Ink Flamingos

Chapter 15

I felt myself drop into the kitchen chair. What was going on?

Jeff sat next to me, moving the laptop aside and away so I couldn’t see the screen. “She wasn’t you, Kavanaugh; she didn’t even really look like you. Her hair was longer. She wasn’t nearly as thin. That tattoo wasn’t even real. It was some sort of body paint. If I hadn’t been in the business, though, I might not have seen it for what it was. But she told me she was a tattoo artist, said she had a shop in the Venetian.”

Someone was impersonating me. Was it Ainsley? Ainsley had longer hair than me; she wasn’t as skinny. We didn’t look alike, but she could’ve painted that dragon on her chest and fooled people who didn’t know me. Was she the redhead who’d given Daisy that tattoo?

I finally found my voice. “But she couldn’t be the one who took those pictures, could she? I mean, if she was with you the whole time?”

Jeff took a deep breath. “But she wasn’t. We had a drink; she got a text message from someone. She said she had to go to the ladies’ room. I followed her, waited for her, but somehow she got past me. I never saw her again.”

“Had she been in the bar when Tim and Flanigan were asking about Ainsley and Sherman Potter?” I wondered aloud.

Jeff nodded. “I think she was, but it was dark in there, and she was alone. Like I said, she really didn’t look like you at all. I don’t think they were looking for anyone like her, were they?”

Like I’d told Tim yesterday, there are a lot of redheads in Vegas. One sitting in a bar nursing a drink isn’t going to raise any red flags. So to speak.

“So I don’t just have a stalker, I’ve got someone who’s impersonating me,” I said flatly. “Great. What do I do now?”

“Go get dressed, and I’ll take you to work,” Jeff said.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I have to tell Tim.”

“I already did.”

Oh, that’s right. They must have talked because Jeff knew to come over here and pick me up. “So is he trying to track her down, then? Is that why he left so early?”

Jeff shrugged. “Not for me to say what Las Vegas’s finest do.”

I stood, my legs a little shaky. I didn’t much like the thought of someone running around saying she was me. Maybe even tattooing people using my name.

“Nothing you can do right now, Kavanaugh,” Jeff said, standing and moving toward me.

“It’s just…” My voice trailed off.

“I know, but you’ve got people on top of it.”

And suddenly his arms were around me and I laid my head against his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat against my chest.

It was the first time we’d ever embraced. It wasn’t anything more than just a friend comforting a friend. Or so I told myself as I pulled away, an awkwardness between us that we’d never had before.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, backing up and going down the hall to my room.

I sat on the bed for a few minutes, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’d just had a “moment” with Jeff Coleman. And then my impostor crept into my thoughts, and I figured I had other things to worry about.

I pulled on a pair of skinny dark jeans and a stretchy black T-shirt with a shimmering silver skull on the front. Matched my mood. It was a little too chilly for my usual Tevas, so I pulled on a pair of black flats, grabbing my jean jacket as I went back out to see Jeff Coleman fiddling with the laptop.

When he looked up at me, I was relieved to see no acknowledgment of what had passed between us, just his usual smirk.

“There’s another site.”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t the only blog.”

I slid back into the chair I’d been sitting in earlier, and he turned the laptop so I could see the screen.

Instead of the now familiar Skin Deep masthead, this blog was adorned with one that was even more familiar: the flamingo I’d tattooed on Daisy’s back. Next to it, in script, read, “Ink Flamingos.”

Was I going to spend all day with butterflies in my stomach?

Jeff scrolled down so I could see the first and only post. The title read, “What happened?” and a picture below showed Daisy sprawled out on her stomach on dingy white bedsheets, her flamingo prominent. Her blond hair fanned out away from her face, which we could only see in profile but it was clearly her.

“Whoever took this picture did this,” I whispered.

Jeff nodded. “There’s more.”

How could there be more? But when Jeff scrolled down again, I saw it. The same picture of the infected tattoo that Flanigan had shown me.

“I don’t want to see any more,” I said, trying to shove the laptop back.

But Jeff stopped me by putting his hand over mine. “You have to know.”

“Know what? That whoever put this up is a killer?”

“No, it’s worse than that.” He pointed to the “About Me” section in the sidebar.

As I read, I stopped breathing.

“I’m Brett Kavanaugh, owner of The Painted Lady in Las Vegas. Dee Carmichael was a client of mine. I did all her ink. This blog is a tribute to her.” And next to it was a picture of me. Me. Not an impostor.