Pretty In Ink (19 page)

As we went inside, I told him how Bitsy and I had escaped the hospital—and the police.

“And why did you need to escape?”

“Have you seen the news today?” With all the camera crews outside the emergency room, it must be all over TV.

“I don’t exactly have time to be watching
Oprah
. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” He shoved a chair on wheels in my direction, and I stopped it with my foot and sat down. He settled into a worn black leather chair and stuck his feet up on the desk, on top of a pile of stencils.

I started at the beginning and told him the whole thing.

When I was done, his mouth was hanging open.

“You do manage to get yourself into all sorts of predicaments, Kavanaugh.”

“It wasn’t my fault. Charlotte—”

“Got you into trouble,” he finished for me. “That girl
is
trouble. Have you stopped to consider that maybe she’s part of all this?”

I frowned. “No.”

“That’s because you’re way too trusting, Kavanaugh. The world hasn’t chewed you up and spit you out yet.”

“Oh, is that why you look the way you do? Because you’ve been spit out?”

He stared at me a second, and then chuckled. “You really need to lighten up.”

“I really need to find Charlotte and make sure she’s okay.”

“Don’t you think the cops are out looking for her? Why would you be able to find her first?”

Good question.

I heard a buzzer in the distance.

Jeff looked up at a clock on the wall. “That’s my client.” He got up and shoved the stencils around, grabbing one.

“So you’re just going to leave me back here?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You can stay or you can go.” He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a set of keys. “If you promise to drive safe, you can borrow my car.” He tossed me the keys.

I reached out and caught them with my left hand.

He grinned. “Good catch. Car’s in back. Gold Pontiac.” He started for the front of the shop, then paused, turning back for a second. “Be careful, Kavanaugh.”

“Why are you being so nice?”

“Because maybe I’d like to think that the girl’s not guilty, either. And no cracks about me having a heart or anything.”

He disappeared through the sixties-style colored beads in the doorway.

I eyed the keys in my hand. He didn’t have to know that I didn’t have my driver’s license on me. Did he?

I shoved the back door open and found his car just up past the Chinese restaurant.

“Gold” was an understatement. It was as bright as a new penny. I certainly wouldn’t be undercover in this. But who would think to look for me in a gold Pontiac anyway? As I climbed into the driver’s seat, I started to feel a little invincible.

But just a little.

The car smelled like cigarettes, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I would, too, once I emerged. The ashtray was overflowing with butts, and I pulled it out and took it over to the Dumpster, where I emptied it.

I started the car and pondered where I should go. Tim would argue that I should go back to the hospital, answer DeBurra’s questions, and apologize for running out on Dr. Colin Bixby. That would be the right thing to do.

Instead, I turned north on Las Vegas Boulevard.

If Charlotte wasn’t at Ace’s, like yesterday, and she probably wasn’t home because the police were sitting on top of her apartment, then where would she go?

She might be at Trevor’s.

I didn’t know where Trevor lived, but I did know where Chez Tango was, and maybe Kyle was there. He might know where Trevor’s place was.

I continued along Las Vegas Boulevard, crossing over Fremont Street. The neon still flashed in the daytime, luring the tourists and the gamblers. It was that shiny object that tantalized and tempted. The city had turned this portion of Fremont into a pedestrian walkway, like it was some sort of family attraction. As if poker and slots and strip shows were child’s play.

I left Fremont Street behind and continued a couple of blocks until I turned into Chez Tango’s parking lot.

It was a little jarring to see Chez Tango in the bright light of day. It was a short, squat, stucco building that spread along half a block. At night, white and gold Christmas lights twinkled along the outline of the roof and around the entrance, making it festive and almost magical. Now the string of lights hung slackly, like an old woman’s breasts.

I pulled in next to an old pickup truck.

I’d seen that truck before.

Outside Cash & Carry.

I gripped the steering wheel. Rusty Abbott had gotten into that pickup yesterday. As he ran from me for the second time.

I thought about what Jeff Coleman had said, that Rusty Abbott said accidents happen.

Would he run again if I approached him here?

I was tired of the game, but just as I figured I had nothing to lose, I thought about how it might be better to meet up with him in a public place. Certainly not a mostly deserted Chez Tango. My idea about going inside quickly disintegrated. I wasn’t going to be that stupid.

The sound of a car pulling into the lot startled me. It was a dusty blue Honda CRV, and it came to a stop on the other side of the pickup, out of my line of sight.

I heard a door slam; then a figure walked around the front of the pickup.

Kyle Albrecht, aka MissTique.

Ah, a friendly face.

I got out of the car. “Hey, Kyle,” I said.

When he saw who I was, he smiled. “Brett, what are you doing here?” Then the smile disappeared and he said somberly, “Awful about Trevor, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’m so sorry.”

“Is that why you’re here? About Trevor?” he asked, his curiosity obvious.

“Sort of.” I glanced at the pickup. “Do you know the guy who owns this truck?”

Kyle studied the truck, then shook his head. “No. Should I?”

“No, guess not.” I paused. “I’m actually looking for Charlotte. She could be in trouble.”

Concern flooded Kyle’s face. “What’s wrong?”

I tried to make light of it. “Some police detective thinks she might be in some sort of danger.” I attempted a laugh, but it came out a little twittery and not all too human. “This morning she called me, said she needed my help. Asked me to meet her at a condo off the Strip. When I got there, Wesley Lambert was dead. Ricin poisoning. She was gone already, but I know she was there earlier. She might be sick.” I figured I would play on his sympathy.

But he was still wrapping his head around the whole story and didn’t seem to be able to concentrate on one thing, until: “Wesley Lambert? You’re kidding, right?”

“Not kidding, Kyle.”

“And Charlotte might be sick? How?”

“Just by inhaling the ricin. It was spilled all over.”

He gave me a long look. “You don’t think she killed him or anything, do you?”

Bitsy had asked the same thing, and I gave him the same answer I gave her, although admittedly I couldn’t help wondering the same thing. “No.”

“How do you know she was at Wesley’s?”

I told him about the pink hoodie, which reminded me . . .

“Did you ever find out who owned that gray sweatshirt we found at the club the other night?”

Kyle nodded absently. “Yeah, it was Stephan’s. Where do you think she went?”

“I thought maybe she might go to Trevor’s place to hang low, but I don’t know where Trevor lives.”

Kyle cocked his head at the Pontiac. “That your ride?”

I hated to admit it and nodded reluctantly.

He walked around to the passenger side. “Let’s go.”

T
revor lived in an apartment complex on Charleston Boulevard, going west toward Red Rock. The gray mountains rose in the distance as I drove past office buildings, gas stations, hole-in-the-wall eateries, and condominiums.

Kyle was asking about ricin.

“It’s made from castor beans,” I said, one of the few things I knew about it myself.

“How?”

I had absolutely no idea. “I bet we could find out online.”

“We can find out how to build a nuclear bomb online,” Kyle said.

I thought about what Tim had said about ricin being a weapon of terrorists. “We’d probably get on some sort of government list if we looked it up,” I said.

He laughed and batted his eyelashes. “Honey, we’re probably already on some government list.”

He was right about that. I bet Frank DeBurra had the Secret Service out looking for me right this very second. It probably didn’t help that I was driving a car that the bad guys on
Miami Vice
would find cool. I just hoped that Jeff Coleman didn’t have any sort of outstanding traffic tickets that would alert the cops and get us stopped.

I wasn’t one to speed and I rarely even ran yellow lights, so I knew my driving habits wouldn’t draw attention.

Kyle pointed to an apartment building that looked like something out of Tudor England. It was out of place among the stucco and banana yuccas.

“Turn here,” he instructed.

I did as I was told, and I pulled around the building, which I saw now was raised, with parking spots underneath. Kyle directed me to a spot that he said was just under Trevor’s apartment.

I made sure to lock up the Pontiac. Not that there was anything in it to steal, except maybe the car itself. This definitely looked like a gold Pontiac neighborhood.

We climbed a staircase up to the walkway that ran along the perimeter of the building. The apartments were lined up along it like little wooden soldiers.

Kyle stopped at the one closest to the stairway, took out a key, unlocked the door, and opened it.

Trevor’s apartment was a mess. At first I thought maybe someone had tossed it on purpose, but Kyle didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.

“Charlotte?” I called, then turned to Kyle when no one answered. “Was he this messy?” I asked, noting the piles of beauty and celebrity magazines next to the flowered sofa and more cardboard boxes than I could count. “Or was he moving?”

Kyle grinned. “Our Britney loved the QVC.” He pointed out the exercise equipment taking up the corner of the room and the wigs hung suspended from it. It looked like a character from some creepy Tim Burton movie.

I stepped over piles of sequined clothing and stiletto shoes toward the galley kitchen. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, and it smelled like that Dumpster behind Murder Ink. I wrinkled my nose. “How did he live like this?” I asked.

Kyle held up a pair of nylons. “These are in good shape,” he said, stuffing them in his front pocket. He picked a silk top up off the floor and held it up in front of his chest. “Is it my color?”

“You know, Kyle, Trevor’s dead. Do you think he’d want you rifling through his things?”

Kyle chuckled. “Trevor would be the first one to clean this place out, girl. Nothing should go to waste.”

I pushed aside heavy curtains, letting the sun in, and opened a sliding glass door that led to a small balcony overlooking the front entrance to the complex. A small breeze wafted in, and I wondered whether it would be enough to air this place out.

The bathroom was in worse shape than the kitchen: makeup everywhere. Kyle started pawing through it, picking up mascara and taking out the wand to make sure it was still fresh. He wiped some foundation on his face with a cotton ball and turned to me.

“Too dark, right?”

Kyle’s skin was very pale, as compared to Trevor’s darker, tanned complexion. I nodded, moving toward the bedroom.

More of the same. I didn’t even bother going farther than the doorway. It was starting to get to me, how sad it made Trevor’s life seem, living in this mess.

“She’s not here,” I said as I passed the bathroom. Kyle was still playing with the makeup.

I went back out onto the balcony to collect my thoughts. There was a white plastic chair there, with a matching table. I sat down and looked out at the street through the slats in the balcony wall.

“Didn’t Charlotte say she was bringing Trevor’s makeup case here after the show the other night?” Kyle asked, startling me. He’d put on one of Trevor’s wigs, a dark, flowing mess of curls that actually looked pretty good on Kyle. The dress he’d donned was purple lamé, and it would be clingy in all the right places if there were any of those places to cling to. But Kyle was just playing dress-up and had forgone any semblance of breasts.

Still, he was a fine-looking woman.

“Isn’t his makeup case in there?” I asked, indicating the bathroom.

“Not the one he used for shows. I can’t find it anywhere.”

I frowned. That was funny. Charlotte had taken the case that night. And as I thought about the case, I remembered that Dr. Bixby had the brooch. He’d said it was the only item Trevor had on his person when he went to the hospital. Somehow the brooch had gone from the case to Trevor, but where was the case?

I leaned over and put my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, closing my eyes. I needed to make sense of all this.

Unfortunately, my brain was all mixed up right now.

“What about this?”

I looked up to see Kyle posing in a shimmery satin minidress and thigh-high white patent leather boots.

“Very Donna Summer,” I said.

Kyle grinned. “And this isn’t the best part.”

I wondered what that would be: Another wig that would hit the ceiling? Huge round rhinestone sunglasses?

“Guess what I found in the boots.”

I didn’t want to know. From the state of Trevor’s apartment, there could be a family of small rodents playing house in those boots. There was certainly room enough in them.

But when Kyle held out his hands, instead of mice, they were filled with bills. As in money. As in the most cash I’d ever seen in one place besides a casino.