Jeff shrugged. “Not for me to say what Las Vegas’s finest do.”
I stood, my legs a little shaky. I didn’t much like the thought of someone running around saying she was me. Maybe even tattooing people using my name.
“Nothing you can do right now, Kavanaugh,” Jeff said, standing and moving toward me.
“It’s just…” My voice trailed off.
“I know, but you’ve got people on top of it.”
And suddenly his arms were around me and I laid my head against his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat against my chest.
It was the first time we’d ever embraced. It wasn’t anything more than just a friend comforting a friend. Or so I told myself as I pulled away, an awkwardness between us that we’d never had before.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, backing up and going down the hall to my room.
I sat on the bed for a few minutes, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’d just had a “moment” with Jeff Coleman. And then my impostor crept into my thoughts, and I figured I had other things to worry about.
I pulled on a pair of skinny dark jeans and a stretchy black T-shirt with a shimmering silver skull on the front. Matched my mood. It was a little too chilly for my usual Tevas, so I pulled on a pair of black flats, grabbing my jean jacket as I went back out to see Jeff Coleman fiddling with the laptop.
When he looked up at me, I was relieved to see no acknowledgment of what had passed between us, just his usual smirk.
“There’s another site.”
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t the only blog.”
I slid back into the chair I’d been sitting in earlier, and he turned the laptop so I could see the screen.
Instead of the now familiar Skin Deep masthead, this blog was adorned with one that was even more familiar: the flamingo I’d tattooed on Daisy’s back. Next to it, in script, read, “Ink Flamingos.”
Was I going to spend all day with butterflies in my stomach?
Jeff scrolled down so I could see the first and only post. The title read, “What happened?” and a picture below showed Daisy sprawled out on her stomach on dingy white bedsheets, her flamingo prominent. Her blond hair fanned out away from her face, which we could only see in profile but it was clearly her.
“Whoever took this picture did this,” I whispered.
Jeff nodded. “There’s more.”
How could there be more? But when Jeff scrolled down again, I saw it. The same picture of the infected tattoo that Flanigan had shown me.
“I don’t want to see any more,” I said, trying to shove the laptop back.
But Jeff stopped me by putting his hand over mine. “You have to know.”
“Know what? That whoever put this up is a killer?”
“No, it’s worse than that.” He pointed to the “About Me” section in the sidebar.
As I read, I stopped breathing.
“
I went over to the phone and picked up the receiver without saying anything to Jeff. He knew what I was doing. I punched in Tim’s number.
“Kavanaugh.”
“There’s another blog.” I quickly told him about Ink Flamingos.
Tim was quiet for a second, then, “Okay. I’ll check it out.”
“What do I do?”
“Is Coleman there?”
I glanced over at Jeff, who was studying the blog. “Yeah.”
“Have him take you to the shop. Stay there. I’ll call you later.”
“Tim-”
“Don’t worry, okay? I’ve got it covered.” And he hung up.
I put the phone back in its cradle and turned to Jeff. “I guess we’d better get to my shop.”
Jeff indicated the laptop. “Should I turn it off?”
I nodded.
Within minutes, we were settling into the Pontiac, strapping the seat belts around us.
“You okay, Kavanaugh?” he asked before he started the engine.
I sighed. “Not really, but it’ll be good to get to work and get busy.”
“You do know I’m just a phone call away, right?”
It was scary when Jeff Coleman was being nice, almost too nice.
He turned the key in the ignition and the engine fired up. He backed up and started down through our neighborhood of suburban homes. Tim had bought our house when he was living with Shawna, his almost fiancee. But when she realized she was only going to get a house and not a diamond, she moved out and I moved in. I’d been living with my parents in New Jersey, but they were moving to Florida, so I needed a place to go. Tim’s friend Flip Armstrong was selling his tattoo shop, I had enough money saved to buy the business, and voila-I went to Las Vegas.
I stared out the window as we passed the strip malls and the Home Depot and the Target, heading for the highway that would take us to the Strip. The skyline was visible even from here; it was so flat until the desert hit the mountains in the distance.
I thought about Red Rock Canyon. It was a perfect time of year for hiking, and I’d been three times in the last week. But it wasn’t the kind of place I wanted to go to alone if I had a stalker. Too much wide empty space up there, too many places to hide a body.
Body. Like Daisy’s in that hotel room. I shivered, even though it was warm in Jeff’s car.
“You okay?” he asked for the second time.
I nodded, then shook my head. “No, I guess not. I wish you hadn’t lost that girl last night.”
“Me, neither,” he said. “I don’t know how she slipped past me. I mean, I was watching that ladies’ room.”
An idea began to nag at me. It was plausible, and the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced. Granted, a lot of time had passed between then and now, but you never knew.
“Let’s go to Caesars first,” I said.
Jeff glanced at me and frowned. “What’s up?”
“I want to check on something.”
“Your brother’s probably been over there already, trying to find out about that girl,” he said.
“Yeah, but not the way I’m going to,” I said.
He gave me a funny look, but when we hit the Strip, he turned into the driveway for Caesars and found the self-parking garage. We hadn’t said another word to each other.
We made our way toward Cleopatra’s Barge, walking through the casino. Even though it wasn’t even noon yet, the diehards were at it, slapping cards on the tables, throwing dice, punching the little PLAY AGAIN buttons on the slot machines. I was glad to see them, though, considering that Vegas was suffering from the worst economic slump in decades. Even though I hadn’t lost too much business, the casinos had and the foreclosure signs were everywhere. I wondered if I shouldn’t worry more, but decided I had bigger fish to fry right now.
“Which ladies’ room?” I asked.
Jeff pointed to the one closest to the nightclub. “You know, Kavanaugh, it’s been hours,” he said.
“I need to check. My own peace of mind,” I said, shrugging as I pushed the door in.
There were Roman columns edged in gold in here, too, and each stall had its own actual door. I went over to the trash receptacles first, and using a paper towel wrapped around my hand, picked up the clear plastic bag inside,
