He gave Bitsy and me a wan smile. “Thanks,” he said, and we both smiled back as we watched him head out.
I turned to Bitsy when he was out of sight. “I do wish he’d been a little more forthcoming about Charlotte.”
“You shouldn’t badger him, though. Just before you came in, he was telling me how she broke up with him in that phone call this morning. Said she didn’t want to cause him any more trouble, that he was better off without her. He’s pretty broken up about it.”
I had the sense that Ace had told her this in confidence, but he should have known by now that you can’t count on Bitsy to be discreet.
I didn’t get a chance to continue the conversation, however, because at that moment, Ace’s client came in. Bitsy explained that Ace was out sick, but that I could take him, if he was okay with that. The guy looked remarkably like Tony Soprano, and he gave me a look that made me wish I hadn’t been quite so generous after all. He was perfectly okay with me taking over.
Fortunately, he was just in for a New Zealand tribal tattoo on his biceps, which didn’t take much effort at all. I could understand why Ace had issues with “sacrificing his art.” As I worked, I tried to push everything that was going on out of my head, but I kept wondering about that money. If Charlotte hadn’t taken it, like she said, then who did? Was it the unknown person in Trevor’s apartment who shot at us? Or had someone gone in after I’d been there with Kyle and before I went back with Jeff? What about Rusty Abbott?
When I deposited Ace’s client with Bitsy to deal with payment, I went straight into the staff room. While I was thinking about the money, my thoughts had wandered back to Trevor’s laptop and that picture of Lester Fine. Finally free for a little while, I took the laptop out from under the light table where I’d left it and booted it up.
I went back to Facebook to look at those party pictures again. Maybe Trevor had posted a picture of Lester without realizing it. Then I could tell Tim that there was something on Facebook rather than tell him I’d been snooping.
I clicked on the photo albums link.
There was only one problem.
All the pictures were gone.
Chapter 49
How could this be? As far as I knew, only Trevor-and me, now, because I had his password-could delete any pictures. I began to wonder what the rules were with Facebook when someone died. Did Trevor’s page just stay up there indefinitely?
Then I remembered that I’d told Frank DeBurra about that picture. Maybe he actually took me seriously. That would be a switch.
I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and made a mental note to ask him whether he found out anything from the pictures.
I heard Springsteen warbling “Born to Run” from inside my bag. I got up and took out my cell phone, flipping it open even though I didn’t recognize the number on the screen.
“Yes?”
“It’s Kyle.”
His words were rushed, his voice lower than usual.
“Do you have a cold?” I asked.
“It’s Charlotte. She’s sick.”
Panic rose in my chest. “Sick?” I thought about Wesley Lambert on the floor of his bedroom, dead from ricin poisoning, and Charlotte’s hoodie in the living room. Granted, I’d seen Charlotte between then and now, talked to her, but it was possible that it just took that long for her to get sick. “Where is she?”
“Chez Tango.”
“Can I meet you at the hospital?”
“Here.”
I looked at my watch. My client would be here any minute. “Just take her to the hospital.”
“No. Here.”
This sounded a little too familiar. “Last time she wanted me to meet her I ended up alone with a dead body.”
“Not kidding. Please.” The last word was said with so much emphasis that I couldn’t ignore it.
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll be there in a few.”
He’d already hung up, so I closed my phone and stared at it a second. She must be really sick. Kyle was such an upbeat guy, but he sounded defeated, so unlike himself. Almost like he was sick himself.
I didn’t like the idea of Charlotte not going to the hospital right away. Then I had a thought. Colin Bixby. He was a doctor. He might know what to do. And I had his card somewhere. Where had I put it? I grabbed my bag and rifled through it. Had Tim returned the card with all the other things? I couldn’t remember.
Finally my hand settled on something that felt like a business card. Yes, this was it. I punched the number into my phone.
“Hello?” he asked hesitantly. Oh, right, we hadn’t exchanged phone calls yet, so he wouldn’t know my number offhand.
“It’s Brett,” I said, and before he could respond, I told him what was going on.
“You should call an ambulance,” he said.
“Are you free right now? Can you meet me there, and then we can see what’s up?” I asked. “Kyle’s with her. I think if it was that bad, he would’ve called an ambulance even if she said not to.”
“I hope so,” he said slowly.
“Can you get there?” I asked. “I’m sorry to ask, but you were the first person I thought of.”
“I like the sound of that,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, I can meet you. I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”
I thanked him and hung up.
For about a nanosecond I thought about calling Frank DeBurra, too, but if Charlotte really was that sick, then we could call him when we assessed the situation. It might not even be the ricin. I hoped.
I was walking out when my client walked in. She smiled shyly at me. Shoot.
“Oh, Susan, I’m really sorry, but I have an emergency,” I said quickly.
Bitsy looked up with a frown. I hadn’t told her yet.
“Is Joel here?” I asked, and Bitsy nodded, although I could see that she was eager to find out just what my “emergency” was. “Can you tell him Susan’s stencil is on the light table?” I turned back to Susan. “Do you mind? Joel’s fantastic.” It wasn’t like it was her first time. She had four other tattoos.
She smiled. “Sure, do what you have to do.”
I leaned toward Bitsy and whispered, “It’s Charlotte. Kyle called. She’s sick. I’ve got Bixby meeting us at Chez Tango.”
Bitsy’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Me, too,” I said as I walked out.
I’d forgotten that I’d valet parked. I had to wait too long for my car to show up, and when it did, the valet got out of the car and stood by the door as I walked around to get in.
“Miss, I hate to tell you, but I think something’s wrong with your trunk latch. It keeps popping open. Whenever it hits a bump.” He cocked his head toward the back of the Bullitt, and I could see that the trunk was slightly open.
