there.”

  He started down the alley, then looked back at us. “Aren’t you coming?”

  I hadn’t realized it was an invitation, but I didn’t have to be asked twice. Joel and I trailed Jeff around the edge of the building and along the alley between it and Goodfellas Bail Bonds. I wondered if Sonny was over at the police station trolling for celebrity clients. When we reached the front entrance to Murder Ink, it didn’t seem as though anyone had tried to get in this way. The door had no marks on it at all. Jeff reached into his pocket for his keys and pulled them out.

  “You can’t go in,” I said. “The police are coming.”

  Jeff snickered. “It’s my shop.” He put the key in the lock and pushed the door in.

  The front of the shop was dark; blinds had been pulled down over the big front windows. He yanked on them and they snapped up, letting in light from the streetlamp that struck the flash on the walls and illuminated it. Joel perused the designs, nodding. He was comfortable in a shop like this; my shop was the most upscale he’d ever worked in. The chain hanging out of his pocket jingled slightly as he absently toyed with it.

  A glance around told me nothing seemed out of place, although at the same time, something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it wasn’t just the flamingo in the back. Jeff’s back straightened, tense. He sensed it, too. But so far it was eluding both of us.

  Until Joel spoke up.

  “I didn’t realize you picked up Brett’s flamingo design.”

  Chapter 50

  It was there, on the wall, right out in the open. It had been tacked over the flash on the far wall: My flamingo stencil for Daisy Carmichael.

  It couldn’t be the exact one, but it was close enough that it sent a shiver down my spine. It even had the little flowers in the tips of the wings.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” Jeff said softly.

  All three of us stood and stared at it, as if it would magically tell us who had put it there.

  “Someone is totally messing with us,” I said. “I mean, besides the breaking in, this isn’t really criminal stuff: putting a plastic flamingo in your office, putting this stencil here. This is some sort of head game.”

  “Doesn’t scare me,” Jeff said, going over to the wall, reaching up, and pulling the stencil down. It tore a little where it had been taped up, but otherwise it was intact. He brought it over to me, and I took it, studying it.

  “Someone could’ve done this from the picture on that blog,” I said. “It’s not that hard to do a stencil. You can get instructions on the Internet.” You could get mostly everything having to do with tattooing on the Internet, except experience and talent and common sense.

  A flash of red hit the wall, illuminating the flash designs. We all turned at the same time to see the police car pulling up out front, an SUV behind it. Showtime.

  The uniformed cop knocked on the door, and Jeff motioned that he could come in. To my dismay, it turned out to be Willis, a cop I’d come across a couple of times before and who didn’t like me much. From the scowl on his face, I could tell that hadn’t changed.

  “We got a report,” he said, eyeing me as though I was the culprit.

  A couple of crime scene investigators followed him in, and Jeff led them to the back of the shop to see the flamingo. Joel and I lingered where we were. I was tired of making statements to the police and knew I wasn’t out of the woods on this one yet, either, but the longer I could delay the inevitable, the better. Especially since it was Willis.

  “We have to find Ann Wainwright,” I said.

  Joel shifted from one foot to the other, his fingers still toying with the chain at his waist. “How?”

  I had no clue.

  “Maybe we could go back to her sister’s apartment. Talk to that neighbor again. Terri.” And then a light bulb went off over my head. “Her sister worked for
a dentist.” I struggled to remember what it had said on that paycheck stub. “Carruthers? Columbia? Something with a ‘C.’ ”

  “Corinthian.” The word slipped off Joel’s tongue easily.

  “What, are you psychic or something?” Joel hadn’t been inside with Bitsy and me; he’d been out in the hall with Terri the whole time.

  “Bitsy made me make an appointment for a cleaning. I’m supposed to go tomorrow. See what I can find out.” He made a face. “I don’t like the dentist.”

  “No one likes the dentist,” I said. “So why don’t we go now? Pretend that you thought the appointment was today. We could ask questions.” Sounded like a plan, except for one thing: Jeff and Willis were still in the back of the shop. My eyes strayed in that direction.

  “It’s too late,” Joel said. “It’s after seven.”

  “Sometimes dentists stay open late. It’s a Thursday. Maybe they’re like banks and they’re open late on Thursdays.” I was grabbing at straws, but I didn’t want to stick around here, and I had no other ideas.

  I took a few steps toward the door.

  “We’re parked in back,” Joel reminded me.

  We could be stuck here all night. But I underestimated how much Willis disliked me, because he came storming through the sixties beads that hung between the back of the shop and the front, his face all scrunched up, a little notebook in his hand.

  “You didn’t touch anything?” he barked.

  I shook my head, then quickly told him how the door had been ajar, the flamingo wedged behind it. “That’s when I called Tim.”

  Jeff was standing behind Willis. I could tell he wanted him out of here, too. The crime scene guys were shuffling out now, past us and toward the door. One of them had put the flamingo in a plastic bag and he carried it with the tips of his fingers. They didn’t exactly stand on ceremony, since they didn’t bother to say good-bye, just left. I glanced up at where the flamingo stencil had hung, but then Jeff caught my eye and gave a quick shake of his head. For some reason he didn’t want to tell them about it. Hmm.