case I happened to have killed that guy in there.
And as I was thinking that, Brian pointed to my case, which Simon had put on the floor next to the plush sofa.
“I need to check that out.”
I pulled it out and unlatched it, opening it to reveal my inks and needles wrapped nicely in their one-time-use packages and the tattoo machine. Brian poked around, lifting up the latex gloves, also in packages. The state of Nevada wouldn’t find any health violations with me or my shop.
Without saying anything, Brian took the latex gloves and needle packages and went into the other room. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of that, especially since I wasn’t sure what he was up to.
Bruce Manning’s voice filtered into my head.
“I want to know what that driver was doing in here.”
“Does it matter now?” Simon’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“He shouldn’t be in here without Chip.”
“Where is Chip?”
Good question. I tried not to be obvious, watching them out of the corner of my eye as they huddled in the far corner of the room.
“Why is that woman with the tattoos here?” Bruce Manning obviously didn’t feel compelled to answer Simon’s question; either that, or he didn’t know where Chip was. Maybe both.
“She says she was supposed to see the previous guest.” The whisper was a little louder now, and while Manning’s back was to me, Simon was looking in my direction-straight at me, actually. And he winked.
It was a tiny wink, but a wink all the same, and I got warm all over again, suppressing a smile.
“That’s ridiculous,” Manning said, swinging around now and spotting me hovering near the sofa. In three strides he was next to me, and I had no choice but to stand tall.
I was at least two inches taller than he was.
But what he lacked in height, he made up for in stature.
“Young lady, you had no business in this room.”
“On the contrary, sir, I did.”
His head swiveled to look at Simon Chase. “Is she telling the truth?”
Simon cocked his head at me, studying my face, and then said, “I believe so.”
“Well, then, you’ve got a security issue here, Chase, and I demand you take care of it. She should never have been allowed up here, regardless, without you knowing about it.”
“I’ll look into it, Mr. Manning,” Simon said, his voice measured.
“Is there a reason you’re still here?” Manning bellowed at me.
“There is.” Brian the detective was standing behind me, still holding the gloves, but now they were out of the package. I had a bad feeling about this.
“Did you put a pair of these gloves on earlier?” he asked.
All eyes were on me, and I shifted slightly.
“No. Why would I? I hadn’t even seen my client.”
Brian’s face was stonelike. I couldn’t read it. His words, though, came through loud and clear.
“A pair of gloves like this was in the tub. And a package exactly like the one you have in your case is in the trash can.”
Chapter 20
“You’ve got to be kidding,” was the first thing out of my mouth, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say.
“What are you implying?” Simon Chase’s voice surprised me, as he approached Brian.
Brian looked from me to Chase and back again. “Perhaps we need to take this downtown,” he said.
“You should take her into custody now,” Manning demanded.
I glared at him. “Can I at least get a phone call?” I heard something in my voice that was not conducive to speaking to police officers.
“We’ll call your brother for you,” Brian offered, but it wasn’t more than an official gesture.
“I think I’d rather call him,” I said, reaching for my messenger bag, which was still slung around my shoulder.
I don’t know if it was my sudden movement-maybe he thought I was going for some sort of weapon-but Brian body-slammed me and I fell back over the top of the sofa and did a sort of backward somersault. Before I landed between the sofa and the massive coffee table, however, I felt a strong arm around my shoulders, helping me up.
Simon Chase asked, “Are you all right?”
I nodded, adjusting my skirt and shirt and messenger bag, combing my fingers through my hair. “Thanks,” I murmured, glancing at his profile, which was really quite striking. So he was chivalrous, to boot. Not like Brian the detective, who just stood there, staring.
“I think you owe Miss Kavanaugh an apology,” Simon Chase demanded of Brian.
I was liking him more and more.
Instead of saying he was sorry, Brian shoved a cell phone at me. “Call your brother.”
I took it before he changed his mind and went across the room, in front of the magnificent marble fireplace that dominated the far wall. I hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but as I heard Tim’s cell ringing, I studied the painting above the mantel. It was a splash of colors in the Impressionist style. But it was merely an imitation, and not a very good one at that.
“Kavanaugh.”
That’s right: He wouldn’t know it was me because it wasn’t my phone.
“Um, Tim? It’s Brett.”
“Brett?”
“I’m in a bit of trouble, I think. At least your friend Brian of the LVPD thinks so.”
Silence, then, “Why is that, Brett?”
“He thinks I have something to do with the body found in the bathroom in the Marie Antoinette Suite at Versailles.”
More silence.
“Why would he think that?”
Yeah, why would he? Except for a pair of latex gloves you could buy at any Wal-Mart. I didn’t say what I was thinking this time, though. I had to tread lightly with Tim. He didn’t like it that I kept ending up on his turf.
So I ran through the afternoon’s events as quickly as I could, without even taking a breath. When I was finished, he said, “Okay, I’ll be right there.”
As I closed the phone, I felt someone behind me. I expected to see Brian, but it was Simon Chase. His brow was furrowed, like he was worried about me or something.
“Everything all right?”
I nodded. “My brother,” I said, indicating the phone. “He’s a detective. He’s going to be here shortly.” I tossed my head toward the painting. “You know, the Impressionists didn’t paint until the nineteenth century. Your interior designer was off a century with the decorating. Or did she perhaps just choose it because of the colors?”
His eyebrows slid up slightly. “And you know about paintings, Miss Kavanaugh?”
I liked the way my name sounded when he wrapped his accent around it. Not like when Jeff Coleman barked it at me.
“I have a degree in fine arts from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, concentrating in painting.”
The eyebrows slid even higher. “That explains the tattoo on your arm.” He smiled, a sly little smile that made me tingle unexpectedly. And what he said next was even more unexpected: “But what about the dragon over your breast?”
The way his tongue lingered on the word “breast” took my breath away for a second. It was completely
