I didn’t answer.
He stopped at a door, a DO NOT DISTURB Sign dangling from the knob. “This is it.” He reached out and put his knuckles to the door, but as he knocked, the door moved. He gave it a little push and it opened.
We exchanged a glance.
“Wasn’t closed properly,” he said, as if setting up our explanation to the police as to how we ended up breaking and entering. Tim would not be pleased, regardless.
I hung back as Jeff put his head around the door. I could see the corner of an unmade bed, sheets in a pile on the floor at the foot of it, a leg hanging over the side.
“Stay here,” Jeff whispered as he went farther around the door.
I didn’t want to be out here all by myself, so I followed him, but stopped when I saw the naked man sprawled across the bed.
And the tattoo of a flamingo on his arm.
It was Sherman Potter. And he wasn’t merely sleeping.
Jeff was hunched over the body, studying the flamingo tattoo, which was not nearly as colorful as Daisy’s had been when she died.
“It’s not new,” he said.
I leaned over his shoulder and studied it, too. Jeff was right: This tattoo was not new at all. It actually looked like it was a lot older than the Flamingos, because the color was faded, the lines not so sharp anymore. I wondered if Sherman Potter had given the band its name from the tattoo he sported. Daisy had never said anything about the origin of the band’s name, although I’d always assumed it had come from her.
Jeff was no longer paying attention to the tattoo, but scanning the body.
“What are you doing?” I asked, wondering if we should cover the man up. It wasn’t exactly dignified to be letting it all hang out like that.
“Looking for a cause of death,” Jeff said.
Okay. Sounded reasonable.
I thought about how Daisy had been found in a room in this very same hotel just a couple of days ago. It could not be a coincidence that now Sherman Potter was here, too.
A redheaded woman was seen leaving Daisy’s room, and Jeff had seen a redheaded woman come in this room with Sherman Potter.
That could cast doubt on whether Sherman Potter was responsible for Daisy’s death, but it was pointing every finger at Ann Wainwright. I wondered why Ann had been using her sister’s name.
I glanced back at the tattoo, then looked around the room. Sherman Potter had traveled light, since I didn’t see a suitcase or any clothes except the ones that were scattered on the floor. A hotel room key card lay on the desk. Maybe he really was staying at the Venetian and this was just some sort of afternoon delight. Well, until he died, of course.
I heard a familiar tone. My cell phone. A text message. I reached into my bag and pulled it out, reading the screen.
My hand started to shake, and Jeff gently took the phone from me, looking at the message.
It was a picture text, with a picture of Sherman Potter’s flamingo tattoo. The one we were looking at right this very moment. And a message that said, “You keep giving me good reasons to blog.”
“She put it up on the blog,” I whispered. “What else did she put there?” Was she watching us now? Did she see us come in here?
“We could go down to the lobby and see if we can use a computer in the business office to find out what’s up.” Jeff’s tone was matter of fact.
“We need to call Tim,” I said, although I wasn’t too sure how he’d take me finding yet another dead body.
Jeff knew what I was thinking. “How are you going to explain to your brother that you happened upon poor old Sherman Potter? It’s breaking and entering.”
“The door was open,” I said after a moment.
He grinned. “That’s right. But considering that you’re already on the hook for Daisy Carmichael and there’s another flamingo tattoo in the picture, maybe you’ll just want to phone this in anonymously.”
It was tempting. I didn’t need Tim telling me yet again that I shouldn’t get involved. But I couldn’t do it. I had to tell him. Because the guilt would eat me alive. Sister Mary Eucharista had taught me well.
“Didn’t think so,” Jeff teased, but I could hear something in his tone that indicated he agreed with me.
I took the phone out of Jeff’s hand and punched in Tim’s number.
“What is it now, Brett?”
His tone made me wish I hadn’t felt so guilty.
“Well, there’s a bit of a situation,” I started.
“There always is with you,” he said. “Spit it out.”
I told him about finding Sherman Potter, and he caught his breath.
“What is it with you?” he asked. “I mean, how do you do this? It’s like you’re some sort of murder magnet.”
Great. Exactly what I wanted to put on my resume. Not.
“Just get over here, okay?”
“You haven’t touched anything, have you?”
I glanced at Sherman Potter’s naked body again and shivered. “No. Nothing.”
“Stay put.” And he hung up.
Jeff had wandered into the bathroom, and now he emerged. “On his way?” he asked.
I nodded.
“She took a shower. There are wet towels on the floor.”
“Maybe he took one,” I suggested.
“His hair’s not wet, and it doesn’t look like the sheets under him are, either.”
“Who died and made you a CSI?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes at me-something I usually did, so it was interesting the other way around-and said, “I suppose you think you’re the only one who knows her way around a crime scene.”
“Maybe we should buy those little flashlights like they’ve got on TV. Then we could look under the bed and see if there are any more clues.”
Jeff laughed out loud. “And then we’ll find out it was Mr. Plum in the dining room with a candlestick. Let’s go down to the business center and wait for your brother,” he suggested, moving toward the door.
“I told Tim I’d stay put,” I said.
“We’re not leaving the hotel-we’re just checking on something. We’ll come right back.” He didn’t wait for me, went out into the hallway.
His argument made sense, so I followed him out. He pulled the door shut tight, locking Sherman Potter inside.
We wandered the hallway maze until we found ourselves at the elevators. Jeff pushed the DOWN button. I could hear the whir of the elevator, but it didn’t stop for us.
“So, Kavanaugh,” Jeff said, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Are we going to talk about it?”
I knew what he was referring to, but I played stupid. “What?”
“This thing between us.”
“What thing?”
“You know. We’ve got a thing.”
“We do not have a thing,” I said, and the elevator doors opened.
We stepped inside, and we were trapped together for the moment. I couldn’t get away.
But he didn’t say anything. Not until the elevator doors opened to the lobby. As I started out, he touched my
