Driven to Ink (20 page)

“You have to go on your own. Take the box. No one will stop you.”

He saw me hesitate and chuckled. “It’s not loaded,” he said, reading my mind. “You’ll be fine.”

That’s what he thought.

“I still want to stop at Rosalie’s. Where does she live?” I asked.

Jeff took a deep breath, told Bobby to hang tight, and grabbed a piece of tracing paper and a pencil. He scribbled directions and handed them to me. “She’s out in Summerlin. On the way to Red Rock.”

I put the paper with the directions on top of the box. Granted, Rosalie’s was in the total opposite direction than the police station, but I wasn’t exactly relishing the idea of turning over this gun and explaining everything to Tim right away. The box would be safe in the Jeep. After all, if you looked at it, you’d think it had something to do with tattoos.

As I balanced the box in my arms, Jeff opened the door for me.

“You’ll be fine, Kavanaugh,” were the last words I heard before the door shut behind me.

I put the box on the floor under the passenger seat and found myself looking at it every few seconds. As if it were going to do magic tricks or something and I didn’t want to miss it.

I drove up Charleston, the mountains coming closer and closer as I drove. Despite my trepidation about the parcel I was traveling with, I could feel the muscles in my shoulders and back relaxing instinctively as I gazed at the red-and-brown rocks that pierced the deep blue sky. I wanted to chuck it all—forget about Sylvia and Jeff and Ray Lucci and the other Dinos and that gun—and put my boots on and feel the hard desert under my feet.

The longer I thought about it, the more I wanted to play hooky.

The Red Rock Casino Resort Spa came up on my left. It was out here off the beaten path, away from the Strip and its craziness, almost at the foot of its namesake.

The light was red, and it was a long one. I tapped the steering wheel impatiently. No one was behind or in front of me. On the other side of the four-lane road, a lone blue car sat like I did, just waiting.

That other blue car, the one that came too close for comfort at the university, flashed in my brain. The cars were similar, but I couldn’t say for sure what model the sinister one was. It had gone past so quickly, and I was too busy trying to get out of the way to take notice. This one was a Ford Taurus. Fords and Chevies sometimes have the same sort of body. They’re probably all made on the same chassis.

And then I remembered. Dan Franklin’s blue Taurus. In his driveway.

I leaned forward a little, squinting to see the driver. A shadow was cast across the windshield, obscuring my view.

I knew I was being paranoid, but almost getting run down gave me a pass on that. I might always have a problem with blue cars now. Good thing my car was red. If I ever got it back. If I ever wanted to drive it again after it had been used as a coffin.

My phone rang in my bag, and I leaned over and pulled it out.

“You’ve got a client in an hour,” Bitsy reminded me before I could even say hello.

“I know. I’m on my way,” I lied, my eye on the blue car as my thoughts swirled around in a stream of consciousness.

“Why is Colin Bixby coming in later?”

I stopped paying attention to the blue car.

“Bixby?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“He called and made an appointment for later. I made sure he and that Dean Martin guy weren’t coming in at the same time.”

I was barely comprehending. “Does he want another tattoo?” I asked. “And what’s this about a Dean Martin guy?”

“Who? Oh, the doctor. I don’t know. The Dean Martin guy’s getting a touch-up.”

“Which Dean Martin?” I asked, but then I remembered I’d offered to touch up Will Parker’s tattoo. Bitsy confirmed that it was him.

The light turned green. As I put my foot to the accelerator, the blue car sped through the intersection.

And a police cruiser with its lights flashing came up behind me and indicated I should pull over.

I
hung up on Bitsy, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, eased the Jeep over to the curb, and cut the engine. I leaned over and opened the glove box. A flashlight and a couple of CDs. I didn’t see the registration. Where did Tim keep it?

A glance in the rearview mirror told me the cop was almost to the door. I sat up straighter, looking around for some other hiding place but not seeing anything.

Except the box on the floor. The one that had the big gun in it.

My heart started flip-flopping inside my chest, and I was having a hard time breathing. Especially when I saw who the cop was.

Willis. The fireplug cop who showed up at my house when I found Ray Lucci in my trunk.

So
not my lucky day.

I flashed a smile at him, even though I was having a panic attack. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked, as if he didn’t know me from beans.

I shrugged, swallowing hard to push back the panic.

“You were not using a hands-free device for your cell phone.”

This was totally why I adhered to the rules of the road. Although people talk on cell phones all the time while they’re driving and there’s absolutely no enforcement, it figured that I’d end up being the poster child for it.

“I was stopped at a light.” Great. The moment my voice comes back it’s belligerent. “I was not driving.”

“You were going through the light, and you were on your phone,” Willis said sternly. “I need to see your license and registration.”

This was the sticky part.

“I’ve got my license,” I said. “It’s in my bag. I’m leaning over to get it.” And I did as I said, sliding my hand in my bag and taking out my wallet. I slipped the license out and handed it to him.

He held it for a second, his eyes skipping around the inside of the car.

“Registration?”

I made a kind of twittering sound. “That’s the problem,” I said. “This is my brother’s Jeep, and I thought the registration was in the glove box, but it’s not, and I don’t know where it is.”

He studied my face a second, probably trying to see whether I was lying, then said, “Your brother’s Jeep?”

I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. “Tim Kavanaugh. Detective Kavanaugh,” I said.

“I know who he is,” Willis snapped at me. “Step out of the vehicle.”

This wasn’t going well. I did as asked and stood by the door as Willis looked around the inside of the car.

“What’s in the box?” he asked.

My chest constricted, and I couldn’t breathe. My mouth was as dry as the desert.

“The box? What’s in it?” he asked again.

I tried to swallow. “Tattoo stuff,” I croaked.

“I’d like to see it.”

Now, I know how to talk to cops. And when a cop wants to see something in my car, I should just let him.

Why hadn’t I gone straight to Tim rather than come out here?

I walked slowly around the Jeep and opened the passenger door. Willis was right behind me. I leaned in and picked up the box, handing it to him.

Willis’s eyes widened when he saw the address on the front.

“This belongs to Ray Lucci?” he asked.

I nodded. “I can explain.”

He flipped up the box flaps and looked inside.

Willis looked back up at me. He held the box with one hand, grabbed my arm with the other, and said, “Let’s go.”

“I was bringing it to Tim,” I started.

“You’re not exactly in the neighborhood,” he reminded me.

“I needed to make a stop first,” I tried.

He started leading me toward the cruiser.

“Can I at least get my bag?” I asked.

He let go of me, went to the Jeep, and got my bag for me, but he didn’t hand it to me. He indicated I was to keep heading toward the cruiser.

“Can I lock it up?” I asked, indicating the Jeep.

Willis sighed, as if I was the biggest pain in his butt all day. I probably was. He allowed me to get the keys and lock up the Jeep before he stuffed me in the back of the cruiser and we headed back downtown.

 

Willis put me in one of those concrete interrogation rooms you see on TV. It’s really like that, except possibly more uncomfortable. I waited there about twenty minutes before the door opened and Tim stepped in. He was not happy with me.

“Where did you get the gun?” he asked without saying hello.

I told him everything. About Sylvia giving me the receipt this morning and then going to see Jeff and finding the box at That’s Amore and deciding to go see Rosalie first.

Tim took it all in, pacing back and forth in front of me as I spoke.

“I couldn’t find your registration,” I said. “I thought it was in the glove box. Why don’t you keep it there?”

Tim stopped pacing and shook his head. “You’ve got an illegal gun in my Jeep, and you’re worried about the registration?”

“You can call Jeff Coleman so he can corroborate my story,” I said.

“Don’t worry; we’ll do that,” Tim promised.

“So am I free to go now?” I asked.

“I’m not letting you go by yourself,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“First off, my Jeep is somewhere in Summerlin. You have no way to get anywhere. Second, you obviously can’t be trusted on your own, so I’m going to have to take things into my own hands.”

“Take things into your own hands? What does that mean?”

“That means you go to work and you go home, no stops in between.”

“Like I’m under house arrest?” While I’d been having panic attacks with Willis, now my heart was pounding with anger.

“Exactly.”

My eyes filled with tears, and I struggled to keep them at bay. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I tried.

“You’re putting yourself in danger. What if someone else had found that gun in the car with you?”

I shrugged. “No one did.”

“Because Willis stopped you first.”

A knock on the door interrupted us.

Detective Flanigan stepped in. Might as well make it a party. It would be the only one I’d be able to go to for a while, it seemed.

“So, Miss Kavanaugh, you seem to find yourself in interesting predicaments, don’t you?” Flanigan asked before turning to Tim. “Have you told her?”

“Told me what?” I asked as Tim shook his head.

“I haven’t had a chance yet.”

Flanigan took a deep breath and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. My throat tightened. Whatever it was he was going to tell me—well, I knew it wasn’t going to be good.

“Your brother here is taking a couple of days off. To make sure you stay out of trouble.”

I
stood up and faced Tim, ignoring Flanigan.

“You’re going to be my babysitter?”

Tim nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’m not a child who needs watching.”

“That’s what you think.”

With a huff, I plopped back down into the chair, my face in my hands. This was
so
not cool.

“It’s for your safety,” Tim said softly. “Someone already tried to run you down, too.”

Logically, I could understand his concern. Maybe I was getting too involved with all this. But this gun thing, well, that wasn’t my doing. I didn’t go looking for it.

“That should be that,” Flanigan said. “Hopefully, all this will be over soon.”

It was the way he said it that made me take pause, and I lifted my head up.

“Do you have a suspect?” I asked.

Tim rolled his eyes, and Flanigan shook his head as he left the room.

“What?” I asked Tim.

“
What?
” he mimicked. “This is exactly why this is a good idea.”

“But you’re using vacation days, and you wanted to go hiking in Alaska.”

“I’ll still get there. I’ve got time.”

Super.

“I have a client, you know. I have to get to the shop.”

“I’ll take you.”

I was about to argue, then realized he was right: The Jeep was in Summerlin, and my car was somewhere being probed by the police. I did need a ride.

I felt like such a loser.

As we settled into Tim’s department-issued Chevy Impala, which had all the personality of a dishrag, I asked, “Did Flanigan tell you that you had to watch me or did you volunteer?”

I saw it in his expression. This wasn’t voluntary.

He knew I knew. “It’s for your own good. I don’t want to have to explain to Mom and Dad how you got killed because you were too nosy. They’d end up blaming me, and I’d have to live with it.”

“So that’s why you agreed to this? So you won’t feel guilty?” Sister Mary Eucharista would be proud.

He turned down Las Vegas Boulevard. “You know, Brett, some nosy people are satisfied just poking into other people’s medicine cabinets and bathroom drawers.”

“So sue me. I’m not just some nosy person.”

Tim wanted to laugh. His jaw muscles twitched, and the faint hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Maybe you should’ve become a cop,” he suggested.

“And maybe you could tell me how I could explain that to Mom.”

“It wouldn’t be any harder than explaining the tattoos.”

Touché.

“So if you’re hanging out babysitting me, maybe I should give you some ink,” I said slyly. Tim didn’t have a tattoo. He said he didn’t know what he’d want marked permanently on his person, so he wouldn’t get anything at all. “I’ve got books with ideas at the shop.”

He ignored me.

Bitsy’s eyes widened when Tim followed me into the shop.

“Hey, Bits,” Tim said jovially, heading toward the staff room and disappearing inside.

“What is he doing here?” Bitsy asked in a stage whisper.

“He’s my new babysitter,” I said, quickly telling her what had gone on since I’d hung up on her.