The Missing Ink

“He didn’t look alive.” As I remembered, I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn’t get woozy again.

The amusement disappeared off his face, and his mouth set in a grim line. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

I got the sense he didn’t believe me-like I would make something like that up-but before I could say anything further, the doors slid open and we were stepping back into the suite.

I smelled it then, the faint pungent scent that I hadn’t noticed the first time because I’d been too hopped up about my celebrity encounter. Simon Chase smelled it, too, and his nose wrinkled, leading him toward the bathroom. I followed, not only to make sure the body was there, like I’d said, but to keep an eye on my case, which he was still carrying.

Simon Chase turned at the door, his hand again taking my elbow and steering me back out into the living area. “I see what you mean.” He looked over at the footman, who was standing sentry at the elevator. “Please call nine- one-one. But we need to be discreet. Have them meet you at the loading dock entrance, and bring them up that way, please.”

The footman nodded and stepped backward into the elevator, the doors closing.

Simon Chase let go of me then, put my case on the floor, and sank down on the back of a plush sofa, facing me.

“So, Miss Kavanaugh, you were here for a job. To tattoo a gentleman. But not that gentleman in the loo?”

“No. Not him.” And I told him who was supposed to be the recipient of the Stones logo, without going into the intimate details of my assignment.

Simon Chase didn’t stop the smile this time, which spread from his lips up to his eyes. I was feeling slightly unnerved. It had been a long time since I’d felt an attraction like this, and if my radar was working properly-I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was-it seemed he was reciprocating.

“That particular guest left yesterday, Miss Kavanaugh. I find it difficult to believe he would arrange this, since he knew he would be leaving.”

My mind was racing. Again I wondered if Jeff had set me up. Then again, maybe he’d been set up. He was the one who was supposed to be here, not me. He had told me that he thought someone was framing him in Kelly’s death.

“I’m actually covering for someone else, another tattooist,” I admitted.

“So he’s the one who arranged this?” I could tell that he, too, wondered if I’d been set up.

“I really think he thought it was his client who called and made the appointment,” I said, surprising myself by defending Jeff. But my gut told me Jeff wouldn’t set me up like this, despite our tenuous relationship. Would he? Seemed my gut was a little ambivalent.

“Who’s in there?” I asked.

“So you really don’t know?”

“No. Is it a big secret?”

“I suppose not.” Simon Chase got up and walked around to the window, his back to me for a second before he turned to face me.

“His name is Matt Powell. He’s Chip Manning’s driver.”

Chapter 19

Before I could react, a loud cacophony of cheering swept through the window from somewhere below. I must have looked puzzled, because Simon Chase beckoned me over.

A crowd of what looked like French peasants was racing toward the front of the building. If I wasn’t mistaken, they were waving sticks of French bread.

“What is it?” I asked.

“They’re storming the Bastille. Every afternoon at three. You’ve just missed Marie Antoinette telling them to eat cake.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“This is Versailles. Have you been in the casino?”

I shook my head, unable to rip my eyes away from the production going on outside.

“Guillotines.”

I looked at him then. “What?”

“The slot machines. When you hit a jackpot, the blade crashes down on top of the machine. It’s not real, of course, so no one will get hurt.”

Sometimes the illusions went too far. But he seemed rather proud of his guillotines, so I kept the thought to myself. Instead, I changed the subject.

“So why would Chip Manning’s driver be here?”

Simon Chase took a deep breath. “When your client left yesterday, Chip moved in here. He usually stays in this suite when he’s in town, but his visit this time was, well, unexpected.”

Because he was supposed to be on his honeymoon with Elise.

“You’re the woman on the telly, aren’t you?” Simon had finally made the connection.

“That’s right.”

“You saw Elise.”

“Yes.” I didn’t quite know what else to say. If he’d seen the bit on TV, then he already knew what I knew.

Fortunately, the conversation had to stop at that point, because the elevator doors opened and the footman led two detectives, a couple of crime scene forensics guys like the ones you see on TV, and two paramedics and a gurney into the room.

Simon Chase became all business. He showed them where the body was. One of the detectives tossed a glance back at me, and I recognized him as one of Tim’s buddies. Great.

“She found the body,” I heard Simon saying from the other room.

I felt my stomach drop with those words, and when I saw the detective-what was his name?-come out to talk to me, it got worse.

“What happened here, Brett?”

He was on a first-name basis with me, but I was in the dark about his.

“I was supposed to see someone else, a client, and when I got here, I saw this guy instead.” That was it in a nutshell.

He wanted more than that.

“So someone commissioned you to, well…” His voice trailed off as he tried to figure out just what it was I was supposed to do.

“It was a house call,” I filled in for him. “Someone who wanted a tat. But that client wasn’t here. The guy in the bathroom was.”

“Who was the client?”

I told him, and his eyebrows shot up, a grin dancing across his face. “Really?”

“But he wasn’t here,” I repeated. “So I went downstairs, and Mr. Chase came back up with me.”

The elevator doors opened again, and a big, white-haired man bounded into the room.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded, looking straight at Simon Chase.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me his name. He was Simon Chase’s boss, Bruce Manning. I’d seen him enough on TV myself to know that.

“I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” I heard Simon murmur, taking Manning’s elbow much like he did mine earlier and steering him toward the window, next to the piano, away from the activity.

Why is it that an English accent will make anything sound civilized-even death?

“We’re going to need to take your fingerprints,” the detective was saying to me.

Brian. That was it. That was his name.

“Sure, I guess so, but I didn’t touch anything. I used my elbow to push the elevator button.” I paused. “Does this mean he was murdered? He didn’t just keel over in the tub?”

Brian didn’t look too happy with me. “We’re going to need to take them, just in case.”

I knew what that meant: just in case I was lying about why I was here, who I was supposed to see. Just in