Pretty In Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  “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.”

  It was nice to know that in the moment, I could defend myself.

  My hands were still shaking, though. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and carefully made my way up Las Vegas Boulevard.

  Kyle’s CRV was the only vehicle in the parking lot. I wondered where Bixby was. Must be a pretty bad accident. I gathered up my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and locked my car. Not that it would do much good, since the trunk was held closed only by a red balloon ribbon.

  I walked across the lot and pushed on the back door, where Kyle and I had gone in yesterday.

  Locked. I banged on it a couple of times, but no one came.

  I went around the front of the building to the more formal entrance. The awning stretched over the walkway; the Christmas lights weren’t on, but they sparkled anyway in the sunlight.

  The front door was locked, too.

  I took a deep breath, irritated. I took out my phone and dialed the number Kyle had called me from. The phone rang twice before I got a recording saying that it was Chez Tango and I should press one for hours, two for directions, or three for that night’s show lineup. I didn’t press anything; I just put the phone back into my bag.

  Being a little OCD, I double-checked the parking lot, walking all around the building, careful not to step on the broken glass in the back by the Dumpster. My Mustang still sat next to the CRV.

  But something was wrong. The trunk was open again.

  There was no sign of the ribbon. It was gone.

  Panic started to rise in my chest as I stopped looking down and started looking up, across the lot, out to the street. Had Rusty Abbott recovered enough to follow me?

  I didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out. I’d have to call Bixby and tell him I was standing him up. Considering Charlotte’s behavior the last few days, I was starting to think she might be perfectly fine and this was some sort of trick.

  I opened my car door and took another look around. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that made my heart leap into my throat. But when I turned to look, it was merely a skinny stray cat scurrying past, the red ribbon trailing from its mouth. I let out a long breath. I’d had enough of this place.

  I scooted into the car as quickly as I could and slammed the door shut. I started the engine and shifted into first, ready to make my getaway.

  Then a gold Pontiac pulled into the lot, heading straight for me.

  What was Jeff Coleman doing here?

  Because it was Jeff; he was getting out of his car and coming toward me with a little bit of a jog, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  I lowered the window but didn’t turn off the engine.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked as he stopped next to the car.

  “Rusty Abbott said you might be here.”

  I frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “Abbott called me, said something about you and a nail salon and you attacking him.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the cigarette bobbed up and down.

  “So, did you decide to just jump in your car and find me to make a citizen’s arrest?”

  “I was already in my car. About a block away. What did you do to Abbott?”

  “I kicked him in the balls,” I said matter-of-factly. “He was coming after me.”

  “Kavanaugh, you might want to ask a man what he wants before doing that,” Jeff said. “Because he just wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  Jeff glanced at his watch and then up at Chez Tango. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He tossed the cigarette to the ground. “We don’t have much time.”

  We didn’t have any time.

  Just at that moment, an explosion rocked the air.

  Chapter 52

  On impulse, I dropped down across the passenger seat, tuc
king one arm underneath me and covering my head with the other. Debris slammed against the windshield, and it shattered, cracking into a million pieces. It looked like an intricate spiral mosaic. Smoke so thick you could slice it settled on top of me. And while the windshield hadn’t collapsed, it had spit tiny shards like mist across the interior of the car. I wanted to cough, but I was afraid to move.

  Then I remembered Jeff.

  I tried not to lean on any glass, but it was impossible. Shards that were practically invisible slit my skin like thin paper cuts as I rose and looked out the window.

  The force of the explosion had thrown Jeff several feet. He lay still, faceup on the pavement between his car and mine.

  I forgot about the glass and pushed the door open, finding purchase on the soot that covered the ground. Jeff’s eyes were closed, and I stooped down and touched his cheek.

  “Jeff?” I asked softly. “Jeff?”

  His eyelids flipped open, and it took a second for him to focus. Then, “Kavanaugh? That wasn’t supposed to happen for another ten minutes.”

  A siren pierced the air.

  Jeff tried to raise himself on his elbows, but I touched his shoulder. “You might just want to lie there for a few minutes.” The siren was getting closer. “You need to get checked out before you get up. Make sure everything’s okay.”

  He snorted and sat up, cocking his head at the building behind me. The whole back had been blown away. I shuddered as I thought about how I’d wandered around the building, trying to get in. If I’d been a few minutes later… I didn’t want to think about it.

  “How did Rusty Abbott know about this?” I asked.

  “Beats me. But he sounded frantic enough, so I believed him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Jeff rolled his eyes at me. “How am I supposed to know?”

  “We have to tell the police.”

  “No kidding, Nancy Drew.”

  It seemed Jeff was perfectly fine, despite getting thrown. I thought about his time in the Gulf War. Maybe he had some experience with this sort of thing. Wasn’t that what they taught the Marines? How to survive explosions? In between how to kill someone. Right.