Karen Olson - Pretty In Ink

“Okay, so you borrowed Coleman’s car. Where is it now?”

Oops. Left that part out.

“When I brought Kyle back to the club, I went in to use the phone, and when I came back out, the tires were slashed. So it was towed to a garage.”

“All the tires were slashed?”

I nodded.

“Did you find that unusual?” He was baiting me.

I took it. “Yes. I did find that unusual, Detective.” The sarcasm dripped off my words. “I figured someone didn’t want me poking around.”

“And then when you went back to Trevor McKay’s place, you got shot at. You’d just been there and the tires were slashed. Is there a connection?”

“How should I know? You’re the detective. Is there a connection?” I had stood up and was shaking with anger and exhaustion. I was one breath away from tears. There it was. The one breath. And there were the waterworks.

My whole body heaved with sobs, but I didn’t take my eyes off DeBurra’s face. It unnerved him. He began to shift from foot to foot; his eyes skipped over to the door as if willing someone to save him.

And that’s exactly what Tim did by speaking up at just that very moment.

“I think that’s enough,” he told DeBurra sternly. “I’m taking her home. If you want to ask her more questions in the morning, I can bring her back. But she needs some sleep.” He put his arm around me, which only made me cry harder. I couldn’t stop once I’d started.

Which is why DeBurra let us leave.

I went into the ladies’ room and managed to calm down a little, throwing some cold water on my face and running wet hands through my hair. It was a little spikier that way, slicked back over my ears, which were still naked. I fingered them absently, wondering whether I should leave them that way for a while. No. I’d find replacements in my jewelry box at home.

When I emerged, not feeling totally refreshed but at least no longer sobbing, Tim and I went out to his Jeep in the parking lot without saying anything to each other. I was tired of talking, anyway.

The desert air was still, and it had cooled a bit. If I figured right, it was about eight.

“What about Jeff Coleman? Is he still in there?” I asked, cocking my head toward the building as we climbed into the Jeep.

“DeBurra took his statement and let him go after about an hour.”

“That’s good.”

“I had a little chat with him. You know, Brett, he’s not a bad guy. Why don’t you like him?”

I was glad the sun was going down, so my face was in a shadow. I felt the blush crawl up my neck as I remembered Jeff grabbing me and covering me with his body when the gunshots rang out.

I shrugged. “Yeah, he’s not so bad after all, I guess.”

“He thinks pretty highly of you.”

Really? I was too tired to think about it.

“Do you think Ace is involved in whatever it is Charlotte’s up to?” Tim asked. “Off the record.”

“No. And until I saw her today jumping off that balcony, I didn’t really want to think she was doing anything wrong, either. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Did you do a background check on her when you hired her?”

I stared at him. “No. Should I have? She’s just a trainee.”

“Brett, you should background check everyone you hire, even a trainee.”

Something about his tone made me pause. “You know something, don’t you?”

He kept his eyes on the road, flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What is it, Tim? What’s in her background?”

“I can’t say.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who said this was all off the record. So you didn’t really tell me, okay?”

The Jeep slowed to a stop at a light on the Strip. The Venetian was just to our left in all its Renaissance Italy glory. It looked exactly like the Doge’s Palace, with a sign for Madame Tussauds wax museum stuck like a postage stamp at the end of a ramp. I stared at it for a long second before whispering, “Tim? Please tell me about Charlotte.”

The light changed and he gunned the accelerator, causing the Jeep to lurch forward.

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I know.”

He waited until we were sitting at the next light.

“Metro Homeland Security’s been watching Charlotte Sampson since last year.”

I tried to wrap my head around what Tim was saying, but the fatigue was too much.

“What do you mean, they’ve been watching her? What do they think? She’s some sort of terrorist?”

When Tim didn’t answer, I continued.

“That’s ludicrous. She was a student, studying accounting, and she wants to be a tattoo artist. She’s good. She’s really good. She’s not a terrorist.”

Tim waited until I paused. “They believe she and Wesley Lambert were partners.”

“Partners in what?”

He shrugged. The light turned green, and we shot forward.

“Do they think she was part of the ricin making?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. I just overheard DeBurra saying that it was convenient she called you to come to Lambert’s condo and he was dead.”

“Do they think she had something to do with his death?”

We stopped again, and the red light cast a glow on the windshield.

Tim nodded. “Yeah, they do.”

I mulled that for a few seconds. “Wonder what Trevor’s role was.” And then I knew. The money. The money must have had something to do with this. I kept flashing back on that image of Charlotte with the backpack.

We were on 215 now, heading toward Henderson and my bed. I leaned back on the headrest and closed my eyes, drifting off.

But a thought made me jolt up.

The laptop. Trevor’s laptop. It was in Jeff Coleman’s car. I wondered if there was anything on it that could give me a clue as to what Trevor had been up to, and, by extension, Charlotte as well.

I glanced at Tim, who was concentrating on the road. Should I mention the laptop?

Two Sister Mary Eucharistas were sitting on my shoulders. One wore little devil horns and urged me to keep my mouth shut. The one with angel’s wings said I should own up.

Exhaustion won out. I justified not saying anything by telling myself I’d let him know about the laptop in the morning. After I got some sleep. I didn’t have the energy to answer more questions.

I leaned back again and dozed.

I barely remembered getting into the house and going to bed. But when I woke up, the sun streaming through the miniblinds, I was curled up under my comforter, wearing my cotton pajama bottoms and oversized T-shirt. I had a vague memory of pulling it over my head.

The clock told me it was ten already. I usually got to the shop around eleven. I wondered whether I could call Bitsy and explain that I needed a couple more hours of sleep.

But I’d been gone all day yesterday, she’d saved my butt, and I needed to give her a break.

I dragged myself out of bed, looked in the mirror, and almost screamed.

My hair, which I’d slicked back so nicely at the police station, was standing on end, like Alfalfa’s from The Little Rascals . I swiped a hand over it, and it just bounced right back up again.

A shower. I really needed a shower.

I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it and let it soak me. I tipped my head back, and the water pounded into my skull. In a good way. I don’t know how long I was in there, but when I got out, I was all nice and prune-y, my skin was red from the heat, and I felt almost human again.

A cup of coffee would complete me.

Tim was already gone. He’d left the coffeepot on, and I poured a cup as I read the brief note he’d left me on the counter:

Had to go in early. Will call later. Your stuff is on the chair.

– T