Ink Flamingos (14 page)

From the expression on his face, though, I could tell that maybe he hadn’t been quite as isolated the last twenty-four hours as I’d hoped.

“Can we go somewhere?” he asked, without bothering to give me a kiss hello.

Uh-oh. Definitely not isolated.

Bitsy gave me a sympathetic look as I led Colin to my room. She was no stranger to boyfriend troubles. I shut the door on her questioning gaze and turned toward Colin.

“I can explain,” I said.

He held his hands up. “You can always explain. But when you go into your e-mail to see pictures of your girlfriend making out with another guy, well, there’s really no need for explanation, is there?”

He was breaking up with me. I didn’t blame him. Even telling him about the absinthe wouldn’t help—it would probably hurt. He knew I didn’t drink hard stuff, and he would wonder why I did last night with Harry. Or maybe he wouldn’t wonder.

“I guess that’s it, then?” I asked, leaving the question open and hoping he’d disagree.

“I came by because I felt this had to be done in person,” he said, his eyes soft and full of regret. I’d hurt him before, had promised him I wouldn’t again, and here we were.

I hung my head and sighed. “I’m sorry. There were extenuating circumstances, but I understand.”

“Extenuating circumstances? There are always extenuating circumstances with you.” He started toward the door, but then turned back. “The only real surprise was that it wasn’t Jeff Coleman. Just some stranger.”

And he walked out.

Past said stranger, who had, unfortunately, arrived and was leaning against the front desk whispering with Bitsy.

For a second, I thought Harry was safe.

Until Colin realized who he was and slugged him.

C
olin had probably been wishing he could hit me, but it was easier to hit Harry. Because Harry really didn’t know what was going on until Colin was gone, outside, walking along the canal and out of sight.

Harry rubbed his jaw. “Who was that?”

“Brett’s boyfriend,” Bitsy said.

“Ex-boyfriend,” I corrected.

“Can’t blame him,” she said.

I didn’t, either, but I didn’t really need to hear it right now. Harry was looking at me like I should say something to him, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to leave. I wanted to go home and lock the door and go to bed. But I had another client coming in, and the best I could do was turn on my heel and go into the staff room. Joel had been leaning against the doorjamb, watching, and he followed me in.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing my back as I sat slumped over in the chair.

I nodded. “I know. It’s all my fault.”

“You know, Brett, you and Bixby were on borrowed time.” Joel was referring to how I’d accused him of wanting to kill me several months ago. We’d had a reprieve since then, clearly, but that had always been floating around somewhere in the background. Trust was not one of our strong points.

I remembered something. “He said he was surprised it wasn’t Jeff. You know, in the pictures with me. Ridiculous.” I snorted out a short laugh.

I noticed Joel had not joined in and frowned.

“You know, Brett, I’m a little surprised, too.”

Me and Jeff? “You have got to be kidding me,” I said incredulously. “Jeff Coleman? I mean, the guy is a, well, you know.”

“What? A damn fine tattooist? A guy who took a bullet for you?” Joel’s voice was soft, but his meaning was loud and clear.

Fortunately, my cell phone rang at right that very minute, saving me from saying something I might regret.

“Brett Kavanaugh?” The voice was a woman’s, a little breathy, and for a second, I froze, the image of my impostor in my head.

“Yes?” I managed to squeak out.

“This is Melanie. Melanie Black. Daisy’s friend.”

Relief rushed through me. Melanie. Right.

“Hi, Melanie, thanks so much for calling me back.”

“I don’t have much time. We’ve got a concert tonight.”

“You’re going on?”

Such a slight hesitation, but one nonetheless. “Yeah. Sherman thinks we should do it for Daisy.” I could tell from her tone she knew Sherman wasn’t thinking about Daisy, but probably dollar signs.

“ Quick question, then,” I said. “I met up with Sherman yesterday. He was with someone named Ainsley. Said she’s the new lead singer.”

“That’s right,” Melanie said, and I could hear resentment. “She’s singing with us tonight.” She didn’t want to sing with Ainsley.

“Sherman said Daisy was leaving the band, that this was all lined up before she died.”

“Um, well, yeah, she sort of mentioned something, but we didn’t think she’d really leave. And then suddenly Ainsley showed up out of the blue. That’s why Daisy was in Vegas early. She said she had something to do here, but she didn’t tell me what it was. I think maybe she might have said something to Cara, but Cara closed up tight when we heard about Daisy and hasn’t talked to anyone.” Melanie hadn’t taken a breath the whole time she was talking and when she finished, I could hear her let it out.

“Have you talked to the police?” I asked.

“They were here this morning asking stuff about Daisy, like did she have any enemies, did we know of any problems in her life, that sort of thing.”

“So none of you are suspects or anything, right?” I had to ask.

“Why would we be? We were all in New Jersey when Daisy was killed.” She paused. “What do
you
know about it?”

Uh-oh. “Nothing. I hadn’t heard from Daisy since October. Hadn’t seen her at all.”

“But they said she had a tattoo.” I could hear the accusation in her tone.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“I saw that blog.”

Okay, so now everything was on the table.

“I don’t know anything about that, either,” I said. “To be perfectly honest, someone’s impersonating me. The police are trying to find out who.”

“Why would someone impersonate you?” Melanie asked.

I didn’t want to say that I was being framed in Daisy’s death. I didn’t think I had to say it. But I did.

There were a few seconds of silence, then, “Do you want to come tonight?” Melanie asked. “Maybe Cara would talk to you.”

“You believe me that I didn’t have anything to do with Daisy?” So I needed the validation. Sue me.

“Yes. Listen, Brett, I know you were one of the few people Daisy trusted and you wouldn’t hurt her. And if you can find out who’s impersonating you, we’ll find out who killed Daisy. So come tonight, okay?”

I hadn’t seen the Flamingos perform since last spring, when Daisy gave me front row tickets. I took Joel, who has this affinity for girl pop singers: Miley Cyrus, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift. Most men might be embarrassed about that, but not Joel. He liked to put his iPod in the speaker in the staff room and play it loudly while he worked. The Flamingos were a step up from pop, but only a little step, so it was good enough for him.

“I’d love to,” I said.

“When you get to the MGM, give them your name and they’ll bring you backstage, okay?”

Backstage? I could live with that.

“And you can bring a friend if you want.”

I hadn’t wanted to ask.

“Thanks, Melanie. I’ll see you tonight.” As I hung up, I realized I wouldn’t see only Melanie. I’d also come face to face with Ainsley Wainwright again. While Joel would kill me, I should tell Tim about the invitation and he should come with me.

I quickly punched his number into my cell.

“I was just going to call you, Brett.”

“Why?”

“We found that blogger. Ainsley Wainwright.”

I caught my breath. “How?”

“Some computer mumbo jumbo. I don’t understand it. All I know is, we traced the IP address—that’s computer talk.” He paused. “It’s not an exact science, and if we hadn’t had a break, we would’ve needed a court order to track it to a specific address.”

This was getting way too technical for me.

“So?” I prodded. “What was the break?”

“We knocked on doors.”

“Seems like pretty basic police work.”

“Yeah.”

I was about jumping out of my skin. “When you finally found her, what did she have to say for herself?”

“We didn’t talk to her.”

“She wasn’t there?”

“Yeah. She was.”

I started having a bad feeling about this.

“Brett, she was dead. Had been dead for at least a couple days.”

I
f Ainsley Wainwright had been dead for two days, it meant she could’ve died the same day as Daisy. But then who had posted those pictures of me and Harry? I wasn’t the only one being impersonated, it seemed. Tim agreed with me.

And then I had another thought. “You know, Tim, this woman Ainsley’s supposed to be singing with the Flamingos tonight at the MGM. I met her yesterday. What are the odds that there are two women named Ainsley in Vegas right now? Are you sure that the woman you found in that apartment is really Ainsley Wainwright?”

“What’s your Ainsley’s last name?” he asked, ignoring my question.

I frowned. I had no idea what her last name was. I’d never heard it. Sherman hadn’t told me and neither had Melanie.

“It
is
an unusual name,” Tim admitted, “but we had a positive ID on the woman in that apartment. And we checked the computer and laptop she had there. She was definitely the one blogging.”

“But not the last few posts,” I said. “That would be impossible.”

His silence told me he knew that.

“I’m going to the concert tonight,” I said. “Melanie says I can bring someone. Want to tag along and check out this Ainsley?”

“Might not be a bad idea. Can we get Kevin in, too?”

Right. Flanigan.

“She said I could bring one person, but maybe we can sneak him in,” I said.

“If anyone can sneak anyone in, it’ll be you,” Tim teased.

We agreed to meet at the MGM at eight, since the concert was at nine. I put my phone down and stared at the light table, the opaque whiteness of it putting my eyes into a spin, but I couldn’t look away.

“Brett?”

I had to blink a few times to put Bitsy into focus. “What’s up?” I asked.

She came in and sat down next to me. “I was going to ask you.”

I told her about my conversation with Tim. “So while it seems it should be over, it’s really not because someone picked up the slack for her on that blog after she died.” It dawned on me, too, that I hadn’t asked Tim how Ainsley Wainwright had died.

“It would seem rather silly to kill a blogger just to take over the blog,” Bitsy said, ever practical. “I mean, you could just start up a new blog, right?”

Which was exactly what that person had done. Ink Flamingos. The blog I was supposed to be writing.

I guess whoever was playing this game had decided that I was more interesting to impersonate than Ainsley Wainwright. I said as much to Bitsy.

She bit her lip. “But first she impersonates Ainsley Wainwright, and now she’s dead,” Bitsy said softly.

Her words sank in slowly, but when they did, they hit my gut like a rock. How long before I was dispensable, too? But what would the motive be? I could see writing that new blog to try to throw the blame over at me. Probably the same reason to post those pictures of Harry and me.

I thought about those first pictures, though, the ones of me on the street that were posted on Skin Deep a few weeks back. I remembered, too, how Jeff had said that Ainsley Wainwright had wanted to interview his mother and take her picture for the blog. At some point that blog was legit. And then Ainsley had died and someone else took over.

It was personal. Someone who knew me. Had been following me. Knew I had done Daisy’s tattoos. A shiver shimmied up my spine.

Bitsy could tell I was spooked. “Don’t go over to the MGM alone,” she said. “Take Joel with you. Or have Tim meet you here and then go over with him.”

Not a bad idea. But Tim wasn’t answering his phone now. I didn’t even get voice mail. I hated the idea of asking Joel to come with me to the MGM if he wasn’t going to come to the concert, too. First it was just me, then Tim, then Flanigan, now Joel. It was turning into a party.

“I don’t want Joel to think he can come to the concert,” I said. “It’s bad enough I’m bringing Tim and Flanigan. I don’t want to push it with Melanie.”

“Then have Harry escort you over.” She didn’t turn away quick enough to keep me from noticing the smile.

“I’m not doing anything with Harry again,” I said firmly, determined not to have a repeat of last night. It had cost me my boyfriend, and I was incredibly embarrassed.

“You won’t drink absinthe again,” Bitsy said, “and Harry knows Sherman Potter. He could get Tim and Detective Flanigan in.”

Bitsy was giving Harry way too much credit. I remembered the way Sherman Potter had looked at him when he’d first answered the door yesterday. We were lucky he even remembered Harry at all, and the way Ainsley had been coming on to Harry, well, I wasn’t sure Sherman hadn’t noticed that. And if he had, he might not want his new lead singer to be performing a duet with his old girlfriend’s kid brother.

No, Harry was out.

I knew what Bitsy was going to propose next, and I had to admit that it was the only thing to do.

“Call Jeff.”

As I listened to the phone ring, I told myself it was merely an escort over to the MGM. Nothing more. While Joel would’ve had to come to the concert, Jeff wouldn’t want to. Jeff was totally into heavy metal: Metallica and Tool and Creed and Alice in Chains. He wouldn’t want to be caught dead at a Flamingos concert.

“Murder Ink.” It was Sylvia. I couldn’t help but think about how Ainsley Wainwright had given Sylvia the option of whether she wanted her body art to be featured on Skin Deep, but I’d had no choice in the matter.