On the move? “How do you know this? Did you talk to Tim?” I asked.
“Potter ponied up the bail. Did a little business with my neighbor.”
Goodfellas Bail Bonds. Right next door to Murder Ink.
“How did you find out?”
“I
“Sonny?”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “Sonny owns Goodfellas. He stops over occasionally when it’s slow, although I haven’t seen him too much lately. I think the crime rate’s going up.”
I didn’t need Jeff Coleman’s opinion about social issues. “He just happened to tell you about Sherman Potter?”
“No, Kavanaugh. I asked him directly. I figured Potter would need a bondsman-why not ask around?”
So at least I knew one of Jeff’s sources now. “Seems a little convenient that Sherman Potter went to the guy next door,” I said.
“Sonny hangs out over near the police station, just in case. He happened to hear about the Flamingos’ band manager. Let’s say Sonny enjoys a little notoriety, and he has a thing for celebrity clients.” Jeff paused. “Are you finished giving me the third degree, or do you want to know where Potter’s off to?”
Oh, right. Sherman Potter was “on the move.”
“Let me guess,” I said, remembering something. “He’s on his way here. To the Venetian.”
Jeff was silent a second, then, “Give the girl a gold star. How do you know that?”
I didn’t want to tell him that Harry had told me Potter always stayed at the Venetian when he was in town. Instead I said, “You’re not the only one with sources, you know.”
I heard a low chuckle, then, “You could go keep an eye on him.”
“I could, but I’ve got a client coming in.” I glanced at my watch. Jenny would be here in a few minutes. I couldn’t back out now, considering. “You could come over and spy on him, though, until I’m done.”
“You remember that I’ve got my own business to run.”
“So I guess no one’s keeping an eye on him for now.” My tone was flippant, but it was hardly the way I felt. I did want to see what Sherman Potter was up to, but more than likely he’d hole himself up in his room and order room service or something.
Bitsy stuck her head in the door and mouthed that Jenny had arrived.
“Listen, Jeff, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you when I’m done, okay?” and I hung up without saying good-bye.
My head was totally not into the tattoo. I kept having to shake myself out of thoughts about Sherman Potter. He was so close. I could track him down and demand to know about Ainsley,
I couldn’t finish the tattoo today, since it was too big, but I managed to get the black outlines done. It reminded me of the tattoos I’d done on Daisy, and I felt my mood go even further south.
Jenny was happy, though, when she came back into the room after checking out her new rosebush in the bigger mirror in the back. She grinned and gushed about how wonderful it was and how soon could she come back for the color?
I sent her out to Bitsy so she could make her next appointment as I started to clean up, throwing away the disposable ink pots and needles, wiping down the chair with antibacterial spray. It was busywork as I plotted out how I was going to go about finding out which room Sherman Potter was in. The last time, I’d had Harry with me, and he’d turned on his charm with the woman at the front desk. This time, I’d have to figure out how to charm them myself.
Unless Potter liked the same room every time. People who came here had a lot of superstitions, and it was possible that if Potter stayed here every time, staying in the same room might be part of his ritual. I scoured my brain trying to recall what room number it had been, which floor. And then I had it. I stood up straighter and smiled, proud of myself for being so clever. Sister Mary Eucharista was whispering that I shouldn’t count my chickens, but I was never that good at math anyway.
I passed Ace’s room on my way to the staff room, glancing in but seeing nothing missing except Ace. Had I really driven him out?
I didn’t want to think about that now. I had more pressing things on my mind. I could concentrate on talking Ace back later. After I found my stalker/impostor. After this whole nightmare was over.
I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder. Bitsy frowned when she saw me.
“Where are you going? Are you going to pick up some food?”
Even though five o’clock might be dinnertime for some people, it was a bit early for those of us at The Painted Lady. We were usually having dinner at seven or later. I shook my head. “I won’t be too long.”
“You need to call Jeff first.” Bitsy waved a little pink message slip in my face. “He called about half an hour ago.”
“He knew I was with a client,” I muttered as I stared at the slip, which merely said,
Jeff picked up on the first ring. “What took you so long?”
“Rosebush. Big one. On her torso on the side.”
“Little cliched, huh?”
“Like your flash isn’t boring,” I snapped back.
“Touche.” He was quiet a second, then, “So what are you up to now?”
“I’m walking through the shops to the hotel,” I said. “I’m going to find Sherman Potter.”
“You don’t have to bother.”
I stopped short, and an elderly couple almost crashed into me. They gave me a dirty look as they scooted around me. I stepped to the edge of the walkway.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He’s not at the Venetian anymore.”
He said it like he knew it for a fact. Which meant… “You came over here,” I said.
“That’s right. And he left.”
I sighed.
“I know you’re disappointed, Kavanaugh,” Jeff said, “but don’t despair.”
Don’t despair? What, was he reading romance novels these days?
“I’m following him.”
“You’re following him?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
I totally didn’t need his crap. “Do you have any idea where he’s going?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, where?” This twenty-question thing was getting a little old.
“He’s pulling in right now. I have to hang back a little.”
“Pulling in where?” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, counting to ten so I wouldn’t explode.
“The Golden Palace. The hotel where they found your friend’s body.”
