Pretty In Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  “I think you’ve had contact with Charlotte Sampson today. And I think you’re keeping it from me.”

  I stopped short and whirled around to face him. “You know, Charlotte’s the one who was threatened. It’s not as if she committed a crime or anything. You should be trying to find the guy who threatened her, not acting as if an innocent girl was guilty of something.”

  As I spoke, an expression crossed his face that I couldn’t read. I began to wonder whether she was guilty of something, regardless of what that pawnshop guy said. That would explain why she was hiding, why DeBurra was going after her like a dog after a bone.

  DeBurra gave a short snort. “So you don’t know where she is, do you?”

  I sighed. “No, I really don’t. I’m telling the truth. I did talk to her, but she won’t say where she is. I’m doing my best.”

  “Miss Kavanaugh, if you were doing your best, Charlotte Sampson would be turning herself in.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But there’s just so much I can do.”

  “It’s for her own good,” DeBurra said.

  “Like I don’t know that.”

  “No, really,” he said, his voice lower now, like he was going to tell me a secret.

  I leaned forward slightly to hear him better.

  “Charlotte Sampson got mixed up with the wrong people. Wesley Lambert, for one. And her life may be in danger.”

  Chapter 19

  First Wesley Lambert gets involved with the wrong people, and now Charlotte. What was Lambert involved in? If it was drugs, like Kyle suggested, how did Trevor’s brooch come into play? And then warning Eduardo that he’d send a message to Trevor. Sort of like how Rusty Abbott was warning me through Jeff.

  “I haven’t seen her,” I said again and pushed my way past DeBurra.

  I’d taken about three steps when I heard his voice behind me.

  “I’m going to be your shadow. She has to show up eventually.”

  That was going to be a royal pain. But I didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge that I’d even heard him. Instead I went inside and found Joel already chewing on chips and salsa at a table near the back. A margarita sat on the table.

  I slid into the chair across from Joel and took a sip. Smooth, tart, perfect. I smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  I told him about my close encounter of the irritating kind with Frank DeBurra. He murmured appropriately throughout.

  “What’s up with this guy Lambert? Is he a drug dealer or does he just deal in gaudy jewelry?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but I think he’s the guy in the pawnshop who threatened Charlotte.”

  “What does he want?”

  I had no idea.

  A waitress came over and set down a gigantic plate of nachos slathered in cheese and chili. Joel thanked her politely before taking a handful onto his plate. I suddenly wasn’t very hungry anymore, but I needed something in my stomach to soak up all that tequila; otherwise, the good detective who’d vowed to keep following me would have a legitimate excuse to pull me over on my way home.

  We ate in comfortable silence, my thoughts all over the place. I wondered whether I’d be able to get any sleep tonight with the activity going on in my brain.

  When the nachos were gone and the margarita glass drained, I opened my mouth to start up again, but Joel shook his head and put his fingers to his lips.

  “I’m worried about Charlotte, too, Brett, but I think Ace is taking care of her and you should just go home and get some sleep.”

  “What, does everyone know about Ace and Charlotte but me?”

  He chuckled. “Brett, they’ve been dating practically since Charlotte started working for us. You haven’t noticed how they moon at each other?”

  I thought about it. “No.”

  “You should pay more attention. They make a pretty couple.”

  That they did: Ace with his handsome, movie-star looks and Charlotte with her long, sleek dark hair, bright eyes, and pixie face. Each of them, too, had symmetrical tattoos-Ace had sleeves that ended in perfect matching fleur-de-lis, and Charlotte had those derringers.

  I just hoped that when all this was over I wasn’t going to lose one or even two of my employees.

  Joel gave me a kiss on the cheek before I got into my car to head home. I told him not to bother following me anymore, since I was sure DeBurra was out there somewhere. I arrived at my house in one piece; I hadn’t noticed anyone behind me. Maybe he was full of hot air.

  Tim was already asleep. I put on my cotton pajama bottoms and a big T-shirt, crawled into bed, and, despite my worries, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  I got up about nine. I missed Tim again; he had gone to work while I slept. We didn’t see each other very much, even though we were roommates. His job had odd hours, and mine kept me at the shop until midnight most nights. Every once in a while, like yesterday, our paths crossed.

  I’d hoped to talk to him again about DeBurra and tell him what had happened last night. I’d have to try to call him later. I wanted to know, too, whether he’d poked around about Wesley Lambert and if he’d found out anything about him.

  I brought my laptop into the kitchen-wireless Internet is a beautiful thing-and drank my coffee while I booted it up. I wanted to check out that Queen of Hearts Ball Kyle had told me about-the one where Trevor got that pin.

  The Queen of Hearts Ball was a fund-raiser held about a year ago to benefit an AIDS organization. Lester Fine had been there, as well as other celebrities and political luminaries. The organization had raised more than five million dollars at the event, which took place at the MGM, which happened to be right across the street from New York New York, where I’d had my gambling windfall. Not that that had anything to do with anything.

  The MGM used to have a Wizard of Oz theme going, with statues of Dorothy and her friends in the lobby. It also had an amusement park in the back, to try to lure families to Sin City.

  It didn’t work.

  Now the resort was sans roller coasters but boasted five pools, Joël Robuchon’s restaurant, Studio 54, and one of the ubiquitous Vegas Cirque du Soleil shows. The lobby was spacious, with a gilded lion standing sentry in a fountain of flowers under a gold-lit inverted dome that distorted its reflections like a funhouse mirror.

  Could be a cool place for a fund-raiser.

  I read through a couple of newspaper articles announcing the event, and a couple more that reported on it. Small, jeweled pins with the image of a queen-of-hearts playing card were handed out as giveaways.

  Since about five hundred people had attended, there were hundreds of those little suckers floating around.

  But Trevor had one that was real. A gift from Lester Fine, according to him. What was up with that?

  I clicked on images and found plenty of pictures from the ball. A lot of sparkly evening gowns and tuxedos. Ah, there was Lester Fine, dashing in his tails. His acting career had started thirty years ago, when he was twenty. He starred in a political thriller that grossed more than anyone expected. Fine had played the bad guy.

  Another picture showed Fine with his arm around his wife, Alice. I knew their story. He’d married her before his first big hit; they were high school sweethearts. Hollywood praised their ability to keep it together when so many celebrity couples broke up.

  A closer look at Alice showed a fairly attractive middle-aged woman who’d had a little too much Botox. She had that perpetual look of surprise in each picture; it couldn’t be the flash every time. She was used to the limelight, hanging on Lester’s arm. She wore a bright blue babydoll dress that was about twenty years too young for her, and her obviously dyed blond hair was too long. Women her age shouldn’t try to hang on to their youth; it made them look older.

  I made a mental note to follow my own advice.

  A close-up of the couple showed each wearing a queen-of-hearts pin.

  I clicked on the next picture.

  MissTique was posing with Lester F
ine, who looked decidedly uncomfortable. A little homophobic, perhaps?

  The next pictures were all of drag queens who’d performed at the ball. Britney Brassieres, Miranda Rites, Lola LaTuche, and Marva Luss had been together before MissTique brought them into Chez Tango. I had a small pang of sadness looking at Britney, aka Trevor McKay. He, or she, I suppose, looked like she was having the time of her life.

  And here was Britney with her arm around none other than Rusty Abbott.

  I still thought Rusty was pretty enough to do drag himself, but he was wearing a tuxedo and looking rather dashing. It was a lot better than the jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing at the roulette table.

  Thinking about Rusty Abbott prompted me to remember Jeff Coleman’s call about how Rusty warned that accidents happen. I jumped up and went to the front door to make sure Tim had locked it.

  I should have known better than to doubt Tim. The door was locked, as was the one that led out to the garage.

  I settled back in with my laptop and a fresh cup of coffee.

  I clicked through to the next page. There were a lot of pictures from the ball, mixed in with images of queen-of-hearts playing cards.

  Another one caught my eye, and I double clicked.

  A drag queen I didn’t recognize. This one looked like she was Donna Summer’s twin, only white: a big bouffant of black hair, thick, bright blue eye makeup, a slinky white sequined dress, and high boots straight from the seventies. I clicked on the picture. It was the images page from the Queen of Hearts Ball Web site. I read the caption and held my breath.

  Shanda Leer.

  Otherwise known as Wesley Lambert.

  And he was standing with his arm around Charlotte.

  Chapter 20

  I sat back and sipped my coffee, staring at the picture. So DeBurra was right: Charlotte knew Lambert, and they had both been at the ball with Trevor and Rusty Abbott. I asked myself just how well I knew Charlotte Sampson.

  I hated that I was doubting her, but the police were looking for her and she refused to come out of hiding. Instinct, or maybe it was growing up with a dad who was a cop, told me that hiding meant guilt. Or maybe she was just truly afraid of something or someone.

  I sighed and took another sip of my coffee, which had grown cold.

  I clicked on the next picture, just to get this one off my screen.

  I sat up a little straighter in my chair as I looked at the image. It was Rusty Abbott and Lester Fine. Obviously later in the evening. Rusty wasn’t wearing his tuxedo jacket; his shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

  He didn’t have a tattoo.

  I tried to remember when Jeff said Rusty had come in with the two drag queens. I didn’t think he’d said specifically, just maybe sometime last year. From the looks of this picture, it could have been after the Queen of Hearts Ball.

  I thought about the other two tattoos Jeff had done. Who were those drag queens? I had to find out.

  I was willing to bet one of the three was the champagne shooter, though. It just seemed like it should be connected. It had to be.

  I put Rusty Abbott’s name into Google. I wanted to see whether I could find his address before he could find mine. I’d at least feel like I had the upper hand that way, and I could tell Tim. Maybe he could check Abbott out for me.

  There was nothing on the guy. I found a couple of Rusty Abbotts, but they were obviously not the one I was looking for. One was a contractor in Texas and the other a park ranger in Alaska.

  I did find a phone number through Lester Fine’s campaign Web site. I jotted it down on a pad we kept next to the phone in the kitchen.

  Just as I was about to call the guy-might as well nip this in the bud-the phone rang, startling me. I picked up the receiver, absently going back to the laptop as I said, “Hello?”

  “Brett?”

  “Charlotte?”

  “Brett, I’m in trouble.”

  “No kidding.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I mentally slapped myself. I shouldn’t kick someone while they’re down. “Sorry,” I said when she didn’t respond. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need you to help me.”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking that maybe now I could talk her into talking to the police, especially since DeBurra said her life might be in danger.

  “I need you to meet me.”

  “Charlotte, before you go any further, why don’t I bring Tim along?” Tim would be more friendly than DeBurra.

  “You can’t bring Tim. Just yourself. I need your help.”

  This was the second time she’d said that, and I grew concerned. “What have you got yourself involved with, Charlotte?”

  I heard a sob. “Don’t tell Ace, either, okay? I didn’t call him. He wouldn’t understand.”

  This was getting more and more mysterious. But I was willing to give her a chance to explain herself. Before I called Tim.

  “Calm down, okay? Where are you?”

  She gave me an address. It was just off the Strip, one of the high-rise condominiums. “It’s number twelve thirty-two,” she said. “Just go into the lobby, and take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Can you come now?”

  She sounded so desperate, I couldn’t say no. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, okay? Can you hang tight?”

  But she’d already hung up.

  I put on a pair of jeans and a stretchy black T-shirt with a pink peace sign on it. The outfit covered up most of my ink, except the garden sleeve. Usually I liked to be a walking billboard for my shop, but I wasn’t sure I should bring that much attention to myself on this mission to help Charlotte.

  What could she have gotten into?

  As I climbed into the Mustang, I debated calling Tim anyway, then chided myself for being a tattletale. I’d talk her into letting me call him later. She was going to have to listen to reason.

  It was nine o’clock, and I knew I had an eleven o’clock client, so I hoped this wasn’t going to take too long. Fortunately, I’d already done the stencil so I just needed to go in and do the ink.

  The Windsor Palms condominium was one of myriad condo buildings that had gone up around the Strip a couple years back, sold mainly as second homes. The condos were not for the poor and hopeful. They were for the rich who had enough money socked away that they didn’t need to worry about the foundering economy. But still, because of the real estate bust and the high rate of foreclosure in Vegas, a lot of developers had scrapped plans to build even more condos. I couldn’t help but think that Vegas would survive and those plans would be revived at some point. Sin City was too popular a destination and the climate too desirable.

  I turned down the private road that led to the Windsor Palms and noted the palm trees that lined the sidewalks, allowing it to live up to its name. When I reached the circular drive with a fountain in the center, a small, discreet sign pointed me in the direction of the parking garage.

  I found a spot on the second level and continued to follow signs to the elevator and then out toward the building lobby. I pushed open a glass door and stepped into a spacious atrium with a waterfall and all sorts of lush greenery. It was sort of like those science museums where you can walk through different ecosystems. Humidity hung in the air, the kind that I hadn’t felt since leaving Jersey, the kind that clung to your skin in a clammy sort of way.

  I liked it.

  A security guard sat at a tall desk with a monitor in front of him. He was a big, heavyset black guy with an Afro from the seventies. His smile was warm.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  I told him the condo number Charlotte had rattled off.

  “You have to sign in.” He pushed a clipboard with a sign-in sheet on it toward me.

  I noted that Charlotte’s name wasn’t on the sheet, but the time of the first visitor was eight a.m. Maybe she’d been here earlier, or even all night.

  I printed my name neatly as the instructions indicated, wrote down the condo number and the time, and handed the cl
ipboard back to the guard.

  “Elevators are around the waterfall and to your right,” he said.

  I thanked him and found them easily. As I went up in the mirrored elevator, I thought about how I might want to move out of Tim’s house at some point and get my own place. I made pretty good money, and housing prices had come down considerably. And if that sixty grand I’d just won at roulette was legit-I wasn’t too certain, since Rusty Abbott had given me that chip-it would make a nice down payment. I liked the idea of a security guard, although the waterfall was a colossal waste of water in a city where waterfalls were not a natural phenomenon, especially during a drought.

  The elevator doors opened and I stepped into the hall. I found number twelve thirty-two with no problem and pressed the buzzer.

  I pressed it a second time when about a minute passed and no one responded.

  When I didn’t get an answer that time, I figured knocking on the door might be a good idea. Where was Charlotte?

  The second I knocked, the door swung open by itself. It hadn’t been closed shut.

  A funny smell hit my nose: a mixture of vomit and smoke.

  I hesitated. I’d been in situations like this before, and I had a bad feeling. I should go right back downstairs and get that security guard.

  First, though, I called out, “Charlotte? Charlotte, are you here?”

  Silence.

  I thought about how paranoid she’d been acting.

  I was still in the hallway, and I made an executive decision. I stepped inside.

  The room laid out before me must have been about sixteen hundred square feet by itself; floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Strip. The space was split in two: a living room area and a kitchen. In the former, elegant furniture was scattered around the room; each wall was a different shade of blue and held gigantic oil abstracts that complemented the décor. The floor was a laminate, but plush throw rugs gave the room some warmth. A long, dark granite countertop separated the two areas. Top-end stainless-steel, state-of-the-art kitchen appliances, and cherry cupboards told me that no price was too high.