Ink Flamingos (10 page)

“From the look of things, I should have stayed,” Jeff said. He shrugged. “I guess I figured you’re a big girl and can take care of yourself.”

I hated to think how close I’d come to
not
taking care of myself last night. I’d acted stupidly, allowing Harry to buy me that drink. And then actually drinking it. I know myself better than that.

Jeff’s expression changed slightly and he said, “Don’t beat yourself up over it. It happens to the best of us.”

“But it usually doesn’t happen to me.”

“We all have our moments. Really, don’t worry about it. You’re home, you’re safe, nothing bad happened.”

I cocked my head at the laptop. “Except that. I can’t figure out what it means, though. Why is she stalking me?”

“Maybe she’s jealous.”

I snorted. “I met her, Jeff. Believe me, she can’t be jealous of me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

It was the way he said it that made me take pause.

“You know something,” I said.

“After you and lover boy left, I went into Cleopatra’s Barge.”

Butterflies started crashing around in my gut. “And?” “I met a woman there.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, fine, be that way. I don’t really want to know about your conquests.”

“At least mine aren’t plastered all over the Internet.” We were like squabbling kids.

“Do you want to know about this woman or not?” Jeff asked, and there was something about the way he asked that made me realize it wasn’t a pickup after all.

I nodded.

“She was nursing a scotch at a table by herself. She was tall and had red hair.” He cocked his head at my chest. “Even had a dragon. You know, like the one you’ve got.”

My chest constricted, and I couldn’t speak.

“We introduced ourselves. She said her name was Brett. Brett Kavanaugh.”

I
felt myself drop into the kitchen chair. What was going on?

Jeff sat next to me, moving the laptop aside and away so I couldn’t see the screen. “She wasn’t you, Kavanaugh; she didn’t even really look like you. Her hair was longer. She wasn’t nearly as thin. That tattoo wasn’t even real. It was some sort of body paint. If I hadn’t been in the business, though, I might not have seen it for what it was. But she told me she was a tattoo artist, said she had a shop in the Venetian.”

Someone was impersonating me. Was it Ainsley? Ainsley had longer hair than me; she wasn’t as skinny. We didn’t look alike, but she could’ve painted that dragon on her chest and fooled people who didn’t know me. Was she the redhead who’d given Daisy that tattoo?

I finally found my voice. “But she couldn’t be the one who took those pictures, could she? I mean, if she was with you the whole time?”

Jeff took a deep breath. “But she wasn’t. We had a drink; she got a text message from someone. She said she had to go to the ladies’ room. I followed her, waited for her, but somehow she got past me. I never saw her again.”

“Had she been in the bar when Tim and Flanigan were asking about Ainsley and Sherman Potter?” I wondered aloud.

Jeff nodded. “I think she was, but it was dark in there, and she was alone. Like I said, she really didn’t look like you at all. I don’t think they were looking for anyone like her, were they?”

Like I’d told Tim yesterday, there are a lot of redheads in Vegas. One sitting in a bar nursing a drink isn’t going to raise any red flags. So to speak.

“So I don’t just have a stalker, I’ve got someone who’s impersonating me,” I said flatly. “Great. What do I do now?”

“Go get dressed, and I’ll take you to work,” Jeff said.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I have to tell Tim.”

“I already did.”

Oh, that’s right. They must have talked because Jeff knew to come over here and pick me up. “So is he trying to track her down, then? Is that why he left so early?”

Jeff shrugged. “Not for me to say what Las Vegas’s finest do.”

I stood, my legs a little shaky. I didn’t much like the thought of someone running around saying she was me. Maybe even tattooing people using my name.

“Nothing you can do right now, Kavanaugh,” Jeff said, standing and moving toward me.

“It’s just. . .” My voice trailed off.

“I know, but you’ve got people on top of it.”

And suddenly his arms were around me and I laid my head against his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat against my chest.

It was the first time we’d ever embraced. It wasn’t anything more than just a friend comforting a friend. Or so I told myself as I pulled away, an awkwardness between us that we’d never had before.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, backing up and going down the hall to my room.

I sat on the bed for a few minutes, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’d just had a “moment” with Jeff Coleman. And then my impostor crept into my thoughts, and I figured I had other things to worry about.

I pulled on a pair of skinny dark jeans and a stretchy black T-shirt with a shimmering silver skull on the front. Matched my mood. It was a little too chilly for my usual Tevas, so I pulled on a pair of black flats, grabbing my jean jacket as I went back out to see Jeff Coleman fiddling with the laptop.

When he looked up at me, I was relieved to see no acknowledgment of what had passed between us, just his usual smirk.

“There’s another site.”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t the only blog.”

I slid back into the chair I’d been sitting in earlier, and he turned the laptop so I could see the screen.

Instead of the now familiar Skin Deep masthead, this blog was adorned with one that was even more familiar: the flamingo I’d tattooed on Daisy’s back. Next to it, in script, read, “Ink Flamingos.”

Was I going to spend all day with butterflies in my stomach?

Jeff scrolled down so I could see the first and only post. The title read, “What happened?” and a picture below showed Daisy sprawled out on her stomach on dingy white bedsheets, her flamingo prominent. Her blond hair fanned out away from her face, which we could only see in profile but it was clearly her.

“Whoever took this picture did this,” I whispered.

Jeff nodded. “There’s more.”

How could there be more? But when Jeff scrolled down again, I saw it. The same picture of the infected tattoo that Flanigan had shown me.

“I don’t want to see any more,” I said, trying to shove the laptop back.

But Jeff stopped me by putting his hand over mine. “You have to know.”

“Know what? That whoever put this up is a killer?”

“No, it’s worse than that.” He pointed to the “About Me” section in the sidebar.

As I read, I stopped breathing.

“
I’m Brett Kavanaugh, owner of The Painted Lady in Las Vegas. Dee Carmichael was a client of mine. I did all her ink. This blog is a tribute to her
.” And next to it was a picture of me. Me. Not an impostor.

I
went over to the phone and picked up the receiver without saying anything to Jeff. He knew what I was doing. I punched in Tim’s number.

“Kavanaugh.”

“There’s another blog.” I quickly told him about Ink Flamingos.

Tim was quiet for a second, then, “Okay. I’ll check it out.”

“What do I do?”

“Is Coleman there?”

I glanced over at Jeff, who was studying the blog. “Yeah.”

“Have him take you to the shop. Stay there. I’ll call you later.”

“Tim—”

“Don’t worry, okay? I’ve got it covered.” And he hung up.

I put the phone back in its cradle and turned to Jeff. “I guess we’d better get to my shop.”

Jeff indicated the laptop. “Should I turn it off?”

I nodded.

Within minutes, we were settling into the Pontiac, strapping the seat belts around us.

“You okay, Kavanaugh?” he asked before he started the engine.

I sighed. “Not really, but it’ll be good to get to work and get busy.”

“You do know I’m just a phone call away, right?”

It was scary when Jeff Coleman was being nice, almost too nice.

He turned the key in the ignition and the engine fired up. He backed up and started down through our neighborhood of suburban homes. Tim had bought our house when he was living with Shawna, his almost fiancée. But when she realized she was only going to get a house and not a diamond, she moved out and I moved in. I’d been living with my parents in New Jersey, but they were moving to Florida, so I needed a place to go. Tim’s friend Flip Armstrong was selling his tattoo shop, I had enough money saved to buy the business, and voilà—I went to Las Vegas.

I stared out the window as we passed the strip malls and the Home Depot and the Target, heading for the highway that would take us to the Strip. The skyline was visible even from here; it was so flat until the desert hit the mountains in the distance.

I thought about Red Rock Canyon. It was a perfect time of year for hiking, and I’d been three times in the last week. But it wasn’t the kind of place I wanted to go to alone if I had a stalker. Too much wide empty space up there, too many places to hide a body.

Body. Like Daisy’s in that hotel room. I shivered, even though it was warm in Jeff’s car.

“You okay?” he asked for the second time.

I nodded, then shook my head. “No, I guess not. I wish you hadn’t lost that girl last night.”

“Me, neither,” he said. “I don’t know how she slipped past me. I mean, I was watching that ladies’ room.”

An idea began to nag at me. It was plausible, and the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced. Granted, a lot of time had passed between then and now, but you never knew.

“Let’s go to Caesars first,” I said.

Jeff glanced at me and frowned. “What’s up?”

“I want to check on something.”

“Your brother’s probably been over there already, trying to find out about that girl,” he said.

“Yeah, but not the way I’m going to,” I said.

He gave me a funny look, but when we hit the Strip, he turned into the driveway for Caesars and found the self-parking garage. We hadn’t said another word to each other.

We made our way toward Cleopatra’s Barge, walking through the casino. Even though it wasn’t even noon yet, the diehards were at it, slapping cards on the tables, throwing dice, punching the little PLAY AGAIN buttons on the slot machines. I was glad to see them, though, considering that Vegas was suffering from the worst economic slump in decades. Even though I hadn’t lost too much business, the casinos had and the foreclosure signs were everywhere. I wondered if I shouldn’t worry more, but decided I had bigger fish to fry right now.

“Which ladies’ room?” I asked.

Jeff pointed to the one closest to the nightclub. “You know, Kavanaugh, it’s been hours,” he said.

“I need to check. My own peace of mind,” I said, shrugging as I pushed the door in.

There were Roman columns edged in gold in here, too, and each stall had its own actual door. I went over to the trash receptacles first, and using a paper towel wrapped around my hand, picked up the clear plastic bag inside, scanning the contents but seeing nothing except paper towels and the occasional Kleenex.

Next I moved to the farthest stall and opened the door, looking behind the toilet and in the sanitary napkin bin. Nothing here, either.

I went to each stall, checking every corner, except for one that was being used. Whoever was in there must be wondering what I was doing. But it certainly wasn’t worse than what she was doing: talking on her cell phone while she did her business.

I was washing my hands when she finally emerged. I wasn’t going to go in there while she was still here. She had one of those little Bluetooth things stuck in her ear, and she gave me a nasty look as she flitted out without washing her hands, as though I’d been purposely listening to her conversation.

Like talking out loud to a person who wasn’t there was supposed to be private.

When the door had shut behind her, I stepped into the stall she’d just vacated. Nothing in the sanitary napkin bin, thank goodness. I peered around the back of the toilet. Nothing there, either. So my great idea was all for naught.

I turned to leave, and the door swung shut slightly. The hook for a coat or a purse caught my eye. I hadn’t checked behind any of the doors because I’d held them all open as I looked in the stalls.

Going back to the furthest stall, I quickly checked out the doors. I’d looked at all of them except two when three older women came through the door, laughing and talking. I skirted into one of the stalls and shut the door, pretending that I was here for the same reason they were.

On the back of the door hung a bag. A clear plastic bag with some paper towels in the bottom. It looked as though it were one of the plastic bags that filled the trash bins out near the sink. Someone had snagged one and brought it in here. Clearly the cleaning woman had done what I had: left without checking behind the door.

And whoever had left the bag there had dropped more trash into it: a long, red wig and a pair of stiletto heels. On top of those were more paper towels, but I wasn’t sure they were there to disguise what else was in the bag. They were covered with a swirl of colors. As though someone had taken makeup off with them. A lot of makeup.

Maybe makeup that had been applied to look like a dragon tattoo.

I
knew I shouldn’t move it. There might be fingerprints or something. Granted, since I’d touched the door, my fingerprints were there, too. And probably not the only ones that didn’t belong to the woman who’d changed her appearance to get away from Jeff.

I wondered if she’d realized after talking to him that maybe he knew me, maybe he was on to her, and that’s why she skedaddled.