Pretty In Ink

by Karen Olson

  The uniforms had managed to rouse a few residents, who were being herded toward the elevators. A busty woman wearing a tight shirt and jeans carried a small white dog that started yapping. A middle-aged couple was still in their pajamas, but the uniforms were telling them they couldn’t go back in; they had to evacuate.

  Evacuate?

  I caught Tim’s eye, but he was distracted. There was another condo on the other side of the hall, and he strode over to the door and banged on it like there was no tomorrow.

  “Police. Ma’am? You have to leave the building,” he shouted after a muffled reply on the other side of the door.

  The door opened a crack, and I could see Tim leaning in, talking to someone. Finally, she stepped outside. She was short, dark—Mexican from the look of it. She held a dust rag. Cleaning woman, most likely. Her eyes were wide as Tim hustled her past me.

  I didn’t quite know what to do or where to go, but since everyone was leaving, I didn’t want to stick around to see why. Something in that condo wasn’t safe.

  I went over to the elevator and tugged on Tim’s sleeve. “I think I’ll go downstairs now,” I said.

  Before Tim could answer, we heard the ding of the elevator and Frank DeBurra stepped into the hall. I didn’t have a chance to react, though, because two men and a woman came out behind him. They were all wearing big white hazmat-type suits with booties and gloves. They held face shields and goggles.

  “Who’s still in there?” DeBurra asked Tim, ignoring me.

  “No one.”

  DeBurra looked at his companions. “Go on in,” he growled.

  They stuck on their face shields, making them look remarkably like those guys at the end of E.T., and went into the condo. The residents were all on the other elevator now, going down. I wished I were with them, because DeBurra was staring at me. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?” he asked.

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “She came here because Charlotte Sampson called and said she wanted to meet her,” Tim volunteered.

  I shot him a look, but it was too late now.

  “I told you to call me when she contacted you,” he scolded.

  I didn’t take well to his tone. “I figured you’d be following me anyway,” I snapped back.

  He looked from me to Tim. “She didn’t get anything on herself, did she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about the Sampson woman?”

  “Brett says she wasn’t here.”

  “Yes, she was,” I said. “Just not when I got here.”

  “How do you know?” Tim asked.

  “One of the cops in there found a pink hoodie. Exactly like the one Charlotte has. It can’t be a coincidence. She wanted me to meet her here. She knew what I’d find.”

  “Maybe she’s okay,” Tim said hesitantly.

  “We’d better hope so,” DeBurra said.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s in there?”

  “Why is the air-conditioning still on?” DeBurra growled, but not to me or Tim. He was talking to one of his team, who had just come out to join us.

  “The guard is going to get it shut off now. It’s on some sort of main circuit.”

  “Now. It needs to be turned off now.” I thought DeBurra was going to have a heart attack; the veins in his neck were bulging, and his face was bright red. He turned back to me. “You have to tell me everything you know.”

  “Everything about what?” I asked.

  “Did Charlotte Sampson tell you what was going on? What is the extent of her role?” Before I could answer either question, however, he turned back to Tim. “You know, this puts that queen’s death into question now.”

  “Trevor?” I asked. “What does this have to do with Trevor’s death?”

  DeBurra looked sorry that he’d said anything.

  I couldn’t pursue it, though, because the woman who’d come in with DeBurra was coming toward us. She’d pulled off her hood.

  DeBurra nodded at Tim. “Leslie’s going down with you. She’ll show you what you have to do.” He turned to me. “This is Detective Holcomb. Do what she tells you.” As if I wouldn’t. DeBurra went into the condo, and Leslie Holcomb indicated that we were to follow her.

  More white-clad aliens got off the elevator and headed to the condo. I hesitated, but Tim took my arm and said in my ear, “We need to go outside. DeBurra’s going to need to ask you more questions.”

  “I’ve got some questions of my own,” I started, but Tim shook his head.

  “This isn’t the time. You’ll know what’s up soon enough. You need to try to think of where Charlotte might have gone; you need to get in touch with her.”

  “Is she in danger?” I asked.

  “She could get very sick.”

  I thought about Trevor getting sick in my shop. And then Wesley Lambert. “Is it some sort of swine flu thing?” I asked. “Who are those guys in there in those suits?”

  Tim didn’t answer. We went down in the elevator with Leslie and stepped out into the lobby behind the waterfall. It was pandemonium, condo residents filing outside like it was a school fire drill. Three ambulances had joined the one that had arrived first, their lights joining those of the cop cars that crowded the circular drive. Leslie waved us past the residents and brought us outside, around the side of the building to the delivery entrance, where a large box truck stood. A sort of round contraption had been set up next to it.

  She looked at both of us and said, “You’re going to have to disrobe.”

  My heart jumped into my throat. “What?” I sputtered, turning to Tim. But he was nodding.

  “We have to wash,” he said. “Homeland security regulations.”

  Homeland security? What was going on?

  “I’m not taking my clothes off here,” I said defiantly.

  Leslie did not look pleased with me. “It’s regulation,” she said firmly. “We’ll make sure you have privacy.” She turned to Tim. “Over there.” She pointed to another white-suited person on the other side of the truck. The four uniforms and two paramedics who had gone up to the condo were there, too.

  Tim squeezed my arm. “It’s going to be okay. Just do what she says, please?”

  From just the tone of his voice, I could tell that this was serious—more serious than anything I’d experienced before. Tears sprang into my eyes as I nodded. “Okay,” I agreed.

  I followed Leslie around the other side of the truck, where there was another setup. Looking more closely, I saw it was a sort of shower.

  She brought me behind a curtain and surveyed me. I was used to being studied, but she wasn’t looking at my ink.

  “Take off your earrings,” she instructed. “And your watch. Do you have any other piercings, any other jewelry on your person?”

  I shook my head, my hand shaking even more as I struggled with the posts and the hoops that ran along the length of my ears. She disappeared for a few seconds and came back wielding a pair of scissors. She approached me, and I instinctively stepped back.

  “You can’t take your shirt off over your head,” she said, her voice soft and her eyes kind. “I’m sorry about this.” And with one movement, she slipped the scissors under the back of my shirt and slid them up to the neck, expertly cutting so I could take it off over my arms.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked, handing her all my earrings and my watch.

  “You have to take off everything.” Again her tone was kind, almost apologetic. “You have to take a shower. You might have gotten some on you, and you have to be decontaminated.”

  Decontaminated? Now I truly felt like that kid in E.T.

  It was as if a weight was sitting on my chest; my arms and legs felt leaden. I stripped off my clothes, and Leslie’s eyes took in my tattoos this time.

  “Nice,” she managed to say just as she led me into the shower. She handed me a container of liquid soap. “You have to wash thoroughly.”

  Instead of a showerhead, though, I saw she held out a sort of wand. It was a hose.

  It was not an experience I would ever choose to repeat. I did what I was told and used the s
oap. Fortunately, the water was lukewarm, but the stream was so strong that it bounced off me almost as soon as it hit my skin, spraying every which way.

  Leslie appeared at one point, and I was too exhausted to even feel like I had to cover up. She took the wand and aimed it at my back.

  Finally, it was over. I felt like Rocky Balboa must have after the fight with Apollo Creed. Every muscle, every bone hurt. I almost expected my skin to be wiped clean of all my ink.

  Leslie disappeared for a second, leaving me naked and shivering despite the warm desert air. When she reappeared, she handed me a white towel. “Dry up and change into this,” she instructed, holding out a suit like hers in her other hand.

  I took both towel and suit and contemplated the severity of this situation as I dried off and put on the suit. I hoped it wasn’t see-through, since there was no underwear. I stepped outside the shower and saw her waiting for me.

  “What about my clothes?” I asked.

  “Confiscated.” She was a woman of few words.

  “Can you tell me what exactly I came in contact with up there?”

  Leslie shook her head.

  “I just went through complete humiliation and let you sandblast me with water. I think I’m owed an explanation.”

  Tim was coming around the side of the truck, also dressed in a white suit. We looked more like twins than ever. He’d overheard my comment. “She’ll find out soon enough,” he said apologetically to Leslie.

  To me, he said, “Brett, Wesley Lambert was making ricin up there. And there was enough to kill all of us.”

  Chapter 23

  Ricin, it turns out, is a poison that’s made from castor beans. Just a little bit can kill.

  “It’s a hot zone up there,” Leslie said. “He had about ten vials of the stuff, and some had spilled. We can’t take any chances that you or anyone else who came in contact with that condo will get sick.”

  “What are the symptoms?” I asked.

  “Difficulty breathing, fever, cough, nausea, sweating.” She paused. “Or severe vomiting and dehydration.”

  Which is what seemed to have happened with Wesley Lambert.

  I didn’t have any of the symptoms she listed, except maybe the difficulty breathing. But I think that had more to do with stress.

  “We’re sending you to the hospital to be checked out,” Leslie continued, leading Tim and me to an ambulance. I saw the other responding police officers and the paramedics, all wearing suits like ours, being led into ambulances as well.

  The driveway was crowded with city police vehicles, SWAT teams, and something called Metro Homeland Security. That’s right. Frank DeBurra worked with Metro Homeland Security. I remembered Tim telling me. I raised my eyebrows at my brother.

  “Ricin is used by terrorists,” he explained.

  Was Wesley Lambert a terrorist?

  I didn’t have time to think about it as Tim and I climbed into the ambulance. The doors closed behind us; we sat on little benches across from each other. The vehicle moved forward. I hadn’t even noticed there was a driver up there. They probably didn’t want to have anyone back here with us just in case we were contaminated.

  “I’ve got a client,” I said, remembering now. “I have to call the shop.” Leslie had taken my messenger bag when she took my clothes. “Can I get my phone? The other things in my bag?”

  “I’ll talk to DeBurra. We’ll have someone call the shop for you when we get to the hospital,” Tim said, his mouth tight.

  I didn’t remember the last time I saw him scared, but he was. It made me even more tense. My big brother was supposed to be the calm one. But I found myself telling him it would be okay.

  “Yeah, I know, but I’m worried about you. How did you get yourself involved with something like this?”

  “Charlotte,” I said softly, thinking about her somewhere out there, not knowing whether she was contaminated, not knowing if she was going to get sick. I really needed a phone, not only to call the shop, but also to call Ace. She’d run to him before; why not now?

  I gave Tim the whole rundown on what had happened yesterday: going to the pawnshops, the hospital, trying to track down Charlotte. It was the short, abridged version, so when we pulled up outside the emergency room, he had most of it.

  The back doors opened and a doctor in a white coat stood waiting. We stepped outside before I realized who it was.

  “Dr. Bixby,” I said. “Long time no see.”

  He seemed surprised to see me. But I couldn’t figure out whether it was because I was the one involved with the ricin or because it was just me.

  “Oh, yes, Miss Kavanaugh,” he said, and Tim’s eyebrows rose higher in his forehead.

  “Dr. Bixby told me about Trevor yesterday.” I felt an urge to explain, like someone would get the wrong idea.

  Tim nodded, a small smile of amusement tugging at his lips.

  “This must be your brother,” Bixby said, looking from me to Tim, my carbon copy.

  “She’s adopted,” Tim said with a straight face.

  Bixby frowned. He didn’t get it. Okay, something worse than living with his mother would be not having a sense of humor.

  Not that he’d be interested in me now. I was contaminated.

  Ugh.

  Bixby led us through the emergency room waiting room, stopping at a small office just before the doors that led into where all the activity was. A short woman in a bright yellow sweater smiled at us from behind a desk. Before Bixby could say anything, she said, “We need your insurance information.”

  Tim and I looked at each other, and we both started laughing at the same time.

  “What’s so funny?” The woman got up and walked around the desk toward us.

  Bixby looked confused.

  Tim and I couldn’t stop laughing. I think it was the stress.

  Finally, I managed to sputter, “They took everything.”

  “Who?” The woman looked concerned, like we’d been mugged.

  “They stripped us, took all our clothes, everything. We’ve got nothing but our birthday suits under these.” Tim indicated the white suits.

  The woman’s eyes widened, as if she would rather think of anything else than Tim naked. I’d have to give him some grief about that later. She had her hand on the phone, her eyes asking Bixby whom she should call.

  He put his hand up, and Tim and I started to calm down. “That’s right, June, I didn’t think.”

  “But we can’t admit them without their insurance information,” she argued.

  This could be a long day. I pointed at the phone. “Can I use that?”

  June looked at me as if I’d asked her if she was starring in the newest strip show downtown.

  “You have to use the pay phone.”

  “That would mean that I need to have loose change,” I said. “June, I’ve been exposed to some sort of poison, the police took all my clothes and my other worldly belongings, including my phone and my insurance card. I need to call my business and tell them I’m delayed.”

  Tim was nodding. “I’m a detective with the LVPD. I can vouch for her.”

  “This is highly unusual,” June said, but she was wavering because Bixby was giving her that smile that he’d given me yesterday that made me all weak in the knees. “All right. As long as it’s local.”

  “I’ll take your brother back,” Bixby said to me, then turned back to June. “Send her back when she’s finished with her call.”

  June sat back down behind her desk and pushed the phone toward me. So much for any privacy. I dialed the shop number.

  “The Painted Lady.”

  I was never so happy to hear Bitsy’s voice as I was right that minute. While I’d just been laughing hysterically moments before, now I wanted to burst into tears.

  “Bits, it’s Brett,” I said.

  “Where are you? Your client will be here in a few minutes.”

  “I’m in the emergency room.”

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Panic rose in her voice.

  “I had a little exposure to some sort of poison this morning, and they brought me here,” I said.


  She was quiet for a moment before asking, “What’s going on, Brett? Poison? Exposure? What, did you drink some Drano or something?”

  I found myself telling her what had happened; June’s eyes grew wider with each word. She didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping. I tried to ignore her. “And you have to call Ace, tell him to tell Charlotte to come to the emergency room. She needs to be decontaminated.”

  More silence, then, “Ace is here. He’s worried about Charlotte. He says he hasn’t seen her since last night and she won’t answer her phone.”

  “Have him try everything he can think of. She needs to be looked at.”

  “Okay, will do. What about your client?”

  “Do Ace and Joel have any clients now?”

  “Joel’s free for the next couple of hours.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Hold on.”

  A few seconds passed and I tried not to look at June, who was overtly staring at me. Finally, “Hey, sweetie, Bitsy says you got poisoned?”

  At the sound of his voice, I lost it. Tears dripped down my cheeks, and I couldn’t stop them. “I think I’ll be okay,” I sniffled.

  “You want me to come over there?”

  I wanted him to come in the worst way. Even though Tim was here, I felt like I needed a band of friends around me now. But I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand and said, “No, not now. But you have to take my client, okay?”

  “No problem.”

  “The stencil’s in his folder. It’s a dagger wrapped with thorns. He wants it on his outside thigh; you’ll see the space. There’s not much, but it’s there. It’ll fit.” As I gave the instructions, I felt myself calming down. The tears had stopped.

  June, however, was frowning, trying to make sense of my conversation. With the suit on, she couldn’t see my ink. Too bad. I bet she would’ve loved that story to tell her husband when she got home.

  I asked to speak to Bitsy again. “Listen, Bits,” I said. “Tim and I are going to need some clothes. They took ours. They’re probably going to burn them or something. Can you get to the house and bring something over for us? Underwear and all.”

  Bitsy has a key to our house. I lost mine at one point and couldn’t get in touch with Tim for hours because he was on some sort of police stakeout thing, so I knew I needed a backup. Bitsy was one of the most responsible people I knew. She also had the code to our security alarm.