Pretty In Ink (25 page)

When I hung up after talking to Bitsy, I spotted Jeff’s eyes in the mirror.

“So no one told you what they’re investigating Charlotte for?” he asked.

“No.”

“I’ve got some friends I could call. Make inquiries. See what I can find out.”

I frowned. Jeff Coleman had “friends.” That was interesting. But then I remembered: He’d been in the military. Maybe he was onto something.

“Sure,” I said, slipping the laptop into my messenger bag.

We didn’t say anything more; I stared at Sylvia’s bathing cap and wondered if all the decorations would keep her from moving well through the water. I’d never seen her at the pool; I would’ve remembered that cap even if I hadn’t known her.

The sun was bright, blasting through the car windows as we turned into the parking lot at Trevor’s. The Gremlin sat squat with two empty spaces around it. Every other spot was taken. No one probably wanted to park too close to it; it might have something that was catching. Like the rust that was creeping along the frame.

Jeff eased the Pontiac next to the Gremlin, and Sylvia opened her door to get out. But as she swung her body around, Jeff put his arm across her chest.

“No, you’re not driving it,” he said, and with his other hand he tossed the keys back into my lap. “She is.”

I frowned, picking up the keys. “What?”

Jeff was cocking his head at Sylvia and shaking it at the same time. I got it. He didn’t want her to drive. I’d wondered whether Sylvia had started a decline into dementia, but Jeff put the kibosh on that.

“You don’t have your license with you,” Jeff admonished her. “You can’t drive in that silly outfit. You’ll get stopped by the cops.”

“Then it’ll all be in the family, won’t it?” Sylvia asked, still attempting to get out, but Jeff continued to hold on to her.

“Kavanaugh, get out,” he said. “I’ll meet you back at my shop, and then I’ll take you to your car.”

I opened the door and climbed out. Sylvia was still arguing with Jeff, but then I heard, “You better treat that car nice.” I assumed that was for me. The door slammed shut, and Jeff gave me a little finger wave as he backed out and the Pontiac moved away.

I stood next to the Gremlin, and I felt another shiver. Twice in one day. Go figure. Getting shot at here wasn’t giving me the best karma.

I looked up at Trevor’s apartment on the second floor. A band of yellow crime-scene tape had been slung across the door.

But it was broken. Two pieces of tape hung down on either side like limp ponytails.

The door was open. And someone was coming out.

I
couldn’t move. My feet felt as though they were cemented to the asphalt.

It was Rusty Abbott.

He looked down at me, and a look of panic crossed his face. He glanced to the left and to the right, probably trying to figure out which way to run.

I had that effect on him.

But then he surprised me. He started down the stairs. He was carrying something that looked remarkably like Trevor’s makeup case. Kyle and I hadn’t seen it in the apartment yesterday, so where had it come from?

I didn’t have time to ponder that, however, because Abbott’s other hand had moved up to his waistband.

The gun glinted as the sun caught it.

I caught my breath and scrambled into the car. I’d been shot at once here. I wasn’t going to make it a habit.

I started the car and in the rearview mirror saw Abbott approaching. I shoved the stick shift into reverse and gunned the engine.

He had to jump out of the way. The tires skidded a little as the Gremlin’s muffler roared, and I pulled out onto Charleston without even looking.

I was lucky there’d been a lull in the traffic.

My heart was pounding. Why on earth would Rusty Abbott want to kill me? I hadn’t wanted to take that casino chip in the first place.

Unless he really was the guy who’d shot Trevor with the cork, and it wasn’t Wesley Lambert. Maybe he thought I could identify him.

And what was he doing with the makeup case? Unless he’d known Trevor kept the brooch in it and thought it was still there.

As I sat at a light, I knew I was going to have to find out more about that Queen of Hearts Ball. There was that pin and the tattoos and all those pictures of everyone looking so tight with their arms around each other: Rusty Abbott and Wesley Lambert and Charlotte.

How did Trevor play into all that? Was he the third person who showed up at Murder Ink for a tattoo?

No, he didn’t have a playing-card tattoo. That I knew for sure. So who was the third person?

Jeff Coleman wasn’t back yet from dropping off Sylvia. Murder Ink was closed up, but I found a key to the back door on the chain with the Gremlin key. I let myself in.

I turned on the overhead light and dropped my bag on the cluttered desk. I eyed the file cabinet in the corner. Jeff had to have some sort of record of those three clients that night.

I told myself he was as interested as I was in all this as I opened the top drawer.

The files were a mess, just like the rest of the place. I couldn’t make heads or tails of them. They weren’t in any sort of alphabetical order or even arranged by date. It seemed totally random. I flipped through about twenty folders, taking a deep breath with each one, not because I was afraid of what I’d find, but with the exasperation I felt. Bitsy would never let our records be such a mess.

I had reached in to grab another file when the door opened, and I felt my heart jump into my throat.

“Kavanaugh, what are you doing?”

Jeff was next to me, taking the file out of my hand and slipping it back into the drawer.

“You weren’t here—”

“So you decided to go through my files. For what? What are you looking for?” Despite our rather up-and-down relationship, this was the first time I’d heard him actually angry with me. He’d teased me before, but this time I’d touched a nerve.

“What don’t you want me to find?” I challenged. It was easier to get on the offensive.

But he wasn’t having it.

“What are you looking for?” he growled, slamming the drawer shut.

I decided I should tell him the truth. “I just wanted to know if you’ve got a file on that third guy who came in for the queen-of-hearts tattoo with Rusty Abbott and Wesley Lambert,” I said.

His eyes were narrowed, and he studied my face for a few seconds, during which I could totally believe that he’d been in the Marines. He scared me.

But then he gave a low chuckle and started shaking his head.

“Oh, Kavanaugh, you could just ask before you start snooping around. Or do you like playing
Charlie’s Angels
?”

I felt my face flush, but I couldn’t let that go. “That was one of the most misogynistic shows ever on TV,” I said hotly.

“Yeah, maybe, but they were so hot.” He turned his back on me as he rifled through the files, then turned around with one in his hand. He waved it in front of me, teasing me. “Didn’t every girl want to be a Charlie’s Angel?”

“Not me,” I said, a little too loudly, my eyes following the file.

“Which one would you be? The smart one or the tough one or the dumb, sexy one?”

I sighed. “Stop playing around,” I said.

He laughed out loud. “You know, Kavanaugh, you shouldn’t make it so easy to get to you.”

I couldn’t tell him that he was the only one who brought out this side of me. Then he’d think he was something special.

“What’s in the file?” I asked.

He looked at it as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Oh, this,” he said. “This is the file you’re looking for from that night.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “Those files aren’t in any particular order.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “There is an order. My mother set it up, and it works, so it’s staying that way.”

If Sylvia set up the filing system, then it clearly wouldn’t have any rhyme or reason to it. But if they could keep track, who was I to say anything?

“Do you want to see it?” Jeff said, handing the file to me.

I snatched it away from him and rolled my eyes as I flipped it open.

The name took my breath away.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “This is the right one?”

Jeff nodded. “Yeah. You know who it is?”

I nodded slowly. “I do.”

And he’d told me he didn’t have any ink because he didn’t like needles.

Colin Bixby.

“T
his is the guy who was in drag?” I asked.

“One of two,” Jeff said. “That guy Wesley Lambert, the one with the ricin in the condo? He was the second one. I checked that out this morning. And Rusty Abbott was the third guy, but he wasn’t in drag.” He paused. “Who is this Bixby guy?”

“He’s a doctor,” I said softly. “At the emergency room. I met him.”

“Yesterday when you were there?”

“And the day before, when I went to see Trevor. He’s the one who told me Trevor was dead. He knows Kyle. Kyle Albrecht. He’s MissTique. At Chez Tango.” I thought about how I’d suspected Bixby of being gay. So maybe I wasn’t so wrong about that.

“Those guys really look like women,” Jeff mused.

“It’s weird to see them taking off their girl faces and becoming boys again,” I said.

“Huh? You’ve seen that?”

“They’re so not shy,” I said, but I was still distracted by how I’d misread Bixby. Sort of.

I handed the folder back to Jeff. “I’ve got to get to the shop,” I said.

“Sure you don’t want to hang around here and learn how it’s really done, Kavanaugh?”

“Doesn’t take much to do flash,” I tossed back at him, picking up my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. “Just take me to my car, okay?”

“Say please.” He’d put the folder back, shut the drawer, and was standing too close to me, his eyes searching my face.

I stepped back. “Give me a break.” I rolled my eyes at him. “Should I just call a cab?”

He dug keys out of his pocket and motioned that I was to follow him back out into the alley, where the gold Pontiac sat. We settled in after he locked up his shop, then headed back down to the Strip.

The sky was a deep cobalt blue. No clouds in sight. The Stratosphere Tower loomed high above us on our right just before crossing Sahara. I spotted the pawnshops to the left, just before the Sahara hotel. Just a little way down, Circus Circus was to our right, its red and white striped big top advertising its theme, and an empty lot sat where the Star-burst used to be.

Jeff took a right down Desert Inn Road toward the new Trump hotel, just before Fashion Show Mall. The Windsor Palms was adjacent to it, sort of kitty-corner.

Jeff eased around the entranceway marked by a gigantic palm tree and veered around into the parking garage. He turned to me with raised eyebrows, asking an unspoken question.

“Second level,” I said, surprised I could even remember that.

He guided the Pontiac up the ramp and turned the corner to see my Mustang Bullitt where I’d left it. Jeff stopped the car right behind it.

He looked over at me and nodded. “Here we are.”

For an awkward second I felt like I should lean over and give him a peck on the cheek. Seemed the least I could do, since he’d been so gracious and all. But then I remembered whom I was with and nodded back.

“Thanks,” I said, opening the door.

But before I could get out, I felt a hand on my arm.

“Be careful, Kavanaugh.”

I threw his hand off and laughed. “Hey, what more can happen?”

“You never know.”

I thought about Rusty Abbott coming out of Trevor’s apartment. He was right. I’d have to watch my back.

“Thanks, Jeff,” I said again, this time really getting out and slamming the car door shut.

I stepped back just as he took off like Mario Andretti in the Indy 500. A curl of smoke came out of the tailpipe as he turned the corner.

I settled into my Mustang, happy to finally be driving my own car again. The seat was contoured just right, my Springsteen CD was still in the player, and the mirror didn’t need adjusting. In honor of this trip, I put the top down, relishing the warm desert breeze, and cranked up the volume on “Jungleland.”

I tried not to think about Colin Bixby.

I drove down the Strip, and instead of being annoyed at the lights, I looked up at the palm trees in the median, felt the sun beating down on the back of my neck—oops, forgot the sunscreen—and mellowed out for the first time in days.

I reached the Venetian too soon.

The towers of the fake Doge’s Palace beckoned me, and I noticed some activity of the media kind at the entrance to Madame Tussauds wax museum, which was adjacent to the Venetian. Three TV vans were parked along the side of the road.

Curious, I turned into the entrance for valet parking. So I’d splurge—at least until I could move my car in a couple of hours. I wanted to see what was going on.

The laptop slammed against my hip as I slung the messenger bag over my shoulder and handed the valet my key. I cocked my head toward the wax museum.

“What’s going on over there?”

“Some sort of celebrity thing,” he said, taking the key.

I sauntered over toward the museum and saw that it might be easier said than done to get up the escalator to the museum entrance, because a crowd had formed. I pushed my way onto the moving incline, sandwiched between a young couple with a baby in one of those pouches and an elderly couple wearing far too much spandex.

It was a long ride.

We finally reached the top, but security guards were herding people off to the walkways and away from the museum. I was tall enough, though, to see what was going on.

Reporters hovered, their microphones held out in front of them, vying for the best position to interview the man posing next to his mirror image.