Jeff was right. I started walking backward, watching DeBurra. Jeff got between us. When I reached the sidewalk, I turned and sprinted. A black Audi sat idling by the side of the road, and as I approached, the headlights flashed twice. Bixby.
I opened the door and barely got seated when he spun the car around so we were going in the opposite direction. “I’m happy to see you,” I said, letting myself breathe again and tossing my bag on the floor before latching my seat belt. “You might want to step on it.”
Bixby heard the edge in my voice.
He glanced at my arm.
“What happened?”
I told him about the explosion, the fight between my brother and DeBurra. “I’m glad you came along when you did, or I’d be looking at another all-nighter,” I said, keeping my eye on the sideview mirror for any sign of DeBurra. “Where are we going?”
“My place.”
Somehow this wasn’t the atmosphere in which I’d hoped to end up at Bixby’s place. That fantasy included dinner, a nice bottle of wine, maybe some music. Not me all cut up and running from the cops-again. But going to his place was smart. No one would know to look for me there, and I could make some calls, try to see if anyone had seen or heard from Charlotte. I didn’t know where else to start, so that seemed like a plan.
I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, trying to sort out everything that had happened. Music filtered in through the tunnels in my ears, something jazzy with a lot of piano and saxophone. I don’t know a lot of jazz, and I don’t normally listen to it-I’m more of a rock ’n’ roll kind of girl-but there were times, like this, that it was soothing. Almost like a massage. Well, not exactly. I let my thoughts wander even further, wondering whether I could get a spa appointment tomorrow. I so needed one. Bitsy could rearrange my schedule.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Bixby said, his voice interrupting my plans.
I didn’t really want to tell him I was thinking about a massage-he might get the wrong idea-and I didn’t want to get into all the stuff about Charlotte with him right now, so I asked, “How’s the ink?” indicating his new Celtic knot.
He grinned. “It’s fine, but it’s starting to itch.”
“Did you take off the plastic? Use some antibiotic gel?”
“I did.”
“Good. You won’t regret it.”
“I know that.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Do you know anyone who drives a gold Pontiac?”
I twisted around in my seat and looked out the back window. Jeff Coleman was following us. He was a couple cars behind, but I couldn’t miss that car anywhere. His front windshield was still intact, thanks to the fact that while I was parked facing Chez Tango, he’d pulled in beside my Mustang facing the other way. It was his back window that was shattered, instead.
I settled back into my seat. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a friend.”
“A friend?” Bixby’s eyebrows rose with the question.
“Just a friend,” I said. “He’s looking out for me.”
Bixby turned right.
Into the entrance of the Windsor Palms condominiums.
Now it was my turn to tense up. “Your place?” I asked Bixby, a sick feeling growing in my stomach.
He nodded. “Been here a little over a year.”
“Did you know Wesley Lambert?”
His eyelids fluttered; then he smiled. “Bought the place because of him.”
Chapter 54
I swung around to look out the back window. The gold Pontiac was nowhere to be seen.
“He turned off,” Bixby said as he steered the Audi around the building to the parking garage. I did not want to go into that garage, because I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on with Dr. Colin Bixby at the moment. It seemed way too much of a coincidence that he lived in the same building as Wesley Lambert.
“Kyle introduced us,” he was saying, talking about Lambert. “Nice guy.”
“He was making ricin in his condo,” I said. “Not sure if that could be called nice. And he was poking around Chez Tango threatening Trevor, and then Trevor dies, mysteriously, from flu symptoms that could really have been ricin poisoning.”
Bixby snorted. It was the first thing about him that I did not find attractive. “Are you a doctor now, Brett?”
I shrugged.
“Why don’t you stick with your tattoos and I’ll stick with medicine, okay?” The condescending tone was also bothersome.
He got out of the Audi, but I continued to sit there, until he came over to my door and opened it for me. He bowed low and swung his arm to indicate I was to get out. It was chivalrous; I had to give him that.
Or maybe he was just luring me into his condo so he could kill me. He knew I’d been heading over to Chez Tango, and he conveniently got stuck in traffic during the explosion.
My thoughts were all over the place. I had no proof of anything. I was being paranoid. After all I had been through, I felt it was justified.
Bixby shut the door behind me and put his hand on my lower back. My whole body stiffened.
He noticed.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, leaning toward me and brushing my cheek with his lips.
If we weren’t at the Windsor Palms, if he hadn’t bought his place because of Wesley Lambert, I might actually encourage a little more romance, maybe even that massage, but instead I pulled back and said, “Stressed out. Explosions do that to me.” I gave a sort of high-pitched laugh and crossed my arms, immediately regretting it because my arm was sore from being sliced up by glass shards.
He noticed.
“When we get upstairs, I’ll take care of that,” he said, his voice all husky and sexy, and for a second I dipped my toe in the water, but then got out of the pool.
I nodded, though, to keep up appearances.
He pushed the button for the elevator, and the doors slid open like they were waiting for us. Bixby put his arm around me and let me go in first. I shimmied around as he punched in seven, which I assumed was his floor, and then, just as the doors began to close, scooted out and watched him disappear. I think he was so surprised that he didn’t realize he could’ve just opened the door again. I saw the little numbers above the elevator door climb.
With my messenger bag slapping against my hip, I high-tailed it between cars and down the pavement, skipping down the open stairwell that led to the ground floor and outside. In the distance I heard the
I came out onto the circular drive, the fountain spouting all that water, but I didn’t have time to lament it. I ran along the roadway and out to the Strip. I thought I heard someone shout my name, but I couldn’t stop to turn around. It would slow me down.
When I hit the sidewalk, I almost crashed into two Hispanic guys who tried to hand me those little cards advertising the ladies who would do anything for a price. Like I’d be interested. I waved them off as I picked up speed and dashed between the tourists who were gazing at the Venetian, which was just across the street.
I wanted to go to the shop in the worst way. I wanted to sit in my room and close my eyes and smell the ink and feel the machine in my hand.
But I couldn’t. DeBurra would track me down and cart me off to police headquarters again. Or worse, Bixby
