Pretty In Ink (11 page)

The description fit. But still, how did DeBurra get her name?

“She never told you her name?” I asked.

“I asked her about the tats. Asked where she got them. Told me she worked at The Painted Lady.” He paused a second; then a wide grin spread across his face. “I know who you are now. I recognize you. Jeff told me about you.”

Of course he did.

“He said I should try your shop next time I want a tat,” he continued.

I was going to have to tell Jeff to stop talking up my shop. I didn’t need his help. I tried to smile as graciously as I could, considering I never wanted to see this guy in my shop. Ever. I gathered up my sketch and stuffed it back in my bag. I had to get out of here. “My rates start at five hundred,” I said.

I think the rest of his teeth almost fell out as I gave him a little wave and left the store.

My phone warbled “Born to Run” when I got back into the car. I flipped it open after seeing Ace’s number on the screen.

“Tell me you’re still with Charlotte,” I said without saying hello.

“I am.”

“This idiot detective is looking for her. I need to talk to her.”

I heard muffled talking, then, “Hello? Brett?”

“A cop came to the shop looking for you, something about an incident at this pawnshop.”

A long silence, then, “What of it?”

“I was just in the pawnshop. I talked to that creepy guy with no teeth. He said some guy came in and harassed you. He thought it was a domestic. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Then why are you hiding?”

Silence.

“It’s not like you did anything wrong,” I said after a few seconds. Although I was starting to think that there might be a bit more to this than what Mr. Pawned had described. “Why did you go there asking about Trevor’s pin? Did you know it had been reported stolen?”

“Trevor can explain.”

Trevor? “I talked to Trevor. He came by the shop looking for you. He didn’t know anything about you going to a pawnshop or that the cops want to question you. At least that’s what he said.” I paused. “Anyway, Trevor’s back in the hospital. He got really sick at the shop. We had to call the paramedics.”

“He’s sick?”

“Yeah, he was looking for you.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t really know.”

“You have to go see him, find out. Tell him I’m okay. He can tell you about the pin, why I went there.”

And then the phone went dead.

I didn’t like visiting hospitals, but it didn’t seem like I had much of a choice. I had no idea where Charlotte was, so I decided to take her up on her advice and try to get some answers out of Trevor. Problem was, I didn’t know where they’d taken him. We’d just let the paramedics leave the shop with him and not asked. I called Bitsy and asked her whether she could call around, see if he had been admitted anywhere.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Charlotte tells me Trevor can explain what went down this morning at that pawnshop.”

“But he says he wasn’t with Charlotte. And why can’t she tell you?”

“She just won’t. I don’t know why. So I figure I’ll see if Trevor will be a little more forthcoming. Can you make some calls?”

Bitsy knew Las Vegas a lot better than I did. She’d lived here for most of her life, could remember when the Strip was just a shadow of what it was today.

I waited only about five minutes before my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. Bitsy.

“That was fast.”

“UMC on West Charleston. University Medical Center.”

She told me how to get there from where I was, and I headed north.

“They said he’s still in emergency, so go there.”

I felt like I’d been running all over the planet today. Back and forth like a yo-yo. I found the medical center and the parking garage, going around and around until I was on the roof. Must be a busy day. I didn’t want to know how much they were going to charge me for parking.

The emergency room was packed. All sorts of people, some moaning, some wailing, some bloody. I went over to the information desk.

“Yes?” The woman’s voice was sharp, as if she’d spent the whole day shouting at a bunch of preschoolers who’d gotten out of hand.

“I’m looking for Trevor McKay. The paramedics brought him over here from the Venetian earlier. I understood he was still in emergency.”

She was one step ahead of me, her long nails clicking against her keyboard. She stared at the screen, pursed her lips, and looked up at me. “Just a second, please, miss. Are you family?”

I decided to lie. A little white lie.

“Yes.”

The woman picked up the phone and indicated I was to go sit and wait.

There were no seats. Not that I’d want to sit anywhere. Not that I wanted to even have my feet on the floor in this room. There were smells in here, booze and vomit and body odor mixed together. Some blood splattered the floor near a young man holding a dark cloth over his arm. A closer look showed that the cloth had blood on it.

No, thank you. I think I’ll stand.

About five minutes passed, and I heard the woman saying, “Miss? Miss?”

I turned to see a man in a white lab coat standing next to her, a smile on his face. Sister Mary Eucharista would say that a smile in this place was nothing short of a miracle.

A second look at him told me he was good-looking,
very
good-looking, in that George-Clooney-in-
ER
kind of way. He was taller than me, thin, with spiky dark hair, green eyes, a long nose, and a nice jawline. My heart did a little jump, as did other parts of me.

“Miss McKay?” he asked.

I shook myself out of my reverie and shook my head. “Kavanaugh. Brett Kavanaugh.”

Confusion clouded his eyes. “I was told you were Mr. McKay’s family.”

I couldn’t lie to this guy. “I’m a friend. He became ill in my shop.”

He frowned, obviously uncertain whether he should continue talking to me, but then made a decision.

“Please follow me.”

We walked through sliding frosted doors into the actual emergency room. Beds were lined up in a semicircle around a big nurses’ station. We didn’t stop, just kept walking until we reached a door to a small office. He indicated I was to go in, and he came in behind me, shutting the door.

“I’m Dr. Bixby.”

He held out his hand, and I took it, a shock running through my arm. I let out a nervous giggle, pulling my hand away too quickly. A glance at his face told me he felt it, too. He was blushing. Really blushing.

I saw now that his name tag read, DR. C. BIXBY.

“What’s the ‘C’ for?” I asked, indicating his tag.

He put his hand up and fingered it. “Colin.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He pointed to a chair. “Have a seat, please, Miss Kavanaugh.”

I did as he asked. I might have done mostly anything he asked.

I’d dated a guy a few months back who was rich, good-looking, and a playboy. We’d had some laughs, but I knew I had to pull out of it before I got sucked in even further. He was the kind of guy who’d break my heart if I let him.

Since Simon, things had been a little slow on the dating front.

Maybe that’s why I found myself admiring Dr. Colin Bixby’s obvious attractive physical attributes.

Not to mention his nice smile.

Which had disappeared. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly, his lips pursed in a grim line.

“I’m deeply sorry to have to tell you that Trevor McKay passed away about half an hour ago.”

I
felt like I’d swallowed a bag of marbles.

“Excuse me?” I managed to sputter.

His expression conveyed his compassion. “He didn’t indicate a next of kin on his paperwork. I’m glad you came in.”

Next of kin? I barely knew anything about the guy except he could lip-synch to Britney songs while dancing on six-inch heels and look like he was having the time of his life. I also knew he had a pinup girl who looked remarkably like Britney Brassieres on his upper left arm. Ace had done the ink.

I didn’t even know where the guy lived.

Charlotte did. As I thought of her, I took a deep breath. This would devastate her.

“How?” I asked softly.

“He was incredibly dehydrated when he came in. He lost a lot of fluids. We couldn’t keep anything down him.”

“He didn’t look good when he came to my shop earlier.”

Colin Bixby frowned. “Yes, I meant to ask. What shop is that?”

“The Painted Lady.”

His eyes traveled over the garden on my arm, the dragon poking up over my tank top. “You’re the painted lady,” he said softly.

I nodded. “That’s right.” His gaze was a little disconcerting, but not in a bad way. I had to keep talking or I’d get too distracted. “He was at my shop when he became ill. Although, come to think of it, I think he was sick when he arrived. You know he was in the hospital overnight?”

“Yes.” Colin Bixby leafed through a file folder that he picked up off the desk. “He had a concussion and a small chest wound. According to the report, he was perfectly fine when he was released this morning. All tests showed normal.”

Covering his tracks in case I wanted to file a malpractice suit or something.

“It doesn’t say how he got the concussion,” he added.

“He got knocked over.”

The doctor’s eyebrows rose.

I nodded. “Some guy shot a champagne cork at him. Hit him square in the chest. The shock knocked him off balance, so he cracked his head against the floor. He was wearing six-inch heels, so he didn’t have too much traction.”

“I hate to ask . . .”

“Trevor McKay is a drag queen,” I said matter-of-factly. “He was performing at Chez Tango last night.”

“MissTique’s show?”

Now I was the one who was surprised. “That’s right. Do you know her?”

He nodded, and by the way his jaw was set, I knew that was all I was going to get. Interesting. But a little troublesome. Here I was, feeling all warm and fuzzy and other things about this guy, and this admission meant quite possibly that he was gay. I hated to think my radar was that off center. I totally had felt that little spark.

“I’d like to get some information from you,” Colin Bixby was saying.

It took me a second to realize that he didn’t want to hear about
me
; he was talking about information about Trevor. Information I didn’t have.

“I really don’t know him very well,” I said.

“But you came to see him. He was in your shop.” His green eyes were mesmerizing, teasing me a little, like he knew I was a fraud but didn’t care.

He couldn’t be gay. He couldn’t.

“I wanted to see how he was, and I wanted to ask him about something.” Right. Charlotte said Trevor was the one who could explain everything. Now Charlotte was going to have to come out of hiding. I pulled out my cell phone. “A friend of mine knew him better. She can tell you what you need to know.”

Colin Bixby put his hand over mine, the one that was holding the phone, and I felt it again. The spark, the warmth—and the firm way he closed my phone.

“You can’t use that in here,” he said softly, leaning toward me.

I usually don’t like to share my personal space, but I didn’t have a problem with that right now. He smelled nice, like fresh Ivory soap with a splash of Purell thrown in for good luck.

“You can use this one.” He lifted his hand off mine and waved it over a landline on the desk.

“Thanks.” I picked up the phone and dialed Charlotte’s cell.

The voice mail kicked in, and I said she needed to call me right away. I hung up and dialed Ace’s number. It rang a few times before I got his voice mail. I left the same message. I turned to Colin Bixby and shrugged. “I can have her call you.”

He was looking at me sideways in a way that made me sure he’d aced chemistry class. “How many tattoos do you have?”

I couldn’t help myself. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” I sounded like I was in sixth grade. Yikes.

But it didn’t seem to turn him off.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

Okay, so he knew MissTique, but the way he was looking at me now definitely clinched it: He was so not gay.

He slipped a card out of his breast pocket and pressed it into my hand. “Call me.”

Just try and stop me.

I stuck the card in my bag and stood up. He shook my hand, holding it a second longer than he should have. But I wasn’t complaining.

All right, so I knew nothing about Colin Bixby except he was a doctor and he worked in the emergency room at UMC. But to a single woman of thirty-two who hadn’t had a date in a while, it was nice to know the man at least had a job. I just hoped he didn’t live with his mother.

I took one of my own cards out and handed it to him. “In case you don’t want to wait,” I flirted shamelessly.

He gave me a sort of half smile and blushed again, and I had to leave before I said something even more stupid. I almost sprinted out the door but stopped when I heard him calling me back.

“Miss Kavanaugh, you might want to know that Mr. McKay was delirious when he arrived here because of his dehydration. We did not find any ID on him. All we found was this.”

Colin Bixby held out a stone-studded pin with the queen of hearts on it.

H
e didn’t let me take it. Instead, he just asked me if I could identify the pin as belonging to Trevor. I felt like I was living an episode of
CSI
.

I told him yes, the brooch was Trevor’s.

“Since Mr. McKay became ill in your shop, did you notice whether he had a wallet or any other identification on him there?” Bixby asked.

I thought about how quickly Trevor had gotten sick and shook my head. “No. We told the paramedics his name, but they moved really fast to get him out of there.”