Pretty In Ink

“No one does. Not even Ace, and she was with him yesterday.” I didn’t tell him that Charlotte had spent a lot of time with Trevor before the show. But I did think of something else. “You know, if Charlotte wanted to do Trevor some harm, why not when he got his tattoo at our shop?”

“Who did the ink?”

“Ace.” I could see what he was thinking: Ace and Charlotte were close enough so she ran to him when she was in trouble. I quickly said, “But that’s not what happened, because we gave those guys their tattoos four weeks ago. Trevor would’ve been dead long before now.”

It was a strange sort of logic. No, Trevor’s demise was precipitated the other night at Chez Tango. It made more sense.

Tim was staring at me.

“What?” I asked curtly.

“What’s going on with you? What are you thinking?”

I told him about Rusty Abbott, Lester Fine’s assistant. How he had that queen-of-hearts playing-card ink like the guy who shot the cork at Trevor. “I have no idea how all these people are linked, except that they all were at that ball together.” I had another thought. “And then there’s Trevor’s pin. A jeweled one with the queen of hearts on it. He said he got it from Lester Fine. And he pawns it occasionally for cash, then buys it back, which is what happened just before Wesley Lambert came around looking for Trevor, saying there was a mistake or something with buying the brooch back. Then the pawnshop guy says the brooch is stolen. Maybe that was the mistake. But now Lambert and Trevor are both dead, so we might never know.” I paused for a second, another thought crashing into all the others.

“Do you think Lester Fine had something to do with all this?” I asked Tim. “I mean, he gave Trevor the pin, he knew Wesley Lambert, he’s Rusty Abbott’s boss, and now he shows up here for ‘publicity’ reasons.” I made little quotation marks with my fingers. “Maybe he’s here to find out what we know, find out whether anyone’s on to him.”

Tim chuckled. “On to him? You think he’s the master-mind of whatever’s going on, Brett?” But then his smile disappeared and he shrugged. “Then again, if all fingers point in one direction…” His voice trailed off.

This was becoming like that magic trick where you hide a ball under one of three cups. Mix them up and see if you can find the ball. But what it was we were supposed to find was eluding me.

My eye was way off the ball now, since Bixby was coming back toward us with Lester Fine and his flack in tow.

Chapter 26

They stopped right in front of us.

“Excuse me?” Lester Fine, I noticed now, was about as tall as I was, maybe a hair taller. He wasn’t as good- looking in person as he was in the movies or on TV; he had some acne scars on his jawline and neck that probably were disguised by makeup when he was acting. “Are you the victims of the incident this morning?”

I looked around. Victims? What victims?

Then I saw he was looking at me and Tim.

“Who, us?” I asked.

Bixby was trying to push Lester Fine along without actually touching him. It didn’t work. Fine opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, we heard the frosted sliders open and turned in unison to see Bitsy carrying a tote bag that was almost bigger than she was. June was hurrying after her.

“You can’t be in here,” June said loudly.

Bitsy saw me, waved, and turned to June. “I’m just dropping this off,” she said, indicating the tote bag, in a tone that clearly said, Don’t mess with me.

June looked up at Dr. Bixby and shrugged. Bixby nodded, as if to say it was all right. June turned and went back out the doors. Bitsy continued toward us.

Bitsy grinned, reveling in the fact that everyone was watching her.

“What’s up with the door Nazi?” Bitsy demanded. “Like this is some sort of prison.”

Being a little person, she had no problems being a little politically incorrect.

I, on the other hand, wanted to shrink into the floor and disappear. Although not as much as I did just a second later, when Bitsy pointedly looked up at Bixby and winked. “He’s cute,” she said, handing me the tote bag.

I felt my face grow hot.

The bag weighed a ton. I wanted to see exactly what Bitsy had brought. Maybe a saw, so Tim and I could break out of this joint.

Bitsy was the first to break the ice.

“You have to stay here all day?”

I was keenly aware that we’d already been here a couple hours, that it was now past noon, and that I was hungry. I was starting to hope Bitsy really did put a saw in that bag, or at least something that would give me an excuse to leave.

“Just to monitor them,” Dr. Bixby said.

“The TV crew is just outside. I don’t see why this is a problem.” Lester Fine obviously had moved beyond the current conversation. He was completely ignoring his lackey, who stood behind him, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. I tried to catch her eye, but she was staring at the floor, her head down like a good servant. I felt bad for her.

Bixby shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lester, but cameras are not allowed back here. HIPAA laws, you know.”

Ah, patient privacy rules. I liked the sound of that.

But Lester Fine was not one to give up easily. “We could take them outside and talk to them there, and then they can come back.”

Take who outside? He was staring at me and Tim. Oh, right, the “victims.” But before I could say anything, Bitsy jumped in.

“Just who do you think you are?” Bitsy’s voice bellowed louder than her small stature would imply. “Are you looking for some photo op that would make you look good to voters?”

Lester Fine looked at Bitsy then, a snarl creeping around his mouth. “And just who do you think you are?”

Uh-oh.

“I am one of those voters. You should speak to me with a little more respect. I am also this woman’s friend, and she’s been through a horrible ordeal today, and you can’t exploit that for your own personal gain. Maybe I should go out there and tell those reporters the kind of person you are.”

I wanted to applaud, but it might not go over well.

Lester Fine’s face had turned a bright shade of red. He took a deep breath and stood up a little straighter. He pulled down on his suit jacket, held his head high, and stormed off around the center station and out the frosted doors without a response. The woman shuffled off after him.

Bixby was smiling at Bitsy. “Thanks. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“You have to know how to talk to some people in just the right way,” Bitsy said, turning her charm on.

“How many TV crews are there out there?” I asked, eager to interrupt.

“I counted three trucks,” Bitsy said.

“Detective DeBurra said he’d deal with them,” Bixby said. That must be where he was, then. Dealing with the