Pretty In Ink

by Karen Olson

“She called me this morning, though.”

  “What did she say?”

  He pulled himself up a little, took his hands out of his pockets. “What is this? The inquisition? I just finished up with that.”

  I didn’t much care. “Did you tell the cops you talked to her this morning?”

  He sighed, slouching again as if he couldn’t keep up the anger. “I told them everything. Your brother’s the one who got me out. He told that cop DeBurra that he had to let me go. It was clear I didn’t move that money.”

  Chalk one up for Tim. I made a mental note to say thank you.

  “So what happens now?” I asked.

  “Ace has a client coming in later,” Bitsy said loudly. “And you’ve got one coming in, too.”

  Nice to know life went on. But I was still feeling a little obsessed with everything that had transpired in the last few days.

  I looked at Ace. His usual perfect mane of hair was a little disheveled; he had dark circles under his eyes; his mouth sagged at the corners. I’d never seen him look less than handsome. “If you want to go home, you can,” I said. “You’ve had a long day. I’ll take your client.” I glanced at Bitsy, who was already looking at the appointment book.

  “I can switch a few things around,” Bitsy said. “Don’t worry.” This last was to Ace, who looked so relieved that I was happy I’d read him right.

  He gave Bitsy and me a wan smile. “Thanks,” he said, and we both smiled back as we watched him head out.

  I turned to Bitsy when he was out of sight. “I do wish he’d been a little more forthcoming about Charlotte.”

  “You shouldn’t badger him, though. Just before you came in, he was telling me how she broke up with him in that phone call this morning. Said she didn’t want to cause him any more trouble, that he was better off without her. He’s pretty broken up about it.”

  I had the sense that Ace had told her this in confidence, but he should have known by now that you can’t count on Bitsy to be discreet.

  I didn’t get a chance to continue the conversation, however, because at that moment, Ace’s client came in. Bitsy explained that Ace was out sick, but that I could take him, if he was okay with that. The guy looked remarkably like Tony Soprano, and he gave me a look that made me wish I hadn’t been quite so generous after all. He was perfectly okay with me taking over.

  Fortunately, he was just in for a New Zealand tribal tattoo on his biceps, which didn’t take much effort at all. I could understand why Ace had issues with “sacrificing his art.” As I worked, I tried to push everything that was going on out of my head, but I kept wondering about that money. If Charlotte hadn’t taken it, like she said, then who did? Was it the unknown person in Trevor’s apartment who shot at us? Or had someone gone in after I’d been there with Kyle and before I went back with Jeff? What about Rusty Abbott?

  When I deposited Ace’s client with Bitsy to deal with payment, I went straight into the staff room. While I was thinking about the money, my thoughts had wandered back to Trevor’s laptop and that picture of Lester Fine. Finally free for a little while, I took the laptop out from under the light table where I’d left it and booted it up.

  I went back to Facebook to look at those party pictures again. Maybe Trevor had posted a picture of Lester without realizing it. Then I could tell Tim that there was something on Facebook rather than tell him I’d been snooping.

  I clicked on the photo albums link.

  There was only one problem.

  All the pictures were gone.

  Chapter 49

  How could this be? As far as I knew, only Trevor—and me, now, because I had his password—could delete any pictures. I began to wonder what the rules were with Facebook when someone died. Did Trevor’s page just stay up there indefinitely?

  Then I remembered that I’d told Frank DeBurra about that picture. Maybe he actually took me seriously. That would be a switch.

  I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and made a mental note to ask him whether he found out anything from the pictures.

  I heard Springsteen warbling “Born to Run” from inside my bag. I got up and took out my cell phone, flipping it open even though I didn’t recognize the number on the screen.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Kyle.”

  His words were rushed, his voice lower than usual.

  “Do you have a cold?” I asked.

  “It’s Charlotte. She’s sick.”

  Panic rose in my chest. “Sick?” I thought about Wesley Lambert on the floor of his bedroom, dead from ricin poisoning, and Charlotte’s hoodie in the living room. Granted, I’d seen Charlotte between then and now, talked to her, but it was possible that it just took that long for her to get sick. “Where is she?”

  “Chez Tango.”

  “Can I meet you at the hospital?”

  “Here.”

  I looked at my watch. My client would be here any minute. “Just take her to the hospital.”

  “No. Here.”

  This sounded a little too familiar. “Last time she wanted me to meet her I ended up alone with a dead body.”

  “Not kidding. Please.” The last word was said with so much emphasis that I couldn’t ignore it.

  I sighed. “Fine. I’ll be there in a few.”

  He’d already hung up, so I closed my phone and stared at it a second. She must be really sick. Kyle was such an upbeat guy, but he sounded defeated, so unlike himself. Almost like he was sick himself.

  I didn’t like the idea of Charlotte not going to the hospital right away. Then I had a thought. Colin Bixby. He was a doctor. He might know what to do. And I had his card somewhere. Where had I put it? I grabbed my bag and rifled through it. Had Tim returned the card with all the other things? I couldn’t remember.

  Finally my hand settled on something that felt like a business card. Yes, this was it. I punched the number into my phone.

  “Hello?” he asked hesitantly. Oh, right, we hadn’t exchanged phone calls yet, so he wouldn’t know my number offhand.

  “It’s Brett,” I said, and before he could respond, I told him what was going on.

  “You should call an ambulance,” he said.

  “Are you free right now? Can you meet me there, and then we can see what’s up?” I asked. “Kyle’s with her. I think if it was that bad, he would’ve called an ambulance even if she said not to.”

  “I hope so,” he said slowly.

  “Can you get there?” I asked. “I’m sorry to ask, but you were the first person I thought of.”

  “I like the sound of that,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, I can meet you. I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  For about a nanosecond I thought about calling Frank DeBurra, too, but if Charlotte really was that sick, then we could call him when we assessed the situation. It might not even be the ricin. I hoped.

  I was walking out when my client walked in. She smiled shyly at me. Shoot.

  “Oh, Susan, I’m really sorry, but I have an emergency,” I said quickly.

  Bitsy looked up with a frown. I hadn’t told her yet.

  “Is Joel here?” I asked, and Bitsy nodded, although I could see that she was eager to find out just what my “emergency” was. “Can you tell him Susan’s stencil is on the light table?” I turned back to Susan. “Do you mind? Joel’s fantastic.” It wasn’t like it was her first time. She had four other tattoos.

  She smiled. “Sure, do what you have to do.”

  I leaned toward Bitsy and whispered, “It’s Charlotte. Kyle called. She’s sick. I’ve got Bixby meeting us at Chez Tango.”

  Bitsy’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “I hope she’s okay.”

  “Me, too,” I said as I walked out.

  I’d forgotten that I’d valet parked. I had to wait too long for my car to show up, and when it did, the valet got out of the car and stood by the door as I walked around to get in.

  “Miss, I hate to tell you, but I think something’s wrong with your trunk latch. It keeps popping open. Whenever it hits a bump.” He cocked his head toward the back
of the Bullitt, and I could see that the trunk was slightly open.

  I went around the back and saw the lock had been punched out. My heart dropped, and I swallowed hard before I felt the anger rise. I looked up at the valet, who was shaking his head.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said, but he knew a complaint would be filed. I certainly wasn’t going to pay to fix my trunk lock when the car had supposedly been safe in the parking garage under the eye of resort security.

  He handed me a card with the name of the manager I needed to contact, and I stuffed it in my back pocket.

  I lifted up the trunk lid farther, because something inside had caught my eye. Something that I hadn’t put there.

  It was Trevor McKay’s makeup case.

  Chapter 50

  Immediately I thought about Rusty Abbott. Had he left this for me before showing up at Lester Fine’s photo op? If he did, he must have followed me from Trevor’s, then waited to see where the valet would park the car. Creepy. I thought about Jeff Coleman’s stalker comment. And why put the case in my trunk at all?

  I took the case out and balanced it on the edge of the trunk, opening the top. Trevor’s makeup was strewn about, sort of in the same way things were strewn around his apartment. I tugged on the bottom drawer, and it slid out.

  I shifted the hand that was holding the case, but I miscalculated. The case toppled to the pavement, lipsticks and mascaras rolling across the driveway. The valet gave me a dirty look.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, leaning down to gather them up.

  The drawer had come out completely, and papers skittered along the pavement, a bunch of receipts from Wal-Mart and Terrible’s—our local convenience store and gas station rolled into one—and what looked like a couple of pictures. As I picked up the drawer, I scooped everything up. I tossed the receipts into the trunk but held on to the photographs.

  One of them was that picture I’d seen on Trevor’s Facebook page of the drag queen, the one who’d been across the street at Chez Tango when Jeff’s tires got slashed. I wondered again who she was as I turned over the other photo.

  This one was the same picture of Lester Fine that I’d seen on Trevor’s laptop.

  I held the two photographs side by side, wondering whether Lester Fine was the drag queen in the first picture. I couldn’t tell. These guys were so good at changing themselves into women that it was hard to pick out their male features under all the makeup and the glitter.

  There was something, though, about the photo of Lester Fine that was tugging at my brain now. Not the intimate details, but something else. Finally I focused on it. Lester Fine had a tattoo on his arm. On his inner right forearm. I couldn’t make out exactly what it was because of the angle, but considering the other tattoos I’d seen in that same spot lately, I wondered if it could be the same one.

  It also would clear up who the third mysterious person was at Murder Ink that night of the Queen of Hearts Ball. If the drag queen in the other picture was Lester Fine, this all made perfect sense. And since Lester knew Colin Bixby, it might make a little twisted sense to use the doctor’s name rather than his own. It’s not as if he would have been recognized, since Jeff said he was in drag.

  Granted, I had seen pictures of Lester and his wife at the ball, and Lester was wearing a tux. But maybe he’d dressed up to get the ink.

  “Miss?”

  The valet was staring at me. I tucked the pictures back in the makeup case drawer and left it in the trunk. I slammed the lid shut and hoped it would stay until I could at least get some string or something.

  As I leaned down to get into the car, I felt the brooch in my pocket, where I’d stuck it when Bixby had given it to me. I’d practically forgotten it was there, I’d gotten so used to the way it felt. But I figured I shouldn’t drive with it like that—what if the pin came unclasped and stuck me?

  I took the brooch out of my pocket and stuck it in one of the cupholders in the center console as my brain ran faster than a hamster on a wheel.

  It seemed pretty clear that Rusty Abbott wanted me to find those pictures. He couldn’t have known I’d already seen them on the laptop. And even if he did, I’d needed that little nudge to make the connection between them.

  I wondered what his angle was. He worked for Lester Fine. Maybe Fine was a lousy boss.

  I pulled out of the Venetian driveway and onto the Strip heading north. I hit a bump and the trunk opened. This was going to be a pain in the butt; however, I didn’t really have time to stop and fiddle with it now. It bounced up and down as I drove, and a couple of people pulled up next to me to tell me my trunk was open.

  No kidding. Like I hadn’t noticed.

  I ignored them and thought about Lester Fine. And that ink.

  Something Bixby had said came back to me. I punched in his number.

  “I’m on my way,” he said without saying hello. “There’s an accident, though. Traffic’s stopped.”

  Great. “I have a question. The procedure that Lester Fine had? Did he have a tattoo removed?”

  The silence told me my suspicions must be right.

  “How did you find out?” Bixby asked after a few seconds.

  “No time now. I’ll explain when I see you. It doesn’t seem like there’s any traffic this way.”

  I wasn’t sure which direction Bixby was coming from. I had no idea where he lived, and again I wondered whether he lived with his mother. I made a mental note to find out.

  The sun had gone a little lower in the sky, and it beat down on the windshield. I squinted as I drove with one hand and found my sunglasses in my bag with the other. I slipped them on. Better. The palm trees in the median cast sporadic shadows. I hit another bump and the trunk opened even wider. I couldn’t see out the back window now.

  I needed to tie down the trunk lid. I didn’t want to get stopped and end up with a traffic ticket. Granted, I needed to get to Chez Tango and find out about Charlotte, but Bixby was on his way, too, which made me feel better about a short detour. I turned right into a parking lot. It wasn’t until I pulled in that I realized it was the lot for Cash & Carry, that first pawnshop I’d visited. I drove as far away from the pawnshop as I could, easing the Bullitt into a spot in front of Tip Toe Nail Salon.

  I got out of the car and approached the salon. I didn’t know whether they’d have any string, but it was worth a shot to ask. I pushed the door open.

  The smell of acetate hit my nose, and I tried not to breathe too deeply. A short Asian woman scurried up to me, a big smile on her face.

  “Hello, hello, welcome!”

  She was so exuberant and the salon was so empty that I wondered if I was the first person to wander in there in a while.

  “Hello,” I said, trying to be friendly, but my anxiety was growing. “I’m having—”

  “Pick a color. Any color,” she interrupted, her fingers now wound around my forearm as she pointed to a wall filled with nail polish of all colors. She twisted my arm and began inspecting my fingernails. She began tsk-tsking as she explored my cuticles.

  “I’m just here for some string,” I tried lamely. I was starting to get a little anxious about the amount of time I was wasting here.

  She had no clue what I was talking about.

  I pointed out at my car, the trunk gaping open like Moby Dick’s mouth. “I was wondering if you have some string. My trunk is broken. I need to fix it.” I did a little pantomime, since I was pretty sure by now that English was not her first language. “Tie it closed.”

  She dropped my arm and nodded. “Yes, yes.” She shuffled past me, behind me. A bunch of balloons that had seen better days sagged from a hook near the door. She took one of the balloons and brought it to me. “Here,” she said.

  It had lost enough of its helium that it hovered about three feet off the ground. It was a Bitsy balloon. I had no idea what to do. Should I accept it and be on my way?

  The woman saw I was confused, and a huge grin took over her face. She took a pair of scissors and snipped off the balloon, handing me the ribbon.

  “This will do?
” she asked.

  Okay, so sometimes I can be a little slow. She meant I should tie my trunk with the ribbon. I smiled. “Thank you,” I said, and took a step toward the door.

  But she wasn’t going to let me off that easy. She pointed again at the nail polish. “What color?”

  I didn’t have time for a manicure. But she did help me.

  I made an appointment for the next morning. I hadn’t had my nails done in years. Since I was in high school and I would paint them black and draw little white skulls on them. I didn’t like the way my nails felt when they were painted and I wore the latex gloves.

  I’d have to suck it up for a day.

  The ribbon worked perfectly, and now my Bullitt looked like it was all dressed up for a party. Considering where I was headed, it was probably appropriate.

  I was walking around the car, about to get back in and on my way, when tires screeched behind me. The truck careened so close to me that I felt the heat from its engine.

  It slammed to a halt just inches from the hood of my car.

  I’d seen that pickup before.

  I didn’t have time to get into the Mustang before the pickup’s door opened and Rusty Abbott charged right for me.

  Chapter 51

  I slammed myself flat against my car as he approached, my heart pounding so hard, I was sure it would jump out of my chest like that thing in Alien. I opened my mouth to say something, but my throat was so dry, no sound came out.

  He’d stopped just about a foot away from me. Too close for comfort.

  On impulse, I jerked my leg up and out and watched him crumble as my foot connected with his groin. He grunted with pain, and as I got into the Bullitt, I could see it etched across his face.

  I started the car, shifted it into reverse, and stepped on the gas. I left him on the pavement, breathing in my exhaust.

  About a block away, I wondered if I shouldn’t have tried to talk to him. Ask him just what was going on.

  Nah. Probably wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer anyway. And I might have found myself in the middle of an “accident.”