Pretty In Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  Jeff got to his feet just as three police cruisers, two fire trucks, and an ambulance careened into the parking lot. He studied me for a second, his expression worried.

  “You’re covered in blood, Kavanaugh. What happened?”

  I hadn’t felt it at all until he mentioned it, and it wasn’t the same as when Mickey inked my sleeve. Then, it was concentrated in one place at a time. This was all over, and there were no endorphins kicking in. I just felt the pain.

  Jeff pulled his T-shirt over his head to reveal elaborate tattoos covering his arms and chest. He caught me staring and grinned.

  “Want a tour, Kavanaugh?”

  I felt my face flush, and I stammered, “No,” although I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the skeleton with the oversized skull stuck in a sombrero. It was curled around his abdomen, a Mexican blanket draped over one bony shoulder, a guitar clutched in bony fingers, flames licking skin. Even though it had faded somewhat with time, the colors were spectacular. “That’s not flash,” I said, more to myself than to Jeff.

  “I designed it. Day of the Dead.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”

  “When I got home from the Gulf. Surprised, aren’t you, Kavanaugh?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, since he already knew the answer, and held out his shirt to me. I wasn’t quite sure what he wanted me to do with it, so he moved closer and began to wipe my arm carefully, and when he stopped, it was covered with blood.

  It was the arm that didn’t have any ink.

  “You might have some scars,” he said so softly I almost didn’t hear him because of the truck engines and the firefighters yelling back and forth to one another and the cops. Flames were leaping out of the hole in the building.

  An unmarked police car parked behind one of the fire trucks, and when the door opened, I saw a flash of red.

  Tim.

  He saw me as soon as he got out of the car and ran toward me. But before he could pull me into a hug, Jeff held out his arm to stop him.

  “She’s hurt,” he said, showing him the bloodstained shirt.

  Tim’s eyes were wide with worry.

  “I’m not that hurt,” I said, shooting Jeff a dirty look. “I’m just a little cut up.” I told Tim how I’d been in the car when Chez Tango exploded and the windshield spit all over me.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  I explained how Kyle had called me about Charlotte. “He said she was sick, that she was here and wanted to see me.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” He was trying to be angry, but he was too concerned about me to be successful.

  Tears filled my eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have. But I wanted to see if she was really sick, and then I was going to call.” I didn’t know why I was still trying to protect the girl, considering, but I wanted to think that my initial instincts about her weren’t totally wrong.

  “Was she in there?” Tim stared at the building.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I tried to get in, but all the doors were locked. I called, but just got a recording.” I indicated the CRV. “That’s Kyle’s car.”

  I didn’t want to think that Kyle and Charlotte were in the building.

  Tim was calling over the paramedics.

  Oh, no, not again.

  And an even stronger “oh, no” when I saw Frank DeBurra coming toward us. A firefighter stopped him just a couple feet away, and I heard DeBurra shout over the din, “Look for two bodies. A man and a woman.”

  The firefighter’s face fell slightly; then he regained his composure and headed back to his crew.

  Frank DeBurra wore no such compassion in his expression. It made me like him even less, if that were possible.

  “I need you to tell me everything,” he demanded of me, not even looking at Tim or Jeff. As if I were responsible for the explosion.

  “She needs help,” Tim said, indicating my arm, which was still bleeding.

  DeBurra shot him a nasty look. “Last time she was in the emergency room, she disappeared and didn’t tell anyone where she was going. I’m not falling for that again.”

  His words reminded me that Colin Bixby was still nowhere to be seen. What had happened to him?

  Fingers were snapping in front of my face. I swatted at them and frowned at DeBurra, who didn’t seem to realize that he was socially inept.

  “I need to get your statement,” he ordered.

  “What about him?” I asked, indicating Jeff Coleman, who had wadded up his shirt and was standing with his feet slightly apart, his arms stiffly at his sides, like a cat about to pounce.

  DeBurra gave a wave of his hand. “You’re the one I need to talk to.”

  “But-”

  He grabbed my arm, the one that had all the cuts on it, and I winced.

  He didn’t seem to notice and didn’t let go.

  Tim, however, shot out his hand, and it landed on DeBurra’s shoulder. “She needs to go to the hospital, Frank,” he said in a low voice, a voice that meant business.

  “She can go after I’m finished with her,” DeBurra said gruffly, shaking off Tim’s hand.

  Something in Tim snapped. Like when I was a kid and Robby Murphy grabbed me way too hard while we were playing Red Rover. Robby had wrestled me to the ground and kicked me in the side. Just once. Tim was hanging with his friends on the back porch and saw it. Robby didn’t see what hit him.

  Neither did DeBurra.

  Chapter 53

  Tim’s fist shot out like a bullet and slammed into DeBurra’s jaw, throwing DeBurra’s whole head back, his body following. He landed on the ground with a thud that sounded almost as loud as that explosion, even with the cacophony of noise around us.

  But unlike Robby Murphy, DeBurra had a lot more pent-up anger against Tim-and he was bigger. He squatted on the balls of his feet and pushed off, crashing against Tim’s knees, which buckled, and Tim was now on the ground.

  They rolled over each other, pummeling with both arms. Tim’s jacket ripped right up the middle of his back. They were both covered in debris and soot from the explosion. I couldn’t tell that Tim’s hair was red anymore. It was like watching a movie, but there were no cameras.

  Uh-oh. Spoke too soon. The TV crews had arrived, and one of the reporters-yes, Leigh Holmes, my brother’s one-night stand-came jogging over with her camera guy.

  Tim was straddling DeBurra now, but DeBurra had one other trick up his sleeve. He raised both arms and grabbed Tim’s neck.

  I looked to Jeff for help. “Do something,” I hissed. “They’re going to kill each other.”

  Their guns were still secure in their holsters, but I wasn’t sure for how long-or whether one of them would just go off because it hit the ground at the wrong angle.

  Jeff held up his hands and shook his head. “Not getting in between that.”

  I didn’t really blame him, but someone had to stop them from beating the crap out of each other. They were rolling around again, arms and fists flying. I flagged down a couple of uniforms, who jogged over, their expressions grim, but I could tell they didn’t want to get involved, either.

  Domestic disputes are the worst.

  Because this wasn’t about me or Chez Tango. This was about Shawna. This was unfinished business.

  One of the uniforms decided it was enough, and he tried to get between them.

  He fell back after getting slugged. I have no idea whether Tim or DeBurra hit him.

  I looked again at Jeff, pleading with him.

  He sighed. “The things I do for you, Kavanaugh.”

  Jeff went over to the two men and managed somehow to wedge himself between them.

  I turned around, didn’t want to watch. I had a feeling Jeff would suffer the same fate as the uniform. But somehow he managed to get them to stand, a few feet apart, and while they glared at each other with fists clenched, both wearing red bruises that would turn to black and blue, they kept their anger at bay while Jeff shouted that this wasn’t the time.

  No kidding.
<
br />   They were a mess; both their noses were bleeding, but they didn’t seem to notice. I didn’t want to see the damage. I started to turn away but then sensed someone watching me.

  It was DeBurra. Not good. I knew he was going to try to rope me into another hours-long interrogation. Been there, done that. I wasn’t in the mood.

  One of the firefighters tapped him on the shoulder.

  With just a quick glance at Tim, Jeff, me, and Leigh Holmes and her camera guy, who was still shooting, the firefighter told DeBurra, “There’s no one in that building. No one at all.”

  I looked over at Chez Tango and saw that while my brother and DeBurra were beating the crap out of each other, the firefighters had done their job and it seemed the fire was out.

  DeBurra’s face scrunched up with anger. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “We didn’t find anyone. No bodies, and no survivors, either.”

  Despite the rising irritation with Charlotte and the games she was playing, I breathed a sigh of relief. However, it certainly seemed as if DeBurra wasn’t happy that no one was in the building. He was such a jerk. He glared at me and Tim and stormed off toward the fire captain in charge at the scene.

  I took Jeff’s shirt out of his hands and handed it to Tim. “Your nose,” I said, and Tim touched the cloth to his face, grimacing with pain.

  “I think you need the ambulance,” I said.

  He shook his head. The paramedics, however, agreed with me. Now that there were no bodies to attend to in the building, they seemed to need something to do. They fussed over Tim and escorted him to the ambulance, scoffing at my scratches when Tim tried to tell them that I was hurt.

  DeBurra was several yards away, but I could tell he was still keeping an eye on me, even when one of the paramedics approached him as well.

  “I think it’s time to blow this Popsicle stand,” Jeff Coleman said in a low voice.

  I turned to him. “Why does he hate me so much?”

  “You do know how to get under someone’s skin, Kavanaugh.” He said it matter-of-factly, with a touch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond; nothing clever was coming to mind, and while I was waiting for inspiration, Jeff just walked away toward my car. It couldn’t have been something I said.

  He leaned in through the window that was still open and came out waving my cell phone. “It’s for you.” I hadn’t even heard Springsteen. Come to think of it, everything was sounding a little like it was in a tunnel. Probably because of the explosion.

  I took the phone and said, “Hello?”

  “Brett, I can’t get anywhere near there. There are police cars and ambulances and fire trucks everywhere.” It was Bixby.

  “Where are you?”

  “About a block down.”

  DeBurra had managed to get away from the paramedic and was coming toward me. I felt panic rise in my chest when I saw his expression-dark, cold, definitely out for blood, mine this time rather than Tim’s.

  Jeff saw it, too, and cocked his head at my phone. “Where is he?”

  “Just down the street.”

  “Get going.”

  I leaned into my car and grabbed my bag, shaking the glass off it. As I did, the queen-of-hearts brooch winked at me from the center console. I took it out and stuck it in my pocket again. I must have been moving too slowly for him, because Jeff gave me a nudge and repeated, “Get going.”

  DeBurra was getting closer.

  “Kavanaugh,” Jeff hissed, “I don’t know what you did, but you pissed him off, and he’s not going to let you out after a few hours this time.”

  Jeff was right. I started walking backward, watching DeBurra. Jeff got between us. When I reached the sidewalk, I turned and sprinted. A black Audi sat idling by the side of the road, and as I approached, the headlights flashed twice. Bixby.

  I opened the door and barely got seated when he spun the car around so we were going in the opposite direction. “I’m happy to see you,” I said, letting myself breathe again and tossing my bag on the floor before latching my seat belt. “You might want to step on it.”

  Bixby heard the edge in my voice.

  He glanced at my arm.

  “What happened?”

  I told him about the explosion, the fight between my brother and DeBurra. “I’m glad you came along when you did, or I’d be looking at another all-nighter,” I said, keeping my eye on the sideview mirror for any sign of DeBurra. “Where are we going?”

  “My place.”

  Somehow this wasn’t the atmosphere in which I’d hoped to end up at Bixby’s place. That fantasy included dinner, a nice bottle of wine, maybe some music. Not me all cut up and running from the cops-again. But going to his place was smart. No one would know to look for me there, and I could make some calls, try to see if anyone had seen or heard from Charlotte. I didn’t know where else to start, so that seemed like a plan.

  I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, trying to sort out everything that had happened. Music filtered in through the tunnels in my ears, something jazzy with a lot of piano and saxophone. I don’t know a lot of jazz, and I don’t normally listen to it-I’m more of a rock ’n’ roll kind of girl-but there were times, like this, that it was soothing. Almost like a massage. Well, not exactly. I let my thoughts wander even further, wondering whether I could get a spa appointment tomorrow. I so needed one. Bitsy could rearrange my schedule.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Bixby said, his voice interrupting my plans.

  I didn’t really want to tell him I was thinking about a massage-he might get the wrong idea-and I didn’t want to get into all the stuff about Charlotte with him right now, so I asked, “How’s the ink?” indicating his new Celtic knot.

  He grinned. “It’s fine, but it’s starting to itch.”

  “Did you take off the plastic? Use some antibiotic gel?”

  “I did.”

  “Good. You won’t regret it.”

  “I know that.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Do you know anyone who drives a gold Pontiac?”

  I twisted around in my seat and looked out the back window. Jeff Coleman was following us. He was a couple cars behind, but I couldn’t miss that car anywhere. His front windshield was still intact, thanks to the fact that while I was parked facing Chez Tango, he’d pulled in beside my Mustang facing the other way. It was his back window that was shattered, instead.

  I settled back into my seat. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a friend.”

  “A friend?” Bixby’s eyebrows rose with the question.

  “Just a friend,” I said. “He’s looking out for me.”

  Bixby turned right.

  Into the entrance of the Windsor Palms condominiums.

  Now it was my turn to tense up. “Your place?” I asked Bixby, a sick feeling growing in my stomach.

  He nodded. “Been here a little over a year.”

  “Did you know Wesley Lambert?”

  His eyelids fluttered; then he smiled. “Bought the place because of him.”

  Chapter 54

  I swung around to look out the back window. The gold Pontiac was nowhere to be seen.

  “He turned off,” Bixby said as he steered the Audi around the building to the parking garage. I did not want to go into that garage, because I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on with Dr. Colin Bixby at the moment. It seemed way too much of a coincidence that he lived in the same building as Wesley Lambert.

  “Kyle introduced us,” he was saying, talking about Lambert. “Nice guy.”

  “He was making ricin in his condo,” I said. “Not sure if that could be called nice. And he was poking around Chez Tango threatening Trevor, and then Trevor dies, mysteriously, from flu symptoms that could really have been ricin poisoning.”

  Bixby snorted. It was the first thing about him that I did not find attractive. “Are you a doctor now, Brett?”

  I shrugged.

  “Why don’t you stick with your tat
toos and I’ll stick with medicine, okay?” The condescending tone was also bothersome.

  He got out of the Audi, but I continued to sit there, until he came over to my door and opened it for me. He bowed low and swung his arm to indicate I was to get out. It was chivalrous; I had to give him that.

  Or maybe he was just luring me into his condo so he could kill me. He knew I’d been heading over to Chez Tango, and he conveniently got stuck in traffic during the explosion.

  My thoughts were all over the place. I had no proof of anything. I was being paranoid. After all I had been through, I felt it was justified.

  Bixby shut the door behind me and put his hand on my lower back. My whole body stiffened.

  He noticed.

  “Are you okay?” he asked softly, leaning toward me and brushing my cheek with his lips.

  If we weren’t at the Windsor Palms, if he hadn’t bought his place because of Wesley Lambert, I might actually encourage a little more romance, maybe even that massage, but instead I pulled back and said, “Stressed out. Explosions do that to me.” I gave a sort of high-pitched laugh and crossed my arms, immediately regretting it because my arm was sore from being sliced up by glass shards.

  He noticed.

  “When we get upstairs, I’ll take care of that,” he said, his voice all husky and sexy, and for a second I dipped my toe in the water, but then got out of the pool.

  I nodded, though, to keep up appearances.

  He pushed the button for the elevator, and the doors slid open like they were waiting for us. Bixby put his arm around me and let me go in first. I shimmied around as he punched in seven, which I assumed was his floor, and then, just as the doors began to close, scooted out and watched him disappear. I think he was so surprised that he didn’t realize he could’ve just opened the door again. I saw the little numbers above the elevator door climb.

  With my messenger bag slapping against my hip, I high-tailed it between cars and down the pavement, skipping down the open stairwell that led to the ground floor and outside. In the distance I heard the ding of the elevator. He was coming back down for me.