inappropriate, considering there was a dead guy in the next room and Brian thought I was some sort of person of interest. But I couldn’t help myself. He was the sexiest guy I’d met in a long time.
Maybe it was just the accent.
No, it was the whole package. I was ready to storm his Bastille.
“I like Chinese dragons,” was all I could spit out. I was sure he saw right through me, but to his credit, he didn’t call me on it.
“So you’re a fan of Asian art? Or French Impressionists?”
“Neoclassicists.” I said it before thinking.
Again with the eyebrows. “Really? Who?”
“Jacques-Louis David.
“You’re into death, then. You must feel right at home here.”
He was flirting with me. A little “yay” echoed through my head, but I merely smiled. “At least he’s French.”
“Yes, he has that going for him.” Simon Chase’s eyes twinkled. “So why don’t you have Marat on your arm?”
I thought about the painting: Marat slumped over the side of the bathtub, the blood on the sheet underneath him, the bloodstained letter in his hand. So real it was as if you could touch him.
It was just like the guy in the bathtub just yards away. Sans the letter and the blood. Coincidence?
I shivered with the thought. “A little too gruesome to wear,” I admitted.
“Water lilies are more cheerful?”
“You could say that.” I was distracted by the police officers who had started to dust for prints.
Simon noticed. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation over dinner sometime.”
“If I’m not in the big house,” I said grimly, only half joking.
“I’ll bring you a cake with a saw inside so you can break out,” he teased.
“Will you have a car waiting?”
“A big black Cadillac. That’s the car of choice, isn’t it, for you convicts?”
“Or a Town Car.”
“Oh, those are nice, too.”
It was as if we were the only two people in the room, until the elevator doors slid open and my brother walked into the suite.
Before I could say anything to him, Brian pulled him aside and whispered something in his ear. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered slightly as he looked at me. Something was wrong, and I didn’t think it was just the latex gloves.
Brian let go of Tim’s sleeve and went back into the other room. Tim approached me, but he now seemed to notice Simon, who held out his hand. “Simon Chase, manager.”
Tim nodded, shaking his hand. “Detective Kavanaugh.” He was through with pleasantries and turned back to me. “Brett, I need to talk to you.”
Simon cleared his throat. “I need to speak to Mr. Manning anyway.” And he went in search of his boss, who had disappeared into the other room as well.
“What is it now?” I asked Tim. “You know, I really just came here for a job.”
“I believe you, but we’ve got to go through the motions.”
“What motions?”
“Fingerprints. We have to confiscate your case.”
I had a momentary panic attack. “My tattoo machine is in there.”
“Don’t you have another one?”
“That’s my favorite.” As I said it, I realized it sounded stupid, but it was true. That particular machine fit perfectly in my hand; it was just the right weight. “What’s the problem?”
Tim nervously shifted from foot to foot, not very good at hiding his emotions from me.
He sighed. “We need to check the machine. The needles. The victim? His neck was punctured. That’s how he died.”
I had a bad feeling about this.
“Brett, there’s a tattoo needle stuck in his neck.”
Chapter 21
All my needles were still in their sterilized packages, but so were my latex gloves, so that wasn’t a good argument for my case. I watched as the forensics officers swept the room with the black dust. Bruce Manning could barely hold in his anger, but I noticed Simon Chase was very good at calming him down.
“Why isn’t she in custody?” Manning demanded at one point, indicating me.
My brother, to his credit, said, “We have no real evidence to arrest her.”
That should’ve made me feel better, but Tim still wouldn’t let me leave, despite that lack of evidence. Except for my case that had needles and gloves in it. Perhaps he meant physical evidence that I’d actually stuck that needle in Matt Powell’s neck.
Even though the suite had almost as many square feet as our house, there were only three rooms: the big living area, the bedroom, and the bathroom, which by itself was about the size of our garage. I wanted to find a corner so I could call Bitsy and tell her I wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day. However, privacy was out of the question.
“I could take her down to my office,” Simon Chase offered, hearing me arguing with Tim about it.
Tim looked grateful, although slightly suspicious. “Okay, sure, but you have to bring her right back up here after she makes her call.” He looked around the room. “I don’t have an extra body to send with you, so you’d better behave,” he told me.
I stuck my tongue out at him. Habit. Simon smothered a grin.
“You two have an interesting relationship,” he noted when we were safely in the elevator.
I’d been savoring the quiet. I hadn’t realized how noisy it was in the suite.
“Don’t you have siblings?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Only child.”
“Lucky you.”
He must have sensed I wasn’t in the mood for any more banter, because he didn’t say anything else. When the elevator finally eased to a stop and the doors opened, he led me down a long hall, opening a door to a small office. A woman sat at a desk in front of a computer. She looked up when we came in, and a long, sexy smile spread across her face. She was gorgeous, with those long black tresses and a bodice that was aching to be ripped, just like in romance novels. Not that I read romance novels. I’m just saying.
“Penny, we’ll be in my office.”
I followed Simon to a door in the back that I hadn’t noticed. When he opened it, an office the size of the Marie Antoinette Suite overwhelmed me. It wasn’t decorated in the same way; it was more retro, with a long Scandinavian desk and funky lights and a red leather couch that looked like it belonged on the set of Dan Tanna’s
What I didn’t notice at first was the person at the bar-a full bar with glasses and bottles and a sink-over to the left. When he spoke, it startled me.
“What the hell’s going on upstairs?”
I recognized him now. Chip Manning. Son of Bruce and cuckolded fiance of Elise. He’d had a few, from the way the amber liquid sloshed around in his glass as he swayed toward us.
Simon took his arm, steadying him and settling him onto the couch. Chip put his glass on the coffee table, leaned forward, and shouted, “Why doesn’t anyone tell me what’s going on? My father left me here, told me to stay, and he’s been gone, I don’t know, at least three drinks.”
