Karen Olson - Ink Flamingos

True. So maybe those flashes really were tourists. Ainsley Wainwright was much more discreet.

“So you didn’t see her?” Tim asked.

I tried to think, but the absinthe got in the way. “No. It wasn’t until I’d already had one drink, and, well, that stuff is pretty potent.”

“Why were you drinking it at all?” Tim asked, a tiny bit of anger seeping into his tone.

“It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” I said. “How was I to know she was going to be taking pictures of me drunk?”

“And hanging all over that guy,” Tim added.

It was a really good thing I’d come home. It would’ve been far worse if I’d stayed with Harry. At least I’d had some sense tonight.

I looked back at the computer screen. “I wonder why she’s taking pictures of me,” I said, not wanting to get into the whole Harry thing right now. “She already took pictures of me without my knowing about it. This is sort of like stalking, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s sort of like stalking,” Tim agreed.

“But why? I never met that girl till today.”

“You knew Dee Carmichael.”

It took me a second, but I saw where he was going with this. “And she’s dead. After pictures of her tattoos showed up on this blog.” I paused. “You know, all the pictures on this blog are just of the tattoos. Not the person. You can’t make out who it is, only the tattoo. But the pictures she posted earlier of me, and now these-they’re of me. You can see me. My face. Not just my tattoos.”

I could see by Tim’s expression that he didn’t know the significance of that, either.

“Should I be worried?” I asked him.

“Cautious,” he said. “Be cautious.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the top of the head. “Go to bed now, and we’ll talk more in the morning. You look like you need some sleep.”

Sleep was now the last thing on my mind, but he closed the laptop and shut the light out. I went into my bedroom and changed into a pair of pajama bottoms and a big T-shirt, then climbed into bed.

I must have been more tired than I thought, or maybe the absinthe was wearing off, because I fell asleep almost immediately.

Tim had left me a note on the table when I awoke.

“Had to leave. We’ll talk later.”

I looked out the window into the empty driveway. My car was still in the parking garage at the Venetian. Had he not seen me get out of a cab last night? We’d been so distracted by the pictures on the blog that I’d forgotten to tell him I’d need a ride to work.

He’d made coffee, at least, so I poured myself a cup and sat at the table. The laptop was still there, so I booted it up. Maybe I shouldn’t look at it again, but I wanted to. Maybe I’d get some sort of clue about why she was doing this, now that I had a clearer head after sleep and coffee.

The page hadn’t even popped up when I heard the doorbell.

I got up and peered out the window. A metallic orange Pontiac sat in the driveway.

I glanced down at my pajamas and T-shirt that had a cartoon lobster on it and the words “I love Cape Cod” underneath. At least I was covered up.

I opened the door.

Jeff Coleman grinned when he saw my T-shirt, but he didn’t say anything about it. He pushed his way in, and I shut the door after him.

“Tim called you,” I said, my powers of deduction hard at work.

“Said you needed a ride. I’m your ride. Just dropped my mother over at the community pool.” Jeff had gone into the kitchen and around the table to see the laptop. “Tsk, tsk, Kavanaugh. You really want to be doing that with Harry Desmond? He’s a loser.”

In the light of day and with a head clear of absinthe, I tended to agree. But then I remembered something.

“He’s unemployed, right?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, he’s getting money from somewhere,” I said, telling him about the wad of bills in Harry’s wallet.

Jeff was quiet for a second as he contemplated that. “I can check around,” he said. “Maybe he’s working, and we’re not aware of it.”

“He’s always at my shop these days,” I said, not wanting to get into how Jeff could “check on things.” He had connections I’d be better off not knowing about.

“What’s this chick’s angle?” Jeff asked, changing the subject and pointing at the picture of me and Harry in the bar. “I mean, I don’t get why she’s all hot and bothered by you. Unless, of course…” His voice trailed off and a leer crossed his face.

I slapped his arm. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Your mind was most definitely in the gutter last night,” Jeff said, his finger on the picture of Harry and me kissing on the bridge.

So sue me.

“And absinthe, Kavanaugh? Really? You should know better.”

“I already got read the riot act from Tim, so leave me alone,” I said, embellishing a little. Tim had been concerned, not angry. He’d told me to be cautious. “Why did you leave, anyway? I mean, you were so dead set against me going out with Harry in the first place, but then you left me alone with him.”

“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.”

Ifelt 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?