The Missing Ink (12 page)

Chapter 20

“You’ve got to be kidding,” was the first thing out of my mouth, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say.

“What are you implying?” Simon Chase’s voice surprised me, as he approached Brian.

Brian looked from me to Chase and back again. “Perhaps we need to take this downtown,” he said.

“You should take her into custody now,” Manning demanded.

I glared at him. “Can I at least get a phone call?” I heard something in my voice that was not conducive to speaking to police officers.

“We’ll call your brother for you,” Brian offered, but it wasn’t more than an official gesture.

“I think I’d rather call him,” I said, reaching for my messenger bag, which was still slung around my shoulder.

I don’t know if it was my sudden movement—maybe he thought I was going for some sort of weapon—but Brian body-slammed me and I fell back over the top of the sofa and did a sort of backward somersault. Before I landed between the sofa and the massive coffee table, however, I felt a strong arm around my shoulders, helping me up.

Simon Chase asked, “Are you all right?”

I nodded, adjusting my skirt and shirt and messenger bag, combing my fingers through my hair. “Thanks,” I murmured, glancing at his profile, which was really quite striking. So he was chivalrous, to boot. Not like Brian the detective, who just stood there, staring.

“I think you owe Miss Kavanaugh an apology,” Simon Chase demanded of Brian.

I was liking him more and more.

Instead of saying he was sorry, Brian shoved a cell phone at me. “Call your brother.”

I took it before he changed his mind and went across the room, in front of the magnificent marble fireplace that dominated the far wall. I hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but as I heard Tim’s cell ringing, I studied the painting above the mantel. It was a splash of colors in the Impressionist style. But it was merely an imitation, and not a very good one at that.

“Kavanaugh.”

That’s right: He wouldn’t know it was me because it wasn’t my phone.

“Um, Tim? It’s Brett.”

“Brett?”

“I’m in a bit of trouble, I think. At least your friend Brian of the LVPD thinks so.”

Silence, then, “Why is that, Brett?”

“He thinks I have something to do with the body found in the bathroom in the Marie Antoinette Suite at Versailles.”

More silence.

“Why would he think that?”

Yeah, why would he? Except for a pair of latex gloves you could buy at any Wal-Mart. I didn’t say what I was thinking this time, though. I had to tread lightly with Tim. He didn’t like it that I kept ending up on his turf.

So I ran through the afternoon’s events as quickly as I could, without even taking a breath. When I was finished, he said, “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

As I closed the phone, I felt someone behind me. I expected to see Brian, but it was Simon Chase. His brow was furrowed, like he was worried about me or something.

“Everything all right?”

I nodded. “My brother,” I said, indicating the phone. “He’s a detective. He’s going to be here shortly.” I tossed my head toward the painting. “You know, the Impressionists didn’t paint until the nineteenth century. Your interior designer was off a century with the decorating. Or did she perhaps just choose it because of the colors?”

His eyebrows slid up slightly. “And you know about paintings, Miss Kavanaugh?”

I liked the way my name sounded when he wrapped his accent around it. Not like when Jeff Coleman barked it at me.

“I have a degree in fine arts from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, concentrating in painting.”

The eyebrows slid even higher. “That explains the tattoo on your arm.” He smiled, a sly little smile that made me tingle unexpectedly. And what he said next was even more unexpected: “But what about the dragon over your breast?”

The way his tongue lingered on the word “breast” took my breath away for a second. It was completely inappropriate, considering there was a dead guy in the next room and Brian thought I was some sort of person of interest. But I couldn’t help myself. He was the sexiest guy I’d met in a long time.

Maybe it was just the accent.

No, it was the whole package. I was ready to storm his Bastille.

“I like Chinese dragons,” was all I could spit out. I was sure he saw right through me, but to his credit, he didn’t call me on it.

“So you’re a fan of Asian art? Or French Impressionists?”

“Neoclassicists.” I said it before thinking.

Again with the eyebrows. “Really? Who?”

“Jacques-Louis David.
Death of Marat
.
Death of Socrates
.”

“You’re into death, then. You must feel right at home here.”

He was flirting with me. A little “yay” echoed through my head, but I merely smiled. “At least he’s French.”

“Yes, he has that going for him.” Simon Chase’s eyes twinkled. “So why don’t you have Marat on your arm?”

I thought about the painting: Marat slumped over the side of the bathtub, the blood on the sheet underneath him, the bloodstained letter in his hand. So real it was as if you could touch him.

It was just like the guy in the bathtub just yards away. Sans the letter and the blood. Coincidence?

I shivered with the thought. “A little too gruesome to wear,” I admitted.

“Water lilies are more cheerful?”

“You could say that.” I was distracted by the police officers who had started to dust for prints.

Simon noticed. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation over dinner sometime.”

“If I’m not in the big house,” I said grimly, only half joking.

“I’ll bring you a cake with a saw inside so you can break out,” he teased.

“Will you have a car waiting?”

“A big black Cadillac. That’s the car of choice, isn’t it, for you convicts?”

“Or a Town Car.”

“Oh, those are nice, too.”

It was as if we were the only two people in the room, until the elevator doors slid open and my brother walked into the suite.

Before I could say anything to him, Brian pulled him aside and whispered something in his ear. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered slightly as he looked at me. Something was wrong, and I didn’t think it was just the latex gloves.

Brian let go of Tim’s sleeve and went back into the other room. Tim approached me, but he now seemed to notice Simon, who held out his hand. “Simon Chase, manager.”

Tim nodded, shaking his hand. “Detective Kavanaugh.” He was through with pleasantries and turned back to me. “Brett, I need to talk to you.”

Simon cleared his throat. “I need to speak to Mr. Manning anyway.” And he went in search of his boss, who had disappeared into the other room as well.

“What is it now?” I asked Tim. “You know, I really just came here for a job.”

“I believe you, but we’ve got to go through the motions.”

“What motions?”

“Fingerprints. We have to confiscate your case.”

I had a momentary panic attack. “My tattoo machine is in there.”

“Don’t you have another one?”

“That’s my favorite.” As I said it, I realized it sounded stupid, but it was true. That particular machine fit perfectly in my hand; it was just the right weight. “What’s the problem?”

Tim nervously shifted from foot to foot, not very good at hiding his emotions from me.

He sighed. “We need to check the machine. The needles. The victim? His neck was punctured. That’s how he died.”

I had a bad feeling about this.

“Brett, there’s a tattoo needle stuck in his neck.”

Chapter 21

All my needles were still in their sterilized packages, but so were my latex gloves, so that wasn’t a good argument for my case. I watched as the forensics officers swept the room with the black dust. Bruce Manning could barely hold in his anger, but I noticed Simon Chase was very good at calming him down.

“Why isn’t she in custody?” Manning demanded at one point, indicating me.

My brother, to his credit, said, “We have no real evidence to arrest her.”

That should’ve made me feel better, but Tim still wouldn’t let me leave, despite that lack of evidence. Except for my case that had needles and gloves in it. Perhaps he meant physical evidence that I’d actually stuck that needle in Matt Powell’s neck.

Even though the suite had almost as many square feet as our house, there were only three rooms: the big living area, the bedroom, and the bathroom, which by itself was about the size of our garage. I wanted to find a corner so I could call Bitsy and tell her I wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day. However, privacy was out of the question.

“I could take her down to my office,” Simon Chase offered, hearing me arguing with Tim about it.

Tim looked grateful, although slightly suspicious. “Okay, sure, but you have to bring her right back up here after she makes her call.” He looked around the room. “I don’t have an extra body to send with you, so you’d better behave,” he told me.

I stuck my tongue out at him. Habit. Simon smothered a grin.

“You two have an interesting relationship,” he noted when we were safely in the elevator.

I’d been savoring the quiet. I hadn’t realized how noisy it was in the suite.

“Don’t you have siblings?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Only child.”

“Lucky you.”

He must have sensed I wasn’t in the mood for any more banter, because he didn’t say anything else. When the elevator finally eased to a stop and the doors opened, he led me down a long hall, opening a door to a small office. A woman sat at a desk in front of a computer. She looked up when we came in, and a long, sexy smile spread across her face. She was gorgeous, with those long black tresses and a bodice that was aching to be ripped, just like in romance novels. Not that I read romance novels. I’m just saying.

“Penny, we’ll be in my office.”

I followed Simon to a door in the back that I hadn’t noticed. When he opened it, an office the size of the Marie Antoinette Suite overwhelmed me. It wasn’t decorated in the same way; it was more retro, with a long Scandinavian desk and funky lights and a red leather couch that looked like it belonged on the set of Dan Tanna’s
Vega$
. The long windows along the back wall gave me a view of the mountains, reminding me about Red Rock and how I could totally use a hike right about now to work off this stress.

What I didn’t notice at first was the person at the bar—a full bar with glasses and bottles and a sink—over to the left. When he spoke, it startled me.

“What the hell’s going on upstairs?”

I recognized him now. Chip Manning. Son of Bruce and cuckolded fiancé of Elise. He’d had a few, from the way the amber liquid sloshed around in his glass as he swayed toward us.

Simon took his arm, steadying him and settling him onto the couch. Chip put his glass on the coffee table, leaned forward, and shouted, “Why doesn’t anyone tell me what’s going on? My father left me here, told me to stay, and he’s been gone, I don’t know, at least three drinks.”

Maybe four or five, but who was counting? And obviously Manning had known where his son was but had chosen not to say.

“There’s been a situation.” Again, that British accent made a murder sound like Sunday in the park.

Before he could elaborate, though, Chip noticed me for the first time.

“You!” He stood up and pointed his finger at me. “What are you doing here?”

Simon positioned himself in between us, like Chip was going to come after me or something. “She needs to use the phone. Why don’t we step outside for a moment?” And in one easy swoop, Simon pulled Chip around the table and steered him out of the office, nodding at me as he closed the door after them.

Now that they were gone and I was alone, my head started swirling. What was up with the guy upstairs? It certainly sounded like a tattooist had been there. Granted, anyone could get tattoo needles; you could order them off the Internet. But odds were that it had been a tattooist.

I really wanted to find Jeff Coleman and ask him some questions.

First, however, I had to call the shop.

Bitsy answered.

“Hi, it’s me. I’m not going to be back today.”

“You’ve got a seven-o’clock.”

“Cancel it.”

“What? You never cancel. And she was rescheduled from this morning. What’s wrong? Did something happen on that house call?” She paused. “Hey, I get it. He fell madly in love with you while you tattooed his butt and you’ve found one of those Elvises and you’re going to get married in one of those awful chapels and you’ll be all over the tabloids this time tomorrow.”

“Wish it were true, Bits. But no, I’ve gotten held up, and Tim needs me for something. I’ll be in in the morning.”

“Tim needs you? Hey, wait—”

I hung up, then shut the phone off, knowing she’d try to call me back. I didn’t have Jeff Coleman’s cell number, and he wouldn’t be at his shop if he was skulking around the city hiding from the cops. But maybe someone there would know where he was. I turned the phone back on—I would need to recharge the battery later—and dialed his shop.

“Murder Ink.”

Somehow the name of his shop had become prophetic.

“I’m looking for Jeff.”

“He’s not here.” The voice was curt.

“It’s Brett Kavanaugh. He sent me to cover for him on a job, and there was some trouble.”

Silence, then, “What sort of trouble?”

“I need to talk to Jeff. How can I reach him?”

“How do I know you’re really Brett Kavanaugh?”

Everyone was a bit paranoid these days.

I wasn’t quite sure, either, how to answer that. I couldn’t exactly prove it over the phone, and my personal cell number would show up on their caller ID, not my shop’s number. “You’ll just have to trust me,” I tried.