Karen Olson - Pretty In Ink

“I think you need the ambulance,” I said.

He shook his head. The paramedics, however, agreed with me. Now that there were no bodies to attend to in the building, they seemed to need something to do. They fussed over Tim and escorted him to the ambulance, scoffing at my scratches when Tim tried to tell them that I was hurt.

DeBurra was several yards away, but I could tell he was still keeping an eye on me, even when one of the paramedics approached him as well.

“I think it’s time to blow this Popsicle stand,” Jeff Coleman said in a low voice.

I turned to him. “Why does he hate me so much?”

“You do know how to get under someone’s skin, Kavanaugh.” He said it matter-of-factly, with a touch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond; nothing clever was coming to mind, and while I was waiting for inspiration, Jeff just walked away toward my car. It couldn’t have been something I said.

He leaned in through the window that was still open and came out waving my cell phone. “It’s for you.” I hadn’t even heard Springsteen. Come to think of it, everything was sounding a little like it was in a tunnel. Probably because of the explosion.

I took the phone and said, “Hello?”

“Brett, I can’t get anywhere near there. There are police cars and ambulances and fire trucks everywhere.” It was Bixby.

“Where are you?”

“About a block down.”

DeBurra had managed to get away from the paramedic and was coming toward me. I felt panic rise in my chest when I saw his expression-dark, cold, definitely out for blood, mine this time rather than Tim’s.

Jeff saw it, too, and cocked his head at my phone. “Where is he?”

“Just down the street.”

“Get going.”

I leaned into my car and grabbed my bag, shaking the glass off it. As I did, the queen-of-hearts brooch winked at me from the center console. I took it out and stuck it in my pocket again. I must have been moving too slowly for him, because Jeff gave me a nudge and repeated, “Get going.”

DeBurra was getting closer.

“Kavanaugh,” Jeff hissed, “I don’t know what you did, but you pissed him off, and he’s not going to let you out after a few hours this time.”

Jeff was right. I started walking backward, watching DeBurra. Jeff got between us. When I reached the sidewalk, I turned and sprinted. A black Audi sat idling by the side of the road, and as I approached, the headlights flashed twice. Bixby.

I opened the door and barely got seated when he spun the car around so we were going in the opposite direction. “I’m happy to see you,” I said, letting myself breathe again and tossing my bag on the floor before latching my seat belt. “You might want to step on it.”

Bixby heard the edge in my voice.

He glanced at my arm.

“What happened?”

I told him about the explosion, the fight between my brother and DeBurra. “I’m glad you came along when you did, or I’d be looking at another all-nighter,” I said, keeping my eye on the sideview mirror for any sign of DeBurra. “Where are we going?”

“My place.”

Somehow this wasn’t the atmosphere in which I’d hoped to end up at Bixby’s place. That fantasy included dinner, a nice bottle of wine, maybe some music. Not me all cut up and running from the cops-again. But going to his place was smart. No one would know to look for me there, and I could make some calls, try to see if anyone had seen or heard from Charlotte. I didn’t know where else to start, so that seemed like a plan.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, trying to sort out everything that had happened. Music filtered in through the tunnels in my ears, something jazzy with a lot of piano and saxophone. I don’t know a lot of jazz, and I don’t normally listen to it-I’m more of a rock ’n’ roll kind of girl-but there were times, like this, that it was soothing. Almost like a massage. Well, not exactly. I let my thoughts wander even further, wondering whether I could get a spa appointment tomorrow. I so needed one. Bitsy could rearrange my schedule.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Bixby said, his voice interrupting my plans.

I didn’t really want to tell him I was thinking about a massage-he might get the wrong idea-and I didn’t want to get into all the stuff about Charlotte with him right now, so I asked, “How’s the ink?” indicating his new Celtic knot.

He grinned. “It’s fine, but it’s starting to itch.”

“Did you take off the plastic? Use some antibiotic gel?”

“I did.”

“Good. You won’t regret it.”

“I know that.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Do you know anyone who drives a gold Pontiac?”

I twisted around in my seat and looked out the back window. Jeff Coleman was following us. He was a couple cars behind, but I couldn’t miss that car anywhere. His front windshield was still intact, thanks to the fact that while I was parked facing Chez Tango, he’d pulled in beside my Mustang facing the other way. It was his back window that was shattered, instead.

I settled back into my seat. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a friend.”

“A friend?” Bixby’s eyebrows rose with the question.

“Just a friend,” I said. “He’s looking out for me.”

Bixby turned right.

Into the entrance of the Windsor Palms condominiums.

Now it was my turn to tense up. “Your place?” I asked Bixby, a sick feeling growing in my stomach.

He nodded. “Been here a little over a year.”

“Did you know Wesley Lambert?”

His eyelids fluttered; then he smiled. “Bought the place because of him.”

I swung around to look out the back window. The gold Pontiac was nowhere to be seen.

“He turned off,” Bixby said as he steered the Audi around the building to the parking garage. I did not want to go into that garage, because I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on with Dr. Colin Bixby at the moment. It seemed way too much of a coincidence that he lived in the same building as Wesley Lambert.

“Kyle introduced us,” he was saying, talking about Lambert. “Nice guy.”

“He was making ricin in his condo,” I said. “Not sure if that could be called nice. And he was poking around Chez Tango threatening Trevor, and then Trevor dies, mysteriously, from flu symptoms that could really have been ricin poisoning.”

Bixby snorted. It was the first thing about him that I did not find attractive. “Are you a doctor now, Brett?”

I shrugged.

“Why don’t you stick with your tattoos and I’ll stick with medicine, okay?” The condescending tone was also bothersome.

He got out of the Audi, but I continued to sit there, until he came over to my door and opened it for me. He bowed low and swung his arm to indicate I was to get out. It was chivalrous; I had to give him that.

Or maybe he was just luring me into his condo so he could kill me. He knew I’d been heading over to Chez Tango, and he conveniently got stuck in traffic during the explosion.

My thoughts were all over the place. I had no proof of anything. I was being paranoid. After all I had been through, I felt it was justified.

Bixby shut the door behind me and put his hand on my lower back. My whole body stiffened.

He noticed.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, leaning toward me and brushing my cheek with his lips.

If we weren’t at the Windsor Palms, if he hadn’t bought his place because of Wesley Lambert, I might actually encourage a little more romance, maybe even that massage, but instead I pulled back and said, “Stressed out. Explosions do that to me.” I gave a sort of high-pitched laugh and crossed my arms, immediately regretting it because my arm was sore from being sliced up by glass shards.