Or maybe that’s what whoever did this had meant to do. Steer all speculation toward me. Did my impostor know about Tim, how he was a police detective? That Tim would probably focus on whoever was blogging about me rather than Daisy’s death? Granted, Flanigan was on the case, too, as well as other police. But if it became about me, and not Daisy, then maybe she’d get away with it.
She? Had I pinned this on the woman impersonating me? What about Sherman Potter? He said he’d already replaced Daisy, saying she’d planned to leave the band. I wondered what the other band members thought about that.
As soon as Katie left with her aftercare instructions, I knew what I had to do. See where the Flamingos were playing and see if I couldn’t talk to them about Daisy. If I could figure out what she was doing at the Golden Palace, then maybe I’d be a step closer to finding my impersonator.
Joel was on the laptop when I finally went into the staff room. He was in the middle of designing a tattoo. A while back, we’d had an intern who taught him how to design in Photoshop and Illustrator and he took to it easily. Ace and I had a little bit more trouble. Ace because, well, he really wanted to be a painter, and me, I didn’t do so well on the computer. I liked having a pencil in my hand-or a tattoo machine.
Joel looked up as I came in.
“Done with Katie?” he asked.
I nodded, sticking my head in the fridge to see if there was anything to munch on. I pulled out a brick of cheddar cheese and a box of crackers. I cut off a little cheese and put it on a cracker and stuck it in my mouth.
“Can I have one?” Joel asked, his eyes focused on the cheese.
I made him a couple crackers and put them on a paper plate, setting it down next to him. “Going to be long?”
“Just got started,” he said, indicating the screen.
The outline of a snake was weaving its way through the eye sockets of a skull. I shivered involuntarily. Despite his newfound love of computer graphics, Joel was a traditional tattooist and did mainly old-school tattoos with a slightly modern twist. So far, this one was still just old-school.
“I’ll go in the office, then,” I said, going down the hall. We had an old iMac desktop that had been replaced by the laptop, and I hoisted it up from its new home on the floor to the top of the desk. I had to hook it all up, which was why when Flanigan had been here yesterday I didn’t bother with it, just used the laptop. I fumbled with the wires, making sure the keyboard and mouse were attached and plugging it into the socket. When I had everything where it should be, I hit the power switch.
The wireless still worked on this, and when it booted up, I went to the Internet and did a Google search for the Flamingos Web site. I wanted to find out where the band was playing next, so I could track them down and see if I couldn’t get some answers out of them.
When I clicked on the first link, a page I’d never seen before popped up. It was a dedication to Daisy, her picture and her date of birth and death, with RIP under her picture and a small button at the bottom of the page that indicated I could get to the band’s Web site through that portal.
It was a touching tribute, considering that Daisy was leaving the band and had already been replaced.
But when I clicked through, I didn’t get the Flamingos Web site after all.
It was the Ink Flamingos blog.
I pushed the keyboard away from me and shoved back in my chair. This was getting way too creepy.
Whoever had set up the blog had a new post. I scanned it, even though I wanted to get up and walk away.
The post was all about Daisy’s flamingo tattoo, how it had only been black but “I” had felt it needed a touch of color and Daisy had agreed, even though she was known for her black tattoos. There was no mention of the fact that she had an allergy.
Curious.
Where was the actual Flamingos site? Pushing aside my discomfort, I clicked back through the tribute page and to Google. Ah, there it was. Just underneath the link I’d hit.
Relief washed through me as the site loaded, the strains of the Flamingos’ latest hit, “Bad Blood,” in the background. I clicked on the PERFORMANCES link and found a listing of the band’s upcoming gigs.
They were supposed to be here in Vegas, at the MGM, tonight. I remembered how someone had said that the band was on the East Coast. But they had played their final concert there in New Jersey at the Meadowlands last night. No indication that any concerts were canceled. No indication on the Web site at all that Daisy was no longer with the band, no longer alive.
I wondered why Sherman Potter had been here in Vegas when the band was in New Jersey last night. That didn’t make much sense. Unless he had to come out here because of Daisy. How had the other girls been able to perform without their lead singer? Knowing she was dead?
I clicked on NEWS and found the latest from the local TV station: The Flamingos were due to arrive in Vegas this afternoon at two. I glanced at my watch. In about twenty minutes.
I picked up the phone and dialed information to get the MGM. When I finally got through, I asked if I could leave a message for Melanie Black. While I didn’t know the other girls in the band, Melanie had come to the shop with Daisy one time and Ace had done a small tattoo on her ankle. She would recognize my name.
Reciting my name and number and asking that she call as soon as she got in, I then thanked the hotel operator and set the phone back in its cradle.
That was the most I could do. Now I had to keep myself busy, which wasn’t going to be hard because Bitsy stuck her head in the door to tell me my next client was here.
Melanie hadn’t called me back two hours later, and after being here every day for the last month, Harry still hadn’t showed. Tim didn’t call to update me.
“You’re pacing,” Bitsy said from her perch at the front desk, where she was arranging everyone’s schedules for the next day.
“I’ve got a little bit of nervous energy,” I admitted. “I’d love to go out for a walk and get rid of it, but I’m afraid someone’s going to start taking pictures again, and it’ll freak me out even more.”
Bitsy made a face at me. “You know, the only person you need to worry about is Colin Bixby. No one else cares.”
Nice. But she was right. And I hadn’t heard from Colin since those pictures went up on the blog. Granted, he had long hours in the emergency room and probably didn’t even know about them. Which meant I needed to run reconnaissance before someone pointed out that his girlfriend had been sucking face with an unemployed cabana boy. And even though this was Vegas and the desert, we were not wanting for cabana boys.
“I better call him.”
“No need.” Bitsy indicated a tall, lanky figure coming toward the shop.
My heart skipped a little beat as he pushed the door in. His dark hair was tousled just-so with a little bit of product; the black T-shirt showed off the stethoscope I’d tattooed on his arm; his jeans showed off a nice backside. You’d never know he was a doctor when he was off duty and a little punk and a lot bad boy.
From the expression on his face, though, I could tell that maybe he hadn’t been quite as isolated the last twenty-four hours as I’d hoped.
“Can we go somewhere?” he asked, without bothering to give me a kiss hello.
Uh-oh. Definitely not isolated.
Bitsy gave me a sympathetic look as I led Colin to my room. She was no stranger to boyfriend troubles. I shut the door on her questioning gaze and turned toward Colin.
“I can explain,” I said.
He held his hands up. “You can always explain. But when you go into your e-mail to see pictures of your girlfriend making out with another guy, well, there’s really no need for explanation, is there?”
