Ink Flamingos

Chapter 31

It was possible that whoever was impersonating me actually had planted those fingerprints. But it certainly wasn’t me. I said as much to Tim.

“I know that, but it throws a wrench into everything. Because now Potter’s lawyer is shouting about how he was framed, and this blogger is saying she did it, and now he’s demanding that Potter be released immediately because he’s falsely accused.”

“The fingerprints are his, though, right?”

Tim nodded. “But that doesn’t matter. There’s someone out there implying that he was framed.”

And that someone was me. Or someone posing as me.

I started to worry that I was going to end up arrested for all this. “Am I in trouble, Tim?” I asked, my voice so soft I could barely hear it myself.

Jeff’s head shot up, and he put down his fork. The steak was history.

“She was with me the whole time,” he told Tim. “She didn’t post anything on any blog.”

Tim nodded. “I know that. But it’s possible Potter will get released based on that.”

“So we’ll have the real murderer wandering around,” I muttered, “but everyone will still think it’s me.” I had another thought. “Do you think Potter has an accomplice? Someone who posted that blog while he was in here just so he could get out?”

Tim ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “It’s possible. Or whoever’s writing that blog really is the murderer and is setting Potter up.”

“Can’t you trace that blog back to whoever is posting?” Jeff asked.

“I’m not a computer guy,” Tim said. “But we’ve got people on it.”

Which basically meant: I have no idea. That was not reassuring. At least, though, I didn’t seem to be a suspect, but I didn’t like that someone was out there, impersonating me.

Which reminded me…

“What about Ainsley Wainwright?” I asked.

“She’s dead, Brett,” Tim reminded me.

I made a face at him. “I know that, but this new lead singer for the Flamingos, well, the band told me her last name is Wainwright, too. And I’m almost positive I saw her at the arena. She’s a redhead, too. What if she’s the one posting on the blog? What if she picked up the slack for the dead Ainsley Wainwright?”

“You saw her?”

I closed my eyes and could see the red hair. “Yes,” I said, although I wasn’t a hundred percent sure.

“Potter said he hasn’t seen her since this morning. Said she never showed for the concert tonight.”

“That’s right. That’s what the girls said, too. But then when we were leaving, I’m pretty sure I saw her. And then that security guard led us outside and shut the door behind us.” The more I thought about it, the more I thought it had to have been Ainsley. And she was probably in on it with Potter. She’d been on intimate terms with him. Which made me think of something else. I quickly told him about what the girls in the band had told us, how Sherman Potter had threatened to take Daisy for all she was worth and how Daisy had come out here early because she was going to confront Sherman about that.

Tim was jotting it all down in a little notebook. Jeff was strangely quiet, just listening and watching. The food containers were packed neatly into the bags again.

A small knock sounded. Tim reached over and pulled the door open to let Detective Kevin Flanigan in. Flanigan nodded at Jeff and me and indicated he wanted to talk to Tim. Outside. Out of earshot.

They left the room and shut the door behind them. Jeff leaned back in his chair and swung his legs up on top of the table, like he owned the place.

“I saw her, too,” he said.

That’s right. He’d said so earlier.

“Why didn’t you say anything to Tim? Back me up?” I asked.

“Because you wouldn’t shut up,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I made a face at him. “You could’ve interrupted. It’s not like you haven’t done that before.”

“You are so easy to get to,” he said, chuckling.

Tim and Flanigan came back in, saving me from having to say something I might regret.

“You’re free to go,” Flanigan said.

“The limo driver won’t press charges?” I asked.

“No, but you’d better get out of here before he changes his mind.”

Jeff pushed his seat back and stood up. I started for the door, then turned around. “We don’t have a car. We took a cab over here. Our cars are at the Venetian.”

Flanigan nodded at Tim, who said, “Okay, I’ll take you over there. I’m off shift anyway.” From the way he said it, I wasn’t so sure about that. I remembered how Flanigan wanted me to keep my ear to the ground. Tim could grill me further at home. I was tired, though, so he wouldn’t get too much out of me. Not that I knew anything more anyway.

I was so exhausted I nodded off in the car. Jeff nudged me a little when we got to the Venetian, and I realized my car was up in the garage and it was late and I didn’t want to go up there alone. Tim was one step ahead of me.

“I’ll take you up to your car, and you can follow me home,” he said.

Jeff took his packages, even though I didn’t think there was any food left, and got out of the car. He leaned in the window and said, “I’ll check in with you tomorrow,” and went off to find the valet who’d bring him his car.

Even though the food was gone, the scent lingered. My stomach growled.

“Jeff ate all our food,” I muttered as Tim drove his Jeep into the self-parking garage. “Fourth level,” I directed.

It was after midnight now, but there were still plenty of cars in the garage. They probably belonged to the gamblers who were trying their hands at the tables and slot machines. I spotted my red Mustang Bullitt up ahead. I’d been a little leery of driving the car after I found the body of Jeff Coleman’s half brother in the trunk. But my love for my car superseded any creepy feeling I might have-that, and the fact that I didn’t want to spend any money on a new car right now. Unbeknownst to Tim, I was trying to save up for my own place.

I’d been living with him for two years now, and I’d started to think that it was time. Time to grow up and be a little more independent. I’d been checking out condos and townhouses up in Summerlin near Red Rock Canyon; if I were going to live anywhere, it would have to be at the foot of those magnificent mountains. But so far, I hadn’t told anyone of my plans. My mother would say it was silly-why not just stay with my brother, unless I was going to get married. Tim would get those little lines next to his eyes as he stressed out about how he’d pay the mortgage. But I knew something. I knew that he really didn’t need me to help with that. He was just being cheap. Jeff would say something smart-alecky, and I didn’t want to deal with him. Bitsy and Joel, well, I should tell them, but I was settled into the idea of just doing it and then springing it on everyone like a surprise.

Our neighborhood was dark and quiet when we pulled into the street. The front of the house was a gray shadow. When we turned into the driveway, the headlights illuminated the banana yuccas in the front near the door.

The garage door was gaping open.

Tim slammed his brakes on, and I was glad I wasn’t following too closely. I watched him scramble out of the Jeep. I was close on his heels.

We stood, looking into the garage, but nothing looked out of place, and I didn’t notice anything missing. We exchanged a look, and Tim motioned with his hand that I should stay behind him as he pulled his gun out of his hip holster and crept toward the door that led into the house.

I noticed now that that door was open, too. He put out his hand and mouthed, “Stay here.” I didn’t much like the idea of staying in the open, dark garage, but I could see his point. So I stayed as he disappeared into the house.

A few minutes later, I saw the lights flicker on and heard Tim’s voice as he spoke into the phone. I scurried into the house, which didn’t look any the worse for wear. Maybe whoever had broken in had heard us drive up and took off before taking anything. I started toward the back of the house and my bedroom, but Tim actually reached out and took my arm, keeping me from going farther. He hung up the phone.

“Don’t go down there.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s wrong down there?” I asked, my voice sounding as though I were talking in a tunnel.

“You can’t go down there,” Tim said, his jaw tight.

I broke away from him and ran down the hall. I stood in the doorway to my bedroom and felt my chest constrict. A plastic pink flamingo sat on top of my bed, which was splashed with what looked like blood.