Driven to Ink

Chapter 41

My mouth hung open, and I couldn’t find any words at first. Finally, I sputtered, “In cash?” My brain was working overtime, and it got hung up on something, but I needed to think about it a little first. See whether I was off base.

Tim nodded. The light turned green, and we continued down the Strip, Circus Circus to our left, the big top beckoning.

“He told the cops?” I asked.

Tim nodded again. “Flanigan.”

“But Flanigan didn’t tell you?”

“I’m not on the case, remember? The guy’s body was in your car. I’m not supposed to be doing anything.”

“So how did DellaRocco manage to mention this to you?” I asked.

“He thought I knew. He said something about the ten grand-had we figured out where it came from yet?-and I played along and, after a little more conversation, managed to put it together.”

“Do you think DellaRocco will tell Flanigan you were here?” I worried a little about his job, but only a little. Tim had a way about him, something that let him get away with stuff that normal people couldn’t. He could talk his way out of anything, like when he brought his girlfriend home way after curfew in high school and her father started to get on his case. He smooth talked his way out of it, and the father ended up taking him to a basketball game the next week.

“DellaRocco didn’t exactly like Flanigan,” Tim said. “They got off on the wrong foot.”

That was good.

“So DellaRocco didn’t know where the money came from?”

We stopped at another light. I could see the Eiffel Tower several blocks down, hovering over the Strip rather than the Seine.

“He assumes it has something to do with his death.”

“Duh.”

Tim chuckled. “You have a way with words. You know that, little sis?”

I punched him on the arm.

“So I don’t get it,” I said as the car started to move again after a minute. “Ray Lucci steals my car but leaves ten thousand bucks in his locker? Why didn’t he take the money with him?”

“I have no idea. None of this makes any sense.”

I had another thought. “Maybe he did bring the money, and then whoever knocked him off and stuffed him in the trunk took the bag back to the chapel and put it in his locker.”

“Major hole in that story, Brett. Why would someone put the money back in the guy’s locker? It was cash. It was a load of money. He’d just take it.”

Okay, so I wasn’t a real detective. I just played around with being one every now and then.

“But it was a thought,” Tim said.

“What about Lucci threatening Sanderson?” I asked.

“I don’t know about that. DellaRocco said Sanderson was stealing his performers. That’s all. Anyway, if he was really threatening Sanderson, he probably wouldn’t tell me.”

“Probably not,” I conceded. “I think we need to find out where that money’s from.” Although I had an idea.

“Follow the money,” Tim said softly, almost as if to himself.

I was torn. If I mentioned the ten thousand dollars that Dan Franklin had withdrawn from his bank account two weeks ago, then he’d ask me how I knew about that. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to admit that Jeff and I stole his bank statement. This would have to be approached delicately, so no one would throw us in jail.

Tim turned into the driveway for the Venetian and steered the Impala into the self-parking lane. We passed under the brick facade of the fake Doge’s Palace. Impressive. Looked almost real. If you took away the palm trees, the Mirage, and Treasure Island across the street.

Nah. It would never look even almost real. Because if you took those things away, you’d have only acres of desert. Venice was drowning. You couldn’t do that here.

We went around and around in the concrete garage, parking in a spot near the elevator that would take us to the Grand Canal Shoppes. As we got out of the car, Tim looked furtively around him, as if that blue car would appear out of nowhere again and try to run us down.

Nothing this time, though. We got into the elevator and rode in silence to the third level, getting out and going through the walkway and into the mall.

Ace was not at the oxygen bar.

That was a change. Maybe he had a client.

“I need to make a few calls,” Tim said.

“You can use the office,” I said, wondering when my next client was scheduled.

When we got to my shop, though, my question was answered for me.

Colin Bixby was leaning against the mahogany desk, talking to Bitsy.

They looked up when I pushed the door open. Tim nodded at them and, without a word, went past them to the office in the back. That was odd. He didn’t give Colin even a glance. They’d met a few months back, but maybe he didn’t recognize him.

Bitsy raised her eyebrows at me, but I gave my head a quick shake, indicating she shouldn’t ask now. I forced a smile for Bixby, still unclear why he was here.

“Hi there,” I said.

It wasn’t quite a smile, just a little hint at the corner of his lips. It seemed he was as unclear about his visit as I was. But I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. For once.

“Want to come back?” I asked, giving my head another little shake at Bitsy, whose eyebrows were now almost to her hairline.

Colin followed me to my room, and I indicated he should go in. I closed the door after us.

“Have a seat,” I said, waving my hand toward the client chair.

Bixby stood awkwardly, his hands in his pockets, looking at the chair as if it were a wild animal that might bite him.

I laughed. “It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t have my machine on.”

The joke didn’t do much to change his mood, but he sat tentatively on the edge of the chair. I swung my wheeled chair around and sat next to him.

“I guess you’re not here for more ink,” I said after a few seconds of loud silence.

The smile peeked out then, and his green eyes flashed. His gaze was intense, and I found myself feeling all hot and bothered, but in a really good way. There was definitely something still between us.

“You seeing anyone?” he asked.

I shook my head, not sure where he was going with this. He could’ve asked me that the other day or called me to find out. A personal visit wasn’t necessary.

“I’ve been seeing someone.” His words were like a gut punch, and I found myself struggling for a breath.

Okay, I was really in the dark now.

“Maybe you should tell me why you’re here,” I said after a second. My voice sounded oddly disconnected from my body.

“But it’s not serious,” he continued as if I hadn’t said anything at all.

Something inside me switched, and I felt anger rising. He couldn’t mess around with me like this. What sort of game was he playing? Sure, I’d screwed things up before, but we’d been perfectly happy not seeing each other. Hadn’t we?

“Maybe you should spit it out,” I said, the edge in my voice sharp as a knife.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

He nodded. “I’m sorry, Brett, but seeing you again has sort of thrown me for a loop. It’s brought back some feelings I’d forgotten about. Or tried to forget about.”

I remembered what he’d told me when we met at the university the other day. How he’d just about forgotten me. I nodded.

“But I’ll tell you why I’m here. I know you’re curious.”

I wished he’d get on with it.

“It’s about Rosalie. Marino.”

My confusion about Colin Bixby melted away with the abrupt change of subject.

“What about her?”

“You know about the abuse.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I did her tattoos,” I admitted. “The purple and white ribbons on her arm. The ones that symbolize survival.”

Bixby leaned forward and I could smell his scent: a little citrus and honey with a slight hint of hospital.

“I treated her for the broken bones. The bruises.” He paused a second. “And when she lost the baby.”