Ink Flamingos

Chapter 7

Bitsy and I shared a look. The Golden Palace? Where Daisy’s body was found? And why would he book the Flamingos into that scummy place anyway? That wasn’t exactly the kind of venue the band was used to playing these days. Maybe two years ago when they were just starting out, but not now. They’d played the Bellagio on New Year’s Eve; that was more their speed.

“That’s where they found Daisy,” Joel piped up.

“Where?” Harry wasn’t too quick on the upswing sometimes. Like I said, sort of perpetually stoned.

“The Golden Palace,” Joel said.

“That’s right,” Harry said thoughtfully as he ran a hand through his mop of brown hair, finally putting two and two together.

“Is he staying there?” I asked.

“Who?”

I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Although it wasn’t as though if we drove Harry away we’d be losing a client. What was I thinking? Harry wasn’t going to leave.

“Sherman Potter. The Flamingos’ manager.”

Harry’s right eyebrow rose slightly higher than his left. “Oh, right. No, Sherman always stays in the Venetian.”

He didn’t seem to realize that we were in the Venetian right this very minute. But I did. And I got that little flutter of excitement that always started in my gut and spread out through my body. That little flutter that always showed up when I started asking questions Tim wouldn’t want me asking. That little flutter I told myself I was going to ignore from now on.

So I didn’t have much self-control.

“He stays here?” I asked.

Bitsy and Joel’s heads swiveled around so fast that they looked like that girl’s in The Exorcist.

“What?” I asked.

“You promised,” Joel said.

“Not to get involved again,” Bitsy added. “Wasn’t it bad enough the last time?”

I didn’t need reminding. It had been pretty awful, and I’d thought I was cured.

“What are you talking about?” Harry was understandably confused. I couldn’t blame it on the weed this time.

Bitsy pursed her lips, then said, “Brett has this, well, um, habit.”

For a second, Harry looked at me with happy anticipation. As though my habit were the same as his and maybe we could party together.

Not.

I shrugged. “So I like to snoop a little.”

Joel snorted. “You’re worse than Nancy Drew.”

“Yeah, but I don’t go looking for these things, they just seem to fall into my lap.” Which was totally true, thank you very much.

“You’re some sort of detective?” Harry asked, his eyes brighter than usual. “You mean, you’re like a private eye or something?”

“Or something,” Bitsy muttered.

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.”