Pretty In Ink

remembered Jeff grabbing me and covering me with his body when the gunshots rang out.

I shrugged. “Yeah, he’s not so bad after all, I guess.”

“He thinks pretty highly of you.”

Really? I was too tired to think about it.

“Do you think Ace is involved in whatever it is Charlotte’s up to?” Tim asked. “Off the record.”

“No. And until I saw her today jumping off that balcony, I didn’t really want to think she was doing anything wrong, either. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Did you do a background check on her when you hired her?”

I stared at him. “No. Should I have? She’s just a trainee.”

“Brett, you should background check everyone you hire, even a trainee.”

Something about his tone made me pause. “You know something, don’t you?”

He kept his eyes on the road, flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What is it, Tim? What’s in her background?”

“I can’t say.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who said this was all off the record. So you didn’t really tell me, okay?”

The Jeep slowed to a stop at a light on the Strip. The Venetian was just to our left in all its Renaissance Italy glory. It looked exactly like the Doge’s Palace, with a sign for Madame Tussauds wax museum stuck like a postage stamp at the end of a ramp. I stared at it for a long second before whispering, “Tim? Please tell me about Charlotte.”

The light changed and he gunned the accelerator, causing the Jeep to lurch forward.

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I know.”

He waited until we were sitting at the next light.

“Metro Homeland Security’s been watching Charlotte Sampson since last year.”

Chapter 39

I tried to wrap my head around what Tim was saying, but the fatigue was too much.

“What do you mean, they’ve been watching her? What do they think? She’s some sort of terrorist?”

When Tim didn’t answer, I continued.

“That’s ludicrous. She was a student, studying accounting, and she wants to be a tattoo artist. She’s good. She’s really good. She’s not a terrorist.”

Tim waited until I paused. “They believe she and Wesley Lambert were partners.”

“Partners in what?”

He shrugged. The light turned green, and we shot forward.

“Do they think she was part of the ricin making?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. I just overheard DeBurra saying that it was convenient she called you to come to Lambert’s condo and he was dead.”

“Do they think she had something to do with his death?”

We stopped again, and the red light cast a glow on the windshield.

Tim nodded. “Yeah, they do.”

I mulled that for a few seconds. “Wonder what Trevor’s role was.” And then I knew. The money. The money must have had something to do with this. I kept flashing back on that image of Charlotte with the backpack.

We were on 215 now, heading toward Henderson and my bed. I leaned back on the headrest and closed my eyes, drifting off.

But a thought made me jolt up.

The laptop. Trevor’s laptop. It was in Jeff Coleman’s car. I wondered if there was anything on it that could give me a clue as to what Trevor had been up to, and, by extension, Charlotte as well.

I glanced at Tim, who was concentrating on the road. Should I mention the laptop?

Two Sister Mary Eucharistas were sitting on my shoulders. One wore little devil horns and urged me to keep my mouth shut. The one with angel’s wings said I should own up.

Exhaustion won out. I justified not saying anything by telling myself I’d let him know about the laptop in the morning. After I got some sleep. I didn’t have the energy to answer more questions.

I leaned back again and dozed.

I barely remembered getting into the house and going to bed. But when I woke up, the sun streaming through the miniblinds, I was curled up under my comforter, wearing my cotton pajama bottoms and oversized T-shirt. I had a vague memory of pulling it over my head.

The clock told me it was ten already. I usually got to the shop around eleven. I wondered whether I could call Bitsy and explain that I needed a couple more hours of sleep.

But I’d been gone all day yesterday, she’d saved my butt, and I needed to give her a break.

I dragged myself out of bed, looked in the mirror, and almost screamed.

My hair, which I’d slicked back so nicely at the police station, was standing on end, like Alfalfa’s from The Little Rascals. I swiped a hand over it, and it just bounced right back up again.

A shower. I really needed a shower.

I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it and let it soak me. I tipped my head back, and the water pounded into my skull. In a good way. I don’t know how long I was in there, but when I got out, I was all nice and prune-y, my skin was red from the heat, and I felt almost human again.

A cup of coffee would complete me.

Tim was already gone. He’d left the coffeepot on, and I poured a cup as I read the brief note he’d left me on the counter:

Had to go in early. Will call later. Your stuff is on the chair.

– T

Stuff? What stuff?

There, hanging on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, was a supermarket plastic bag that sagged with something heavy inside. I picked it up and dumped it on the table.

I grinned. My keys, my wallet, my sunglasses, my cell phone, even the couple of pens and small pad I kept for notes.

My messenger bag was nowhere to be seen. Since it was made of some sort of fabric, the cops probably figured it could be contaminated, like my clothes, and sent it to the Big Hazard Waste Pile. No biggie. That just meant I could buy a new one.

I toasted a bagel and slathered some cream cheese on it, then took my plate and coffee into the living room and sank down on the leather sofa. I grabbed the remote and turned the TV on.

SpongeBob and Patrick were tormenting Squidward again.

The phone rang. I nearly spit out my coffee.

The phone wasn’t in its little cradle, but I found it on top of the refrigerator just as the machine kicked in. I punched it on.

“Hello?”

“Kavanaugh?”

No one else but Jeff Coleman called me by my last name.

“Did I wake you?”