The Missing Ink (10 page)

I pulled Bitsy’s stool over and sat next to him. “I don’t mean to get on your case. I’m sorry, too. But I don’t really know how I can help you. I don’t know where Jeff is.”

“We’ve got a warrant.”

“I know.”

The words were out before I could take them back. Tim frowned.

“How do you know that?”

I tried to be nonchalant. “Word gets around, you know.”

“No, Brett, it doesn’t. Unless you have friends in high places, and as far as I know, I’m as high up as your friends go. Who did you hear it from?”

I couldn’t keep this going. I just didn’t like Jeff enough. “He called me.”

“When?”

“A little while ago. He said he was in trouble, asked me to take a client of his he couldn’t cancel. I said okay.” And the more I thought about it, the more I felt like I’d made a deal with the devil. But I couldn’t turn down the cash. Or the client. I mean, any woman would want the job.

“Where was he?”

“I don’t know, and before you ask, his number was listed as restricted on the caller ID.”

Tim had gone all rigid, ready to pounce out of his chair toward the phone at the front desk. He relaxed slightly, but he was still on alert. Like the way a cat is when the bird flies away, but maybe, just maybe, it’ll be back.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting here asking you about this and you talked to him but you won’t tell me until I trip you up. You’re not hiding anything, are you?” His face was dark, and I recognized his expression. The last time he’d looked like this was when Mary Ellen Judson had messed around with his best friend, Aidan, but pretended nothing had happened even when he asked her about it, even after Aidan had told him about it.

Sister Mary Eucharista knew the power of guilt. It was kicking my butt.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, not making eye contact.

“If he calls again, I need to know. You need to get some information out of him.”

So now I was a narc. Sort of. “Sure.” I got up. “I’ve got to finish that tat out there.”

Tim and my guilt followed me out of the staff room.

“Oh, and don’t talk to any media again. That Leigh Holmes snippet made it onto the cable networks.”

Bitsy was on the phone, jotting down an appointment, but as Tim spoke, she glanced up at me. I knew what she was thinking, and I had to tell Tim.

“Uh, Tim, you’re a little late with that,” I said.

He took a deep breath. “Why don’t you just tell me everything, Brett? Why do you make me pull it out of you?”

“That thing for
20/20
, remember? I told you they were coming. They were already here. Not a couple of hours ago. They’re doing a piece tonight on Elise Lyon’s disappearance.”

He looked like he’d just gotten off a ship after a two-week cruise and couldn’t get his balance. “What?”

“20/20—”

“I heard you. What sorts of questions did they ask?”

“It really wasn’t a big deal,” I said quickly. “It was some reporter named Alison Cho. She just asked about Elise’s visit here.”

“But she showed the drawing,” Bitsy piped up. Lucky for me, she’d just gotten off the phone. Right.

“What drawing?” Tim looked at Bitsy, knowing she’d give him the straight answers he’d been looking for from me.

“The devotion tat Brett was going to do.” Bitsy’s eyes skipped from Tim to me and back again.

“What is it?” he asked, and I shook my head behind him, trying to tell her to stop right there.

Bitsy has a problem with keeping secrets. She can’t. So no one usually tells her anything they don’t want spread around. That’s why when she said, “You know, how it said Matthew and not Chip,” I wasn’t totally surprised.

Tim whipped around to face me again. “That’s going to be on TV? Why didn’t you just tell her it was the wrong one?”

“I said no comment.” I cocked my head at Bitsy. “But Ms. Truth Teller here couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

Tim looked like he was about to explode. “If anyone here,” he said loudly, “talks to the media or anyone else besides me about Elise Lyon again, I swear I will find a way to arrest you.”

And then he walked out.

“What’s up his butt?” Joel called out from his room.

“Nothing,” I said, and headed back to Castle Girl.

Because of Tim’s visit, I barely finished the ink in time before I had to go to Versailles to cover for Jeff. I grabbed the case that Bitsy had put together for me.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Yeah, just what is this mysterious job you’ve got?” Joel had sneaked up behind me, as much as a three-hundred-pound man can sneak up on anyone.

I’d been busting at the seams to tell someone, and I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. This was too good not to share.

“Jeff Coleman asked if I could fill in for him with a client who doesn’t want to go to his shop.”

“Why can’t he do it?” Joel asked.

“Because he’s on the lam,” Bitsy said, then immediately put her hand over her mouth.

“You were eavesdropping,” I accused her.

“Wouldn’t you?” Bitsy asked through her hand.

She had me there.

“Okay.” I sighed, and I told them who the client was.

Joel’s body rocked slightly, as if he were about to swoon. Exactly how I’d felt when Jeff told me, and I had no idea how I’d react once I actually had the man’s bare butt under my fingertips. I hoped the sweat from my hands wouldn’t seep through my gloves and cause the machine to slip. That was all I needed, to make a mistake on the guy’s ass. Granted, it wasn’t exactly in a spot where he’d notice.

“I have to go now,” I said, pushing my way past Ace and out into the mall.

In the parking garage elevator, I was sandwiched between an elderly woman in a bright pink velour sweat suit—didn’t anyone tell her it was a hundred degrees outside?—and a guy who looked like he was on his way to a Young Republicans meeting, complete with a three-piece navy pin-striped suit, red tie, and buzz cut. And they looked at me like I was the freak.

When I stepped out of the elevator, though, I started to freak. Quietly. To myself. Because the big, bald, tattooed guy in the sleeveless jean jacket was leaning against a concrete pillar about halfway to my car.

Chapter 17

The pink sweat suit and the Young Republican slipped past me, going in the opposite direction. I didn’t want to face this guy in a parking garage by myself. I didn’t want to seem afraid, either, even though he could probably smell my fear, mixed with exhaust, from here.

I could just pretend I forgot something and get back in the elevator. I could use the case as a weapon. I wondered whether Bitsy had packed it in such a way so that if I had to swing it at him, my stuff would be okay.

I could just ask him what he wanted, why he was watching me. But while I could confront Willis, the cop, outside my shop, that was clear-cut. He was a cop. I knew cops. I felt comfortable around them.

Sure, this was a big tattooed guy. Not like I hadn’t encountered one of them before, either. Not like I hadn’t inked one of them myself.

But this particular guy? There was a vibe about him, a sinister, creepy vibe that hit me in the gut when I’d seen him the first time, then outside my shop, and now. He wasn’t just a guy I was running into. There was more to it. What there was, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to be alone in a dark, cavernous parking garage with him. I preferred to question him when surrounded by people, in a public place.

He had to be Kelly Masters’s brother, Matthew. Jeff’s warning about him only solidified how I felt about this. I wondered if he thought I knew something about his sister. Although the first time I saw him, no one had found her dead.

I was grabbing onto any straw I could to make sense of this.

And while I’d hesitated, he started walking toward me.

I stopped breathing for a second as I debated what to do. Turn back or just barrel past him and take my chances?

Suddenly, the elevator door opened behind me, and a young couple stumbled out, their smiles indicating that either they’d hit a jackpot at the tables or they were anticipating a little afternoon delight. I didn’t care which, because they were going my way, and I managed to put them between me and Matthew as we walked, so I felt safe. They didn’t pay any attention to me.

We shuffled by, and I felt Matthew’s eyes on me as I clicked my key fob and slid into my car, dropping the case on the seat next to me. I didn’t even wait to put on my seat belt, just fired up the engine and felt the Mustang skid slightly as I peeled out of the spot.

I thought I’d hit him as I spun around, but he was gone.

Like a ghost.

I kept looking in the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the garage and headed toward Versailles, which had been built on part of the lot where the old Frontier had sat before it was imploded. Another hotel and casino was scheduled to go up on the property, too. Vegas was just squeezing them in on the Strip. Cranes and bulldozers and construction crews were just a matter of course. Sin City had become Crane City. Soon there would be no empty lots left.

Despite the space restriction, Versailles still managed to look sprawling. Gardens that imitated the ones at the real French palace were in front, rather than behind, and hedge animals danced along the elegant drive up to the circular entranceway. A fountain sporting sculptures shaped like mermaids made me start thinking about that water shortage again.

I debated self-parking, but my experience with that was dubious. The parking garages were mazes of arrows that made you think you were going in the right direction but somehow you always managed to end up at the exit or the valet parking lane. It was easier to valet park, cheaper—free—to self-park. It depended solely on the level of frustration I was willing to endure.

Today, my endurance was at an all-time low. So I pulled up into the valet parking lane.

A valet in a white-and-gold footman’s uniform, complete with white wig, tights, and big-buckled shoes, pranced up to my door as I eased the Mustang to a stop. I climbed out, grabbing my case, and handed over the keys.

“Nice tat.”

The valet’s words were whispered, as if he’d get in trouble for admiring the garden on my arm. But it
was
Monet, and it
was
France. I should get some sort of points for that.

I nodded my acknowledgment and skipped up the steps, not prepared for what I would encounter inside.

The opulence of the magnificent lobby was staggering. Mirrors lined all walls; ornate chandeliers dripped real diamonds—I’d read that somewhere—from the ceiling. Huge sprays of loose orchids—not the sad little orchids in our shop; these orchids were on steroids—sprang out of spectacular, gilded china vases on white marble tables with thick mahogany legs.

The marble floor was rippled with golds and browns and creams, ending in a busy carpet to the left, where the casino began. The slot machines were all lined up like little soldiers, ready for anything. Since they’d done away with actual coins, the familiar
clink-clank
of the old days was gone; the only white noise now was the rhythmic
ding-ding
as the wheels turned, along with the piped-in music.

Tasteful signs with cursive gold lettering pointed guests to the front desk, concierge, elevators, gaming area, shops, restaurants, and pools.

I sidestepped one of the flower displays, drinking in the scent as I lugged my case over to the front desk.

The guy was in costume, like the valet out front, this one with a permanent-marker mole sitting on the top of his cheekbone. I wondered if I should tell him I could make that really permanent. I did, after all, have my needles and ink with me.

“May I help you?” he asked, with a distinct French accent.

I wondered if he’d been imported for this very purpose.

I felt like a moron, but I leaned forward and whispered, “Minnie to see Mickey.”

His face lit up like one of the chandeliers. “Yes, yes, miss.”

I felt someone touch my arm and stared straight into the face of another costumed Frenchman offering to take my case. I clutched it a little tighter. “No, thanks,” I declined. “I can carry it.”

For some reason I felt that if I handed it over, I might not get it back, and I didn’t want anyone here knowing what was inside, since I was on this Top-Secret Mission.

The Frenchman waved me into a special elevator, separate from the bank of elevators that would bring regular people—well, incredibly rich regular people—up to their rooms. The elevator was also mirrored, and I began to feel like I was being watched again, although this time it was definitely just me watching myself. And maybe hotel security. Cameras were everywhere, even if you didn’t see them. A little disconcerting.

The doors slid open at a floor that was undesignated. The French footman—because that was what he looked like—stretched his arm out and turned up his hand, indicating I was to disembark. So I did.

The doors shut behind me, with the Frenchman behind them, and I stood alone in what I assumed was the Marie Antoinette Suite.

The pale yellow wallpaper was speckled with tiny pink roses and interrupted with elaborate white molding, the chandelier balanced delicately over yet another orchid spray on yet another marble table. I was uncomfortable and began to understand why the French had a revolution.

I took a couple of steps and peered around, seeing no one.

“Excuse me?” I said into the silence, venturing a little farther into a living room area. A grand piano sat next to a long floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the gardens, and beyond them, the Strip. It would be a great view at night, especially with all the lights.

I moved into the suite step by step, saying, “Excuse me?” as I went.

Still no answer.

The adulation that rushed over me when Jeff had said this guy’s name and the thought that I would get up close and personal with his ass were quickly dissipating. He could only be crazy. How else to explain “Minnie” and “Mickey”? And this cat-and-mouse in the suite? Would he have done this to Jeff? Was this some sort of sick misogynistic thing?