a slit in the bottom of the glass barrier between us.
I took it and looked around. Didn’t see Tim or Flanigan anywhere.
“Let’s go in,” Jeff said.
“I’m supposed to wait for Tim.”
“We’re late. He’s probably already in there.”
Jeff was right. But what was this? He wanted to go in with me?
“You can’t stand this kind of music,” I said.
He grinned. “Always up for something new.”
I hesitated.
“What’s wrong?”
Granted, Melanie had left two tickets for me; Tim was nowhere to be found. But I wasn’t sure about Jeff. First, because Tim might already be in there, ticket or no, and this wasn’t supposed to be a party. Second, Jeff wanting to go to a Flamingos concert was really out of character. Something was up, but I couldn’t figure out what.
Jeff leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “Your brother isn’t here to go in with you, Kavanaugh. You’ve got someone taking pictures of you, accusing you of murdering a client. Accusing you publicly. I am not going to let you go in there alone. There must be thousands of people in there.”
And one of them could be my stalker. Okay, I got it.
I handed the envelope to the usher, who fished out the tickets. And something else. He looked at it, then handed it back to me. I glanced at it. A backstage pass.
“Go down to the front and give this to the usher near the steps,” he instructed.
I clutched it firmly in my hand as we made our way through throngs of people. At one point, I felt Jeff’s hand on the small of my back. At least I hoped it was Jeff’s. When we reached the front usher, I showed her the pass. She said something into a little walkie-talkie, then told us: “Hold on a minute.”
We stood, jostled by people taking their seats for the concert. Since we were so close to the stage now, I couldn’t help but notice the flowers. People had tossed bouquets and stray flowers and stuffed animals up on the stage. It was their way of paying their respects to the Flamingos. Since there was no street corner at which to leave them, the Flamingos’ fans had strewn them on the stage, where Daisy was more at home than anywhere.
I felt a sob escape my throat.
“It’s not your fault,” I heard Jeff whisper in my ear.
I swallowed hard, and before I could answer, a big, burly, black security guard came out of nowhere. The woman usher indicated us. “That’s them,” she said, but I couldn’t hear her because of the noise. I’d read her lips.
He barely looked at us, but a small nod of his head indicated that he might have actually heard her-or he was good at reading lips, too. We followed him up some side steps and around to the back. Before we could reach our destination, Melanie came running out toward us. The security guard stepped back, putting his hand to his ear, where he had a small headphone attached.
“What did you do, Brett?” Melanie demanded as she approached.
I looked at Jeff, then back at her, and shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“The cops. You sent cops over here.”
Tim and Flanigan. I nodded. “My brother-” I started, but she put her hand up to stop me.
“They took Sherman out of here in handcuffs.”
Sherman Potter? In handcuffs? “What are you talking about?” I asked her.
Melanie’s eyes flicked to Jeff.
“This is my friend, Jeff Coleman.”
Jeff gave her a short nod of acknowledgment, and she looked back to me. “Come on back,” she said, leading us through a hall to a door. She pushed it open, and we stepped inside.
The rest of the band-Cara, Tiffany, and Josie-turned around. They’d been facing a long mirror, putting on makeup and primping their hair.
“You actually felt you could show up here?” Tiffany demanded, brushing her long, dark locks that bounced back with a curl.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I said. “I really don’t know what’s going on with my brother arresting Sherman Potter.”
“He just walked in here and read him his rights and slapped cuffs on him,” Josie said. She held two drumsticks and was absently tapping her knees to music inside her head.
“What for?” Jeff asked.
All heads turned toward him, and I noticed they were all assessing him. And then dismissing him. Guess he was too old for them. I’d have to tease him about that later.
“Daisy’s murder,” Melanie said. “They charged him with Daisy’s murder.”
“But I thought she died from that tattoo,” I said.
Melanie nodded. “That’s right. That’s what they told us, too. But I guess there were fingerprints or something. I didn’t get all of it; Sherman told us to call his lawyer and make sure we went on on time.”
The show must go on and all that, I guess.
“Where’s Ainsley?” I asked.
I didn’t think it was a trick question, but all four girls gave each other a look before Cara spoke up. “She never showed. Sherman kept calling her, but I guess she never picked up. We don’t know where she is.” Instead of concern, however, I heard relief in her voice. None of these girls wanted to share the stage with a stranger.
“You have to believe me. I had nothing to do with Sherman being arrested,” I said.
Tiffany finally put down her hairbrush. “It would be good for you to have someone else arrested, though, wouldn’t it?”
She thought I had something to do with Daisy’s death. Because of that stupid blog. “Listen, I’m a victim here, too,” I tried, noticing Jeff’s eyes get a little wider. I’d have to talk to him about that later. I proceeded to tell them about the blog and how I’d been set up. “I had nothing to do with any of that,” I concluded.
The four girls exchanged glances, as if deciding whether I was telling the truth. Finally, Cara spoke up.
“Daisy liked you, Brett. She trusted only you to do her tattoos.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d been struggling with the same thing ever since I’d heard about Daisy. “This has been bothering me, too,” I admitted. “But if Sherman did it, well, she’d trust him, wouldn’t she?”
Another look exchanged. This one I couldn’t read.
“Daisy was quitting,” Josie said, the drumsticks now in her lap, still. “She was going out on her own.” Her tone was sharper than cut glass. She wasn’t happy with Daisy’s decision. And from the look on everyone else’s faces, neither were they. But Sherman Potter had someone lined up to take her place already; he’d even been using that as a line to pick up girls at Cleopatra’s Barge. I didn’t see why he’d have to kill Daisy. It didn’t seem he really had a motive. But these girls might.
However, Cara put that idea to rest.
“I already told everyone else tonight, after they took Sherman away, that he threatened Daisy.”
“Threatened her how?” I asked.
“She told me he said he was going to take her for everything she had. That he’d get her on breach of contract. She came out here early to tell him to go ahead-she was done as of right then.”
So maybe Daisy had confronted Sherman Potter in that room at the Golden Palace. The one that was registered to Ainsley Wainwright. And then he’d killed her and moved to the Venetian. Ainsley, his new lead singer, must have been there, too, since she was probably the woman who the police had thought was me at first.
But how did Daisy end up being tattooed? The scenario made sense until that point.
“Did you ask Sherman about that? Did Daisy confront him?” I asked.
Melanie nodded. “We talked to Sherman not long before your brother showed up. He said he didn’t threaten
