“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” he asked, shooting a look at Bitsy that I didn’t much like.
Bitsy noticed it, too, and she rolled her eyes at me behind his back. Being a little person, she’s got to deal with that sort of thing a lot more than I do and she’s pretty comfortable in her own skin.
I led Frank DeBurra to the back of the shop, to the office rather than the staff room, as if he’d suck all the creativity out of it and leave us with nothing.
When I settled myself in the leather chair behind the desk, indicating that he should sit on the folding chair across from me, I said, “Okay. What do you want?”
He gave a little snort accompanied by something he probably thought passed for a smile. “I’d like that sketch back.”
Uh-oh. Tim had it. I had a feeling that DeBurra might not like that.
“It’s home,” I said.
“Then can you go home later and get it for me?”
It was the way he asked that made me begin to wonder whether he didn’t already know that Tim had it. That he was testing me, in some sick way.
“I can’t get away today. I’ve got clients coming in.”
“Where’s your brother?”
“Not my turn to watch him.” Okay, so it was a little flip, but this guy brought out the worst in me.
He really did smile this time, but it wasn’t a warm smile; it didn’t spread to his eyes. “Funny.”
“I thought you said you didn’t need the sketch.” I couldn’t help myself. Really.
“Maybe I want to frame it and put it on my wall.”
So we were both baiting each other. This wouldn’t get us anywhere. I got up. “Detective, unless you’re here for some practical purpose, I have work to do.”
He stood up. He was wearing the same frayed sport jacket from last night. I wondered about Shawna. She’d been into material things. This guy didn’t look like he could buy a loaf of bread. Maybe he was good in bed.
Yuck. Definitely did not want to go there.
I went over to the door and opened it. “Thank you for stopping by.”
“I need to ask a couple of questions about your employee, Charlotte Sampson.” Frank DeBurra leaned over past me and shut the door again, indicating that I should sit down.
I did because I was too surprised not to.
“What about her?” I asked.
“What do you know of her background?”
I thought about Charlotte, the first time she’d come in for ink. She’d asked me to fix a heart she’d tattooed herself on her wrist, sort of like the one I’d done on my own. She was studying to be an accountant at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. She graduated but admitted she didn’t want to work with numbers; she wanted to work here. I hired her as a trainee.
I didn’t know what this detective wanted with Charlotte, so all I said was, “She was going to be an accountant but decided to become a tattooist.” I had another thought. “Why don’t you talk to her yourself?”
“Is she here?”
His tone was so casual, my antennae went up. Something wasn’t right. I hesitated for a second before saying, “She’s spending the day with her friend Trevor McKay, you know, the guy who got hit with the cork last night.”
“He got released from the hospital this morning,” DeBurra said.
I nodded, not sure where this was going.
“He left alone.”
“Maybe she’s meeting him at his place.” Although that’s not what she told Bitsy on the phone.
Frank DeBurra leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together in front of him. His eyes met mine.
I had a bad feeling.
“Charlotte Sampson is wanted for questioning in an incident at a pawnshop this morning.”
Chapter 11
I couldn’t catch my breath. Finally, I sputtered, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said flatly.
“An incident? What type of incident?”
“She hasn’t been here at all this morning?” He was being dodgy.
“No.”
“You haven’t seen her?”
“Not since last night. What’s this all about?” I was going to keep asking until he answered me.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Are you sure it’s Charlotte you’re looking for?” I couldn’t wrap my head around this.
“Those derringer tattoos on her arms are very distinct.”
I’d inked those derringers myself.
My brain was skipping so fast over a million thoughts, like a stone in a rocky riverbed. I was thinking about pawnshops and how Wesley Lambert had been poking around the club yesterday, saying something about a mistake with something Trevor had pawned. Charlotte had spent quite a bit of time with Trevor in the last twenty- four hours.
“Wesley Lambert,” I said.
“Hmm?” He acted like he didn’t know what I was insinuating, but a flicker of his eye told me we were on the same page.
“Do you think this has something to do with Wesley Lambert? He was at Chez Tango talking about pawnshops.”
“Does she have a locker or anything here? Any personal items?”
His change of subject threw me for a second. I thought about her room, which was just next to this office. But I couldn’t have him poking around in there. “No,” I lied, hoping he wouldn’t see through me. “She’s just a trainee. She works wherever we have room at the moment.”
He pursed his mouth, like he knew. But instead of calling me on it, he stood. “Okay, well, if she contacts you or comes in here, I expect you to call me.” Then he handed me a business card, the one I’d wanted last night but he hadn’t given me. Guess I was more important to him today. “You’re close enough to the law to know what the punishment is for obstruction.”
A direct reference to Tim.
But obstruction? How serious was this?
I didn’t get a chance to ask, however, because Frank DeBurra strode across my blond laminate flooring and went out the front glass door so quickly, he didn’t even say good-bye. Bitsy watched after him, her mouth forming a perfect “O.”
“What was that all about?” she asked.
I frowned. “I wish I knew. You were eavesdropping.”
“And wouldn’t you? He comes in here like gangbusters and I’m not supposed to make sure he’s not beating the crap out of you back there?”
“Isn’t that a little extreme?”
“Seems like it’s serious, whatever it is,” Bitsy said.
“I guess. He wanted to see her stuff. I don’t get that. What’s he fishing for? It doesn’t make any sense. But if
