The Missing Ink (13 page)

“Sorry, lady,” and he hung up.

A knock at the door, and Simon Chase poked his head in. “Are you all set?”

“Yeah,” I said, shutting my phone off again.

Chip Manning came back in with Simon and collapsed on the couch. He’d left his drink outside. He pointed at me again, wagging his finger like Sister Mary Eucharista used to.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, tears in his eyes.

“Why didn’t I tell you what?”

“She wanted a tattoo.”

“We already had this conversation, Chip,” I said flatly.

“But she loved Matt. You knew that. It was what she wanted. Why didn’t you tell me that?” He started to sob. “Where is she? Where is Elise?” He lay down, his face against the cushion.

I looked at Simon Chase, who shrugged. I didn’t quite know what to do. Chip was drunk and brokenhearted.

He swung his head around and looked at me with one eye open. “Do me,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Give me a tattoo. I want it to say ‘Elise.’ I want it”—he rolled over and pulled his shirt up, tapping a hairless chest—“here. I want to feel the pain. I deserve it.” Rolling over again, he closed his eye, and in seconds he was snoring loudly.

I stifled a chuckle.

“Maybe you should do it.”

I looked at Simon Chase, who was staring at Chip.

“Do what?”

“I can go upstairs, get that case of yours, and you can tattoo him right here, right on this sofa. I heard him tell you to.”

It was tempting. “I demand up-front payment,” I said. “I don’t think he’s in any condition—”

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much?” He was serious.

I thought about the fee I’d lost earlier. “A thousand,” I said.

“Do you take cash?”

This had gone on long enough. “As much as I’d like to—and I like a practical joke as much as the next guy—I really can’t.”

“How about a temporary one?”

Our eyes met and we both started laughing.

“Now that’s a good idea,” I said. “I could make a stencil; he’d think it was real.”

The phone on the desk startled me, and I jumped. I noticed Simon didn’t. He probably got calls interrupting him all the time. He went over to his desk, and I watched him for a few seconds, until Chip made a sort of snorting sound. He rolled over, and as he did, I noticed something on the tails of his shirt. I peered more closely and saw small, reddish stains that seemed at first to blend in with the pink stripes.

They sure looked like blood to me.

Chapter 22

I wasn’t a stranger to blood. The sight of it didn’t make me all queasy. Especially little splashes. I wiped more blood than this off a tat while I was working.

I thought about Matt Powell upstairs. I hadn’t seen any blood, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. He was stabbed in the neck. Had to be some. These stains couldn’t be from that—could they? Chip said he knew about Matthew, that he knew about the tattoo I was supposed to give Elise. How? As far as I knew, it wasn’t on TV yet. Had he found out anyway, like he’d found out about me—from his father, who was alerted by the police? Had he confronted his driver and the situation got out of control?

While it was a believable scenario, it didn’t explain the tattoo needle or the gloves. How would he get those? Chip didn’t seem that enterprising. In fact, I was having a hard time seeing in him what Elise had. Money could only go so far. Which was probably why she turned her sights elsewhere.

But then my train of thought veered onto another track. Where had Chip been this afternoon? He was drunk now, but was that just a reaction? Was it a cover-up, an alibi?

I was watching way too much TV.

“Mr. Manning is bringing your brother down to fingerprint you.”

Simon’s voice startled me. He noticed.

“Where were you just now?”

I tried to laugh, but it came out sort of funny, and his deep brown eyes unnerved me with their intensity. “Nowhere,” I said. I didn’t want to voice any suspicions about Chip unless I was sure. At least not to him.

He stepped closer, close enough so I could feel his body heat, which made me catch my breath. He was smiling, his hand reaching up—

The knock at the door made us both jump backward, away from each other. First time I’d seen him a little flustered. Part of me was sorry—I’d wanted to see where this was going—but the other part was glad. Because I wasn’t nearly emotionally ready for something that seemed prematurely potent.

Manning came in first, bellowing at Tim, “You have to wrap all this up; there’s media in the lobby, they’ve got their spies, they know something’s happening.”

Tim smiled serenely. I recognized that smile. It was the one he gave my parents whenever they asked why he wasn’t married, why he and Shawna didn’t patch things up, she was a nice girl, she would make a wonderful mother.

“We’ll do all we can to avoid the press,” he assured Manning.

It was at that point that they both noticed Chip passed out on the couch. Tim raised his eyebrows at me and I made a motion like I was drinking.

Manning seemed to lose a little of his bluster, looking disconcerted now instead. “How long has he been like this?” He focused on Simon.

“We came in and he was drunk,” I offered, causing Manning to turn and study me like I was an exhibit at the city zoo.

“Haven’t you caused enough trouble already, young lady?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to say something smart—I really didn’t like that he kept calling me “young lady”—but Tim caught my hand, which stopped me. He had his fingerprint case in his other hand, and he asked Simon if he could use the desk, he would be neat about it.

With Simon’s permission, we crossed the room and left Simon to Manning.

Tim rolled my fingers in the ink and pressed them one by one onto the print sheet.

“You might want to take a close look at Chip’s shirt-tails,” I whispered.

“What?” He stopped midhand.

“Stains. Red stains. I don’t know if it means anything.”

Tim glanced back at the trio on the other side of the room, Chip’s snores now resonating through the air. “You know what you’re implying, right?” His annoyance came through, but there was also a tinge of curiosity.

“He knew that a Matthew had captured Elise’s heart. Maybe he thought it was his driver,” I suggested.

Tim finished up with my hands and gave me a cloth to wipe my fingers. I needed more than that. I needed some soap and hot water. I also realized I needed a bathroom.

“Take a look,” I whispered.

Tim’s expression changed slightly as he approached Manning, and I asked Simon if there was a bathroom I could use. He directed me to a door in the corner.

I was almost afraid to actually use the facilities. The sink was a crystal bowl that sat demurely on the blond marble vanity, a gold faucet perched over its top. I hoped it wasn’t real gold, but I wouldn’t count it out. This place had cost a fortune, and it was obvious no expense was spared.

I scrubbed my hands until they were red but with no more sign of ink. As I turned the water off, I lingered a moment to savor the decor. The door wasn’t all that soundproof, I discovered to my chagrin, but it allowed me to eavesdrop.

Tim was trying to get Chip’s fingerprints while he was passed out.

Manning was arguing that he couldn’t do that legally; he’d call his lawyers and slap a suit against him.

Simon Chase’s soft English murmur was indecipherable, but both Tim and Manning quieted down.

I stepped out of the bathroom to see all eyes on me.

“We’ll get out of your way now,” Tim said to Simon Chase, shaking his hand. He turned to Manning. “I’m sending a uniformed officer down here to wait for your son to wake up. We’ll want to ask him some questions.” Tim indicated that I should follow him, so I did, tossing back a quick, “Thanks,” to Simon Chase, who gave me another wink that made me blush.

“Can I go home?” I asked Tim once we were back out in the hallway, heading toward the elevator.

Tim bit his lip, like it was a tough decision to make. Then, finally, “It doesn’t look good, you know, the needle, the gloves.”

“You can’t possibly think I killed that guy, do you?”

Tim’s mouth set in a grim line. “No, I don’t think you killed him. And we’ve questioned the guy at the front desk and the elevator guy who brought you up here. They verify the time you came in. We’ll check the video, too.”

The video of the front entranceway, which would show what time I came in. The illusion was also one big
Candid Camera
, the black domes in the ceiling catching it all. I couldn’t fault Tim for having to double-check. It was his job.

Tim was still talking. “But I want you to promise to go straight home. Otherwise, I’ll put out an APB on you. I’ll be there in a few hours, and we can talk then.”

“It did look like blood, didn’t it, on Chip’s shirt?”

Tim stared me down before saying again, “Go straight home now.”

He thought it was blood, too. He also didn’t think I had anything to do with what happened to Chip Manning’s driver, Matt. Otherwise he wouldn’t let me go anywhere.

“I might stop for something to eat,” I said, realizing I was starving.

“Make it takeout.”

Tim took the elevator back up, and I took it down into the massive, mirrored lobby. The flashing lights of the slot machines reminded me of the guillotines Simon Chase had told me about. I couldn’t leave without seeing those.

I followed the tasteful, yet at the same time gaudy, path through the casino a little ways. Despite the elegant and over-the-top decor in the hotel, this was a casino: loud, patterned carpeting meant to lift your gaze up to the machines and tables, where you’d lose all your money in a matter of seconds. Or in the unlikely chance that you’d hit the jackpot, like the guy over to my left, a guillotine blade would come crashing down on top of the slot machine, the whine of the bells and whistles announcing that today there was a winner.

It was pretty cool, the guillotine.

The cocktail waitresses all had high white wigs decorated with buttons and bows, their breasts bulging out of the white satin corsets, the skirts hacked off to reveal shapely legs in white fishnet stockings and four-inch white patent-leather heels.

I wondered how they could move in those costumes, but they seemed to have it all under control.

I started back out, pondering where I’d get a bite to eat. I was thinking of something more than a burger—I had just been fingerprinted by the police, even though it was my brother, and I needed a civilized meal to remind me that I wasn’t some sort of criminal.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t see him at first.

But then I did.

Out of the corner of my eye. He was standing behind one of the guillotines, his shaved head with the eagle tattoo giving him away. I lifted my hand without thinking about it, then caught myself midwave.

He took a step toward me.

And I ran.

Chapter 23

He was gone by the time I went back with a security guard, who proceeded to give me the riot act about how I shouldn’t cry wolf, because he didn’t have time to run around looking for big, bald, tattooed guys who weren’t there.

I thanked him for his time and gave the valet my ticket for my car.

What was this guy watching me for? If he was Kelly’s brother, as I imagined he was, it also brought up another question that kept circulating in my head: What was the connection between Kelly and Elise Lyon? I found it hard to believe that Elise had come here to abandon Chip, met up with Kelly, and they decided on a lark to switch identities.

Well, then again, it
was
Vegas. Weirder things had happened.

But I wasn’t sold on the idea.

I needed to find Jeff Coleman. In addition to wanting to find out if he’d set me up, or, as he’d told me, someone was framing him, I also wanted to quiz him a little more about Kelly Masters. He might know something he wasn’t aware of.

Unlike the tattooed guy, I wasn’t afraid of Jeff Coleman. Even if logic told me maybe I should be a little warier than I was. But it was Jeff. His bark was worse than his bite.

I’d told Tim I would go home. And I would.

After I went over to Murder Ink to interrogate Jeff’s staff about his whereabouts.

Just call me Miss Marple.

I climbed into my Mustang after tipping the valet a dollar. He stared at it with pursed lips, and I had the sense that I might not get great service the next time around. Maybe I should’ve played one of those slots and tried for a couple extra bucks.

I’m just not that into gambling.

I kept looking in my rearview mirror to see if I was being followed. I wasn’t quite sure what to look for, since I
was
being followed—by a lot of other cars that weren’t familiar to me. Matthew could be in any one of them, and I wouldn’t be the wiser.

I hooked my cell phone into my hands-free and called the shop.

“Everything okay?” I asked when Joel answered. “Where’s Bitsy?”

“She ran out for some takeout for dinner.”

On cue, my stomach growled.

“Where are you?” Joel’s voice was full of worry.

I told him about what had happened, now that I was out of earshot of anyone but my own self. He had appropriate “ohs” and “ahs” and caught his breath when I described Matt Powell’s body and then Simon Chase.

“He sounds dashing,” Joel said of the latter.

“Dashing” was a good word. I had to remember that one.

“So where are you heading now?” Joel asked when I was finished with my story.

I was halfway to Murder Ink. I didn’t really want to tell him I was going to try to track down Jeff Coleman. If Tim happened to call and ask where I was, then Joel would be completely in the dark and he couldn’t be called a liar.