I ignored her. “I’m not a detective,” I said scornfully, wishing I had a client coming in so I could walk away from this conversation. No such luck, however. I had at least an hour to try to explain how I managed to get myself all tangled up in things I had no business being tangled up in.
Lucky me.
“Do you want to meet him?” Harry asked me.
“Who?”
“Sherman Potter.”
That flutter I mentioned accelerated.
“No, she doesn’t,” Bitsy said sternly.
I made a face at her. “What would it hurt?” I asked. “I mean, I did know Daisy, and I’d like to find out how to contact her family to express my condolences.” As I spoke, I realized I had a perfectly legitimate reason to go talk to Sherman Potter. And from the look on Bitsy’s face, she knew exactly what I was thinking.
She sighed—a deep, heavy sigh that told me I was being ridiculous.
Harry straightened himself up and put out his arm for me to take. I gave Bitsy and Joel a little shrug as I hooked my hand into the crook of Harry’s elbow.
“Don’t wait up,” I teased as Harry and I went out the door.
They were so not happy with me. But I couldn’t help thinking Sherman Potter’s appearance in Vegas wasn’t a coincidence.
Between Harry’s outfit and my tattoos, we drew a few stares as we walked past the gondolas and tourists. Harry was a little taller than me, maybe even a little taller than Tim, who stood six feet. And as I studied his profile, I realized that because he was so much younger than me—not to mention the glassy eyes—I hadn’t noticed before how good-looking he was.
A little bit of guilt bubbled up as I remembered how I’d blown off Colin Bixby’s phone call earlier. Not because I thought Harry was good-looking, but one of the reasons why I’d sworn off any sort of crime entanglement was because of Bixby. What I was doing right now might not set too well with the good doctor.
He didn’t have to know, did he? I mean, I really was just going to see Sherman Potter about how to reach Daisy’s family.
I kept telling myself that.
Harry and I walked through the marble hallway toward the Venetian’s lobby. We’d have to find out Sherman Potter’s room number from the desk staff. That might not be easy.
Except I hadn’t counted on Harry to come through. He stepped up to the front desk and flashed his wide smile at a dark-haired woman who truly may have been a cougar from the way she checked him out. I stayed in the background, pretending I was waiting for a free desk clerk, so Harry could work his magic.
In moments, he had taken my arm and was steering me toward the hotel elevators.
“Ninth floor,” he said.
“Not the penthouse?” It slipped out before I could stop it.
Harry laughed. “Sherman likes it here, but he gets comped. So he only gets the ninth floor.”
“He must lose a lot of money in the casino here,” I noted as we went into the elevator. Anyone who’s comped usually gambles way too much and loses way too much. That way the resort can keep him around, because they’re making money off him.
The elevator doors slid open on the ninth floor, and a valet pushing a luggage cart moved into the elevator as we stepped off.
“Where to now?” I asked Harry.
He led the way down the hall, past many doors and around and around. I would get lost if I stayed here. Finally, we stopped in front of a door. Harry knocked, and we waited. He knocked again.
I indicated the DO NOT DISTURB Sign hanging on the door handle. “Maybe he’s still sleeping,” I suggested. “We could come back later.”
Harry shrugged and knocked again.
Suddenly, the door swung open, startling me enough that I stepped back.
A man wearing a flowing Chinese silk robe that was open to reveal a buff, naked torso above black silk boxers stared angrily at us.
“What do you want?” he bellowed.
“Hey, Sherm, it’s me.” Harry put his hand out, like it was some sort of business meeting.
Sherman Potter blinked a few times, checking out Harry before his eyes ran up and down my body. I shivered, and not in a good way. It was as though he were pinching me with his eyes. I was ready to get back on that elevator and swear off any more snooping for the rest of my life, so help me God. Sister Mary Eucharista, my grade school teacher at Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy, would approve.
But then Sherman Potter stepped forward and pulled Harry into a big bear hug.
“I thought it was the cops again. I’ve been avoiding them all morning.”
Chapter 8
A
voiding the cops didn’t sound like a very good idea. Neither did coming here, after all. But before I could backtrack to the elevators and make my escape, Harry had dragged me into the room with him and the door closed behind us.
It was a mess. The curtains were pulled shut, although a small sliver of light still managed to slip through and pooled on the floor. Clothes were strewn everywhere; a suitcase lay open near the wardrobe; stray shoes were scattered. A pizza box sat on the desk, the aroma of pepperoni and onions permeating the air. Instead of disgusting me, as it should, it made me hungry. I hadn’t had lunch yet.
Two champagne flutes sat side by side next to the pizza box; a bottle floated in water that had clearly started out as ice. Their presence, and the sound of the shower being turned off, indicated that Sherman might have been avoiding the police, but he had company.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sherman asked, pulling the champagne bottle out of the water and managing to pour a few drops into one of the flutes. He picked it up and raised it, as if he was giving a toast.
Harry stared at the glass, and I could see he was wishing there were more to go around.
“I asked Harry to bring me up here,” I started, when it was clear Harry wasn’t going to answer.
Sherman Potter leered at me. Really. Like Harry was loaning me out for the afternoon. I shook off my disgust and said quickly, “I wanted to know how to reach Daisy—I mean, Dee Carmichael’s family to express my sympathies.”
The leer turned into an expression of curiosity. “And you are?’
I didn’t want to shake this man’s hand, so I merely shoved my hands in my pockets and said, “Brett Kavanaugh. I did all of Daisy’s—um, Dee’s tattoos.”
“Even the one that killed her?”
The voice came from behind. A tall redhead was wrapped in a very small white towel, her hair wet and hanging down around her shoulders. Her face was long, horselike, if I were going to be mean like a middle school girl, but her eyes turned her rather plain features into something spectacular: They were big and clear blue, as if she’d invested in those colored contact lenses. Which she may have.
It helped, too, that she had a spectacular body that the towel was doing nothing to conceal.
Harry looked like someone had slapped him silly. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off her. If I were a guy, I probably would be gaping, too. But since she’d basically just accused me of murdering Daisy, I wasn’t exactly her biggest fan.
“I haven’t heard how Daisy died,” I said matter-of-factly.
The girl, and I say that because she didn’t look more than twenty-one, cocked her head at Sherman. “He said that’s how she died. That’s what the police told him.” She cast an eye at Harry, as if daring him to say something to her.
Sherman Potter apparently had better police sources than I did, which was bothersome, since my own brother had stonewalled me.
“I thought you were avoiding the police,” I said to Sherman.
He shot me a look that told me to shut up. He didn’t know me very well.
The girl sidled past me and Harry, brushing up against him so the towel slipped a little. He blushed as she adjusted it, but not before he got a glimpse of what was beneath it. I could tell he’d be good for nothing now.
“I didn’t get your name,” I said as she crossed the room, picked up a pack of cigarettes, and slid one out. Great. Now we’d all get secondhand smoke poisoning.
“I didn’t give it,” she retorted, lighting a match and putting it to the cigarette in her mouth. She blew out the match in a perfect smoke ring. If I hadn’t been so grossed out, it might have impressed me.
“Might as well tell her. Everyone’s going to know soon enough anyway,” Sherman said to her, turning to me and saying, “She’s the Flamingos’ new lead singer.”
Boy, he moved fast. Daisy was barely dead, and he already had a replacement. He saw the look on my face and shook his head.
“It’s not what you think,” he said. “Daisy told me a month ago she was leaving the band. I’ve been auditioning potential replacements ever since.”
The word “audition” seemed to have a different definition for Sherman Potter than it did for most people.
“Congratulations.” Harry finally found his voice, but he couldn’t tear his eyes off the girl, who remained nameless. She was batting her lashes back at him, and there was suddenly a tension in the room that Sherman and I were not a part of. Didn’t really blame her, for while Sherman wasn’t a bad-looking guy, he had to be at least twenty years older than she was, and Harry probably didn’t need any blue pills to help him out.
Sherman, however, was not to be usurped, and he went over to her and slung his arm around her shoulder, again dislodging the precariously held towel. She shifted it up and tightened it again, taking another drag off her cigarette.
“She’s amazing,” Sherman said, and I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about her musical skills or another talent that we would not be privy to. “Dee was a little too girl-next-door for the Flamingos. She didn’t quite fit.”
I didn’t remind him that Daisy had started the Flamingos on her own, that he had been the afterthought when the band had already had some success on YouTube. I didn’t see the same charisma in this girl that Daisy had. True, Daisy
was
more girl-next-door, despite the goth/punk costumes, but this girl was just pure sex. Sadly, she probably would be a success.
“Do you have Daisy’s family’s information?” I asked, eager now to get out of here.
Sherman picked a cell phone up off the table behind him and hit a few keys. “I’ve got a phone number in Maine.” He jotted it down with a hotel pen on a piece of hotel notepaper and handed it to me. “Will that do?”
I stuck the piece of paper in my back pocket. “I appreciate it.”
“You could’ve just called,” he reminded me.
“Would you have answered the phone?” I shot back at him.
Sherman Potter gave a short shrug. “Probably not.”
The nameless girl stuck her cigarette in the top of a soda can, and we heard it sizzle as it hit the remnants of the liquid. This was way too disgusting for me. It was time to leave.
“Nice to meet you,” I said politely, as my mother would want, and tugged on Harry’s arm to indicate he should stop staring now.
He looked down at me as though seeing me for the first time. “Oh, right, yes, nice to meet you.” And he flashed her a brilliant smile, which she returned. Again, there was that tension. It was like a bolt of lightning had struck in the middle of the room.
“Up for a drink later, Harry?” Sherman asked, escorting us to the door, eager to see us leave. Or, more likely, eager to see Harry leave.
Harry grinned and looked back at the girl, who was now perched on the edge of the table in such a way that we had a clear view of a rose tattoo on the inside of her thigh. She gave Harry a short nod and didn’t make any move to adjust the towel this time.
“Always up for it,” Harry said as Sherman opened the door and practically shoved us out, although I wasn’t quite sure what he’d always be up for: a drink or that girl. Probably both.
“I’ll be at Cleopatra’s Barge again tonight,” Sherman said, the door open merely a crack now. “Ainsley’s singing. You can check her out.”
And the door slammed shut, leaving us in the hallway.
“I think we already checked her out,” Harry quipped.
But I wasn’t thinking about that.
Her name was Ainsley.
What were the odds?
Chapter 9
I
knocked on the door, but no one came to answer it this time. It was as though no one was home, even though we knew Sherman and Ainsley were in there.
“He wanted to get rid of us pretty quick,” Harry said, his usual smile gone as he considered the reason.
I stood, uncertain what to do. I wanted to talk to Ainsley. I wanted to ask her about that blog. The one with my pictures on it. The one that had the comment about how I’d been responsible for Daisy’s death. Which it seemed she might agree with, because she’d asked if I did the tattoo that killed her.
She knew who I was, and she’d been reluctant to tell me who she was. She had to be the blog’s Ainsley.
“We might as well get going,” Harry said regretfully. We made our way to the elevators and back down without any conversation. I was preoccupied with Ainsley. I bet Harry was, too, but for different reasons than me.
We walked along the canal toward the shop, our strides matching step for step. Just before we reached it, though, I stopped and put my hand on Harry’s arm.
“Tonight. I want to go see her sing,” I said. “Are you free?”
Harry grinned. “What else do I have to do? What time?”
I didn’t want to miss anything, but I did have a client coming in at eight and it would be at least a couple hours. I told myself that things didn’t get hopping in Sin City until at least eleven anyway.
“Meet me at the shop at ten thirty?”
“It’s a date.”
And as I heard those words and saw the way Harry was looking at me, I realized what I’d just done. While I merely wanted an excuse to go over there with Sherman Potter’s “old buddy,” Harry might be putting a little more weight on this than I meant. And when we got back to the shop, it was clear he was.
“Brett and I are going out later,” he announced to Bitsy, who was sitting at the front desk toying with her cell phone.