Pretty In Ink (12 page)

“So you don’t know where he lives?”

I felt like an idiot. But then I had a thought: “MissTique probably has his address, because he works for her.”

“Thank you, Miss Kavanaugh. I’ll give Kyle a call.”

So he knew MissTique’s name was really Kyle. Uh-oh. Those doubts again started to bubble up.

But then he winked at me. “And I’ll call you, too, if you don’t mind.”

I was bouncing back and forth like a pinball.

“You can call me Brett,” I said, giving him a short wave as I turned and practically skipped away.

 

I picked up takeout from Noodles in the Palazzo shops. When I first came to Vegas, I could never figure out whether I was in the Venetian or the Palazzo, since they’re connected and there isn’t a real definitive line on the border between them. I count the waterfall that spills down to the first floor as the start of the Palazzo shops, but I think they start before that, possibly at the end of the canal.

It’s easy to get lost, with all the walkways between the fancy, expensive shops. Sometimes I end up at Double Helix, an open-air bar that sits in the middle of a star-shaped area with paths going in all different directions. I found the box office for Blue Man Group downstairs one day when I was looking for a ladies’ room. I’ve never seen the Blue Man Group, but it’s nice to know it’s there if I ever want to.

Noodles is a large, bright restaurant with massive tables so you can meet your neighbor. I’m not one to embrace eating with strangers, so I always get takeout. The food is fabulous, and today I picked up a variety of duck, shrimp, and chicken entrees. It was the least I could do for my staff—well, Bitsy and Joel—who’d held down the fort all day while Charlotte and Ace were in hiding and I was out playing Nancy Drew.

Joel met me at the front desk when I came in.

“You went to Noodles,” he said, unable to keep the glee out of his voice as he took the bag from me. “Bitsy, look, Brett went to Noodles.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, just went immediately into the staff room.

Bitsy, who was sitting at the front desk doing paperwork, didn’t look as happy.

“Thanks for letting me play hooky a little,” I said, uncertain how to approach this. Bitsy liked being in charge whenever she could be, which is why I sometimes made her think she was in charge. But when she really was, like today, she could get a chip on her shoulder about it.

And since her shoulders were little, like her, those chips could be a bit large.

But she didn’t look mad. Her eyes, which were a bright, clear blue and offset by her blond hair, which she recently cut short in a really attractive bob, were clouded by worry.

“I haven’t heard from Ace or Charlotte,” she started.

I put up a hand. “I have. I also have bad news. Let’s go in the staff room.”

Bitsy followed me as we joined Joel, who was already dishing noodles into his mouth. He stopped when he saw my expression.

“What, do you want to say grace or something?”

I sighed and sat down.

Joel finished chewing and followed suit. Bitsy kept standing. We were all at the same eye level that way.

“Trevor died this afternoon.” I told them about going to the emergency room after Charlotte said I should find Trevor, and how I met Colin Bixby and he told me the news.

Bitsy was the first to speak.

“Have you talked to Charlotte?”

“She’s not answering her phone, and neither is Ace.”

“This is going to devastate her.”

I agreed. I didn’t know Trevor very well, but I felt awful. I couldn’t even imagine how Charlotte would feel.

“So if Charlotte told you that Trevor was supposed to tell you what was going on, what happens now?” Joel asked. “Should you just talk to Tim about all this?”

I wanted to. It was better than the alternative, which was talking to Frank DeBurra. He was too hostile.

At the same time, though, I was seesawing about how I felt about Charlotte’s reaction when I asked her just what went down this morning. Why not just tell me? Why tell me to talk to Trevor? What was she hiding?

I told Bitsy and Joel about my visits to the pawnshops, what the pawnshop guy told me about the guy who’d been angry with Charlotte, and how he wouldn’t say whether he recognized Rusty Abbott from the sketch.

“There’s so much; you’re making me dizzy,” Bitsy said.

Joel didn’t have that problem. He’d resumed eating the noodles with the duck, his chopsticks flying. It did smell good. I’d missed lunch while I was on my travels. I picked up the container of noodles with shrimp, grabbed a pair of chopsticks, and started eating, too. Bitsy decided to join us. The three of us sat, chewing our noodles, not talking, not looking at one another, just eating.

Considering the circumstances, I suppose I should say I didn’t taste the food.

But I did. And it was delicious.

From the slurping sounds next to me, I could tell Joel and Bitsy were enjoying it just as much as I was.

The buzzer indicating that someone had come into the shop startled us. Bitsy got her bearings first, put her container down, and went out to the front. I glanced at the clock on the wall and realized it was probably my seven o’clock. I saw a few file folders on the light table, found the one I needed, and followed Bitsy.

I was right. It was my client Hunter Ross. I wouldn’t have time to muse over the day’s events for the next two hours.

After I cleaned, shaved, and placed the stencil of the tiger on Hunter’s back, I set out my inkpots, slipped a new needle into my tattoo machine, and pulled on a pair of gloves. Hunter was facedown on the chair, and I pressed my foot to the pedal. The machine began to whirr. I dipped the needle into a pot and began to draw, washing away extra ink and blood with a soft cloth as I worked. Everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours slipped away as I lost myself in the ink, the tiger’s stripes mesmerizing as I filled them in, shading the face, outlining the eyes.

I heard voices out in the front of the shop as I stopped the machine and looked at my handiwork. There was something about working on skin, knowing it was alive, that I was creating art on a living being. Beat the heck out of working on that hard canvas.

I didn’t have time to finish the tiger today. Hunter knew we’d have at least two or three sessions before it was done, but I gave Hunter a hand mirror so he could go see the partial tiger for himself in the big, full-length mirror out in the back of the shop. I started cleaning up my inks, taking the needles I’d used and disposing of them in the hazardous waste container under the table. The needle bar would be put in the autoclave for sterilization.

Joel was with a client when Hunter finally left after making his second appointment and paying for today’s session. Bitsy closed the drawer that hid the credit card machine and looked up at me expectantly.

“What?” I asked a little too sharply. She frowned, so I immediately said, “I’m sorry. It’s just been a really long day. Has Charlotte or Ace called?”

“Ace is in with a client.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“His client was already here. We couldn’t exactly have a heart-to-heart.” She paused. “I did ask him about Charlotte. He said she was in a safe place.”

What on earth did that mean?

But my brain was shutting down. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed, forget that this day ever happened. Well, except maybe for Dr. Colin Bixby. Since I hadn’t talked to Charlotte, I had no excuse to call him. I wondered whether he really would call
me
.

As I was thinking that, the phone rang. Like karma or something.

“The Painted Lady,” Bitsy said when she picked it up. She listened for a minute, nodding, then turned to me, holding the receiver out. “It’s Jeff Coleman.”

So much for karma. I took the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself, Kavanaugh. You know, you’ve got yourself in a bit of a pickle.”

“Huh?”

“Rusty Abbott was just in here. Asking all sorts of questions about you.”

I felt my chest constrict, and I stopped breathing for a second. “What sorts of questions?”

“Personal stuff. How long have you had your shop, are you dating anyone, where do you live. That sort of thing. It was weird, almost like he was sweet on you. But in a stalker kind of way.”

“Oh, that makes me feel better,” I said sarcastically. “Why doesn’t he just get in touch with me himself?”

“I’m not sure you want to have a cup of coffee with the guy, Kavanaugh. He was a little skittish. I didn’t tell him anything, but I did ask him about the roulette game, and he said he’d just happened to be there when you wandered over. You know, your reputation precedes you. He recognized you by your tats.”

Like I’d recognized him.

“So why would he run away, then?”

“I think you make him nervous.”

Great. A nervous stalker.

“I didn’t realize you were such great friends with the guy.”

“I’m not. First time I’ve seen him since I did his ink.”

“But you did tell him about me, didn’t you? When you inked him.”

“I must have. Otherwise how would he have known about us?”

Us. Like we were some sort of couple. I totally did not want to go there.

“He asked me to give you a message.”

I waited, could hear him take a breath.

“He said you might want to be careful, because you never know. Accidents happen.”

M
y heart jumped into my throat. “Accidents happen?

What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve seen my share of crazy, Kavanaugh, and I think you better be on the lookout. I don’t think he’s playing with a full deck.”

Considering the tattoo on Rusty Abbott’s arm, Jeff Coleman was taking liberties with his puns.

“You really didn’t tell him anything?”

Bitsy was openly listening to my conversation, and I waved my hand in front of her face and turned my back to her. She walked around me to go to the staff room and stuck her tongue out at me. I stuck mine out in return. We were like a couple of third graders.

Jeff was talking. “All I said was if he wanted to talk to you, he could find you at your shop—that was public information—but he said that wasn’t the plan.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s what I asked. He wouldn’t say any more than that, but I’d watch your back, Kavanaugh.”

I was quiet a second, digesting this information.

“Do you want me to come over there, follow you to your house, make sure you get there okay?” Jeff’s voice was unnaturally soft, and the fact that he was offering made me take this a lot more seriously. He must really think the guy was a nut and could cause me some sort of trouble.

Accidents happen.

I heard Joel’s and Ace’s tattoo machines whirring in harmony in their rooms.

“No, Jeff. Thanks, I really appreciate it, but I can have Joel or Ace do that. You don’t have to leave your shop and come down here.”

“Wouldn’t be a problem, Kavanaugh.”

I thought about Jeff Coleman, how he called me only by my last name, like he was some sort of tough guy, and how he always made cracks about my “upscale” shop.

“Thanks, Jeff, really,” I said, hoping he could hear the gratitude in my voice.

I could hear a smile in his. “You know, Kavanaugh, I think I’m growing on you.”

He didn’t give me a chance to respond. I heard the dial tone and hung up the phone, pondering what he’d said. Not about him growing on me—the jury was still out on that one—but about Rusty Abbott. What was his game? Even though he told Jeff that meeting up with me was just a coincidence, in a completely paranoid moment, I wondered whether he’d actually set me up. If he were the champagne shooter from last night, maybe he was following me around to make sure that I couldn’t identify him.

I was being totally irrational.

Or was I?

I was so deep in thought that when Ace’s client came up behind me, I jumped.

“You scared me,” I said, holding my hand to my chest to see if I could make it stop thumping so hard.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said with a lopsided grin.

Bitsy had come back and was taking his credit card. I wandered over to Ace’s room, where he was cleaning up his inks. He looked up when I came in and sat on his client chair.

“Hey, Brett,” he said casually, as if it were like any other day.

“Where’s Charlotte?”

He stopped fiddling with the inkpots and shrugged. “She called some friend who came and picked her up at my place. I don’t know who he was—he stayed in the car—but she said she’d be okay.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“She’s a big girl, Brett.”

“Did she get my message about Trevor?”

“That’s why I made her call someone. I had to be back here, and I didn’t want her to be alone. She was pretty broken up about it.”

“But not enough to come out of hiding.”

He didn’t say anything.

“What’s going on? Why is she in hiding? Was it that guy at the pawnshop? Has he threatened her? Is it an old boyfriend? Is that who she’s hiding from?” I couldn’t stop the questions once they started coming out.

He bit his lip and shrugged. “She hasn’t really told me anything, except that it’s not what it seems. Said I just have to trust her. So that’s what I’m doing.”

“Not what it seems? That’s pretty evasive. She has to talk to the police.”

Ace shook his head. “No cops. She’s pretty adamant about that. Says it’ll all come out eventually, and she wants it on her terms.”

“What does that mean?”

He sighed. “I’m not totally sure, Brett. Believe me, I tried to get her to go to the cops. Tell them what really happened this morning at that pawnshop. But she won’t. I can’t force her.”

“What about Tim?”