The Missing Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  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?

  I moved through the bedroom and saw the open bathroom door. All the lights were on. I still didn’t hear anything, though.

  I was going to see his naked butt anyway, so I decided against shyness and poked my head into the bathroom. I was tired of this and just wanted to get to work.

  I realized, though, that my easy five hundred wasn’t going to be so easy.

  He lay slumped over the edge of the Jacuzzi bathtub, his head lolled on its side, an eye staring up at the ceiling. There was no water in the tub, and I was pretty sure he was dead.

  But it wasn’t the celebrity I’d been expecting to see.

  I had no idea who it was.

  Chapter 18

  I didn’t want to put my fingerprints anywhere, so I hit the elevator button with my elbow. I had a minute or two before the doors opened, and I took a couple of deep breaths to try to calm down. I immediately thought of Jeff Coleman and how he’d sent me over here. Did he know about this? Had he set me up?

  I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I was having a hard time
with that.

  The elevator finally arrived, and I again hit the lobby button with my elbow and felt the drop in my gut. When I stepped out, a footman-a different one this time-was waiting. He was frowning.

  “Is there a problem, miss?”

  “You might say that. There’s a body up there, in the bathroom, in the bathtub.” As I said it, I started to feel a little woozy.

  I sank down on the floor, dropping my case at my side, and put my head between my knees.

  “What’s the problem?”

  It was a baritone, with an English accent.

  “She says there’s a body in the Marie Antoinette Suite,” I heard the footman whisper.

  “Who are you?” I felt his breath on my cheek, and I looked up into deep brown eyes that twinkled at me.

  “Brett Kavanaugh. The Painted Lady.”

  His mouth quivered slightly, as if he wanted to smile but stopped himself in time. I felt myself get warm all over as his eyes now moved to my arm and then across my chest to the dragon’s head, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. In fact, just the opposite.

  “Yes, Miss Kavanaugh, I see that. What were you doing in the Marie Antoinette Suite, and what did you see up there?”

  I glanced behind him to see a crowd starting to form. I cocked my head and said, “Maybe we should just go up there and I can show you.”

  His hand was under my elbow-sending a small electric shock through me that I told myself was just from the carpeting, but from the way he was looking at me, I wasn’t totally able to convince myself of that-and he gently helped me up, leaning down slightly to pick up my case with his other hand. “Let’s,” he said simply and nodded at the footman, who fetched the elevator for us.

  Once inside and going up, my stomach doing more flip-flops, I noticed the stranger was slightly taller than I was and had a sort of rakish, Hugh Jackman look about him. His hair was blonder, streaked with natural highlights, brushed back to emphasize the angles of his face. I figured he was mid-thirties or so. He wore a navy suit with a red tie but carried it off better than the Young Republican I’d seen earlier.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He did smile then.

  “Simon Chase. I’m the manager.”

  “I thought everyone here had to be French.”

  His eyebrows arched slightly. “It is a bit of a sacrilege to have an Englishman here, but Bruce Manning likes my résumé.”

  “And I guess what Bruce Manning likes, Bruce Manning gets,” I said, happy to have a small distraction from what we were about to walk in on.

  “Perhaps now that you know who I am, you can tell me why you’re here, Miss Kavanaugh.”

  “I was here to give a guy a tattoo, but when I showed up, I didn’t see the guy I was supposed to see. Instead, I saw some other guy dead in the bathtub.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “He didn’t look alive.” As I remembered, I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn’t get woozy again.

  The amusement disappeared off his face, and his mouth set in a grim line. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

  I got the sense he didn’t believe me-like I would make something like that up-but before I could say anything further, the doors slid open and we were stepping back into the suite.

  I smelled it then, the faint pungent scent that I hadn’t noticed the first time because I’d been too hopped up about my celebrity encounter. Simon Chase smelled it, too, and his nose wrinkled, leading him toward the bathroom. I followed, not only to make sure the body was there, like I’d said, but to keep an eye on my case, which he was still carrying.

  Simon Chase turned at the door, his hand again taking my elbow and steering me back out into the living area. “I see what you mean.” He looked over at the footman, who was standing sentry at the elevator. “Please call nine-one-one. But we need to be discreet. Have them meet you at the loading dock entrance, and bring them up that way, please.”

  The footman nodded and stepped backward into the elevator, the doors closing.

  Simon Chase let go of me then, put my case on the floor, and sank down on the back of a plush sofa, facing me.

  “So, Miss Kavanaugh, you were here for a job. To tattoo a gentleman. But not that gentleman in the loo?”

  “No. Not him.” And I told him who was supposed to be the recipient of the Stones logo, without going into the intimate details of my assignment.

  Simon Chase didn’t stop the smile this time, which spread from his lips up to his eyes. I was feeling slightly unnerved. It had been a long time since I’d felt an attraction like this, and if my radar was working properly-I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was-it seemed he was reciprocating.

  “That particular guest left yesterday, Miss Kavanaugh. I find it difficult to believe he would arrange this, since he knew he would be leaving.”

  My mind was racing. Again I wondered if Jeff had set me up. Then again, maybe he’d been set up. He was the one who was supposed to be here, not me. He had told me that he thought someone was framing him in Kelly’s death.

  “I’m actually covering for someone else, another tattooist,” I admitted.

  “So he’s the one who arranged this?” I could tell that he, too, wondered if I’d been set up.

  “I really think he thought it was his client who called and made the appointment,” I said, surprising myself by defending Jeff. But my gut told me Jeff wouldn’t set me up like this, despite our tenuous relationship. Would he? Seemed my gut was a little ambivalent.

  “Who’s in there?” I asked.

  “So you really don’t know?”

  “No. Is it a big secret?”

  “I suppose not.” Simon Chase got up and walked around to the window, his back to me for a second before he turned to face me.

  “His name is Matt Powell. He’s Chip Manning’s driver.”

  Chapter 19

  Before I could react, a loud cacophony of cheering swept through the window from somewhere below. I must have looked puzzled, because Simon Chase beckoned me over.

  A crowd of what looked like French peasants was racing toward the front of the building. If I wasn’t mistaken, they were waving sticks of French bread.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “They’re storming the Bastille. Every afternoon at three. You’ve just missed Marie Antoinette telling them to eat cake.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “This is Versailles. Have you been in the casino?”

  I shook my head, unable to rip my eyes away from the production going on outside.

  “Guillotines.”

  I looked at him then. “What?”

  “The slot machines. When you hit a jackpot, the blade crashes down on top of the machine. It’s not real, of course, so no one will get hurt.”

  Sometimes the illusions went too far. But he seemed rather proud of his guillotines, so I kept the thought to myself. Instead, I changed the subject.

  “So why would Chip Manning’s driver be here?”

  Simon Chase took a deep breath. “When your client left yesterday, Chip moved in here. He usually stays in this suite when he’s in town, but his visit this time was, well, unexpected.”

  Because he was supposed to be on his honeymoon with Elise.

  “You’re the woman on the telly, aren’t you?” Simon had finally made the connection.

  “That’s right.”

  “You saw Elise.”

  “Yes.” I didn’t quite know what else to say. If he’d seen the bit on TV, then he already knew what I knew.

  Fortunately, the conversation had to stop at that point, because the elevator doors opened and the footman led two detectives, a couple of crime scene forensics guys like the ones you see on TV, and two paramedics and a gurney into the room.

  Simon Chase became all business. He showed them where the body was. One of the detectives tossed a glance back at me, and I recognized him as one of Tim’s buddies. Great.

  “She found the body,�
� I heard Simon saying from the other room.

  I felt my stomach drop with those words, and when I saw the detective-what was his name?-come out to talk to me, it got worse.

  “What happened here, Brett?”

  He was on a first-name basis with me, but I was in the dark about his.

  “I was supposed to see someone else, a client, and when I got here, I saw this guy instead.” That was it in a nutshell.

  He wanted more than that.

  “So someone commissioned you to, well…” His voice trailed off as he tried to figure out just what it was I was supposed to do.

  “It was a house call,” I filled in for him. “Someone who wanted a tat. But that client wasn’t here. The guy in the bathroom was.”

  “Who was the client?”

  I told him, and his eyebrows shot up, a grin dancing across his face. “Really?”

  “But he wasn’t here,” I repeated. “So I went downstairs, and Mr. Chase came back up with me.”

  The elevator doors opened again, and a big, white-haired man bounded into the room.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded, looking straight at Simon Chase.

  I didn’t need anyone to tell me his name. He was Simon Chase’s boss, Bruce Manning. I’d seen him enough on TV myself to know that.

  “I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” I heard Simon murmur, taking Manning’s elbow much like he did mine earlier and steering him toward the window, next to the piano, away from the activity.

  Why is it that an English accent will make anything sound civilized-even death?

  “We’re going to need to take your fingerprints,” the detective was saying to me.

  Brian. That was it. That was his name.

  “Sure, I guess so, but I didn’t touch anything. I used my elbow to push the elevator button.” I paused. “Does this mean he was murdered? He didn’t just keel over in the tub?”

  Brian didn’t look too happy with me. “We’re going to need to take them, just in case.”

  I knew what that meant: just in case I was lying about why I was here, who I was supposed to see. Just in case I happened to have killed that guy in there.