Ink Flamingos

Chapter 49

They were breeding like rabbits.

Plastic rabbits.

This one wasn’t wearing a tiara, though, and I couldn’t see any red paint, so obviously whoever had left it did not feel as much animosity toward Jeff as she did toward me. Maybe she’d seen us together at the Golden Palace, before or after she disposed of Sherman Potter. Maybe she knew about our thing.

Joel hadn’t pulled away yet, and I heard his door open.

“What’s wrong, Brett?” he asked when he got out.

I sighed. I felt like I was in a Fellini movie, where everything was in black and white except that pink flamingo.

Joel came over and stood next to me. I pointed around the door. He craned his neck so he could see, then straightened up again.

“Whoever’s doing this is nuttier than a fruitcake.”

He’d just described Sylvia to a T, but it wasn’t her. It was crazy Ann Wainwright, who had some sort of personal beef with me.

Where was Jeff? I wondered, pushing a little more forcefully on the door now so I could squeeze inside. I was halfway in when Joel asked, “You sure you want to go in there?”

He was right. What if whoever had put this flamingo here was still there, in the front of the shop or lying in wait in a corner or the bathroom or something? I came back out.

Time for Plan B. As I poked my head through the door opening, I shouted, “Jeff? Are you there?”

All I heard was the rattle of the old air conditioning unit.

“He’s not here,” I said, remembering that he had Sylvia with him when we left the Golden Palace. He was probably taking her home.

“Call him,” Joel said, handing me his phone.

I punched in his number, but there was no answer. I shrugged at Joel and said, “I probably should call Tim.”

I didn’t wait for Joel to agree; I just dialed. Tim picked up on the first ring.

“Someone called the Venetian and reported that you were a suspect in a murder,” he said without saying hello. “That’s why they detained you.” He snorted. “Rent-a-cops. They should know better than to listen to an anonymous caller.”

“So is it all straightened out?” My hopes rose. Maybe I could go back to work now; Joel and I wouldn’t have to be fugitives.

“Stay where you are,” he said. “I’ll call you when it’s okay. You’re at Murder Ink?”

“That’s right, but Jeff’s not here yet. I think he might be with Sylvia. I tried to call, but he didn’t answer.” I paused, then added, “But someone’s been here. Left Jeff a little present. A pink flamingo, like the one in our house.”

“You didn’t touch anything, right?”

“No. It was wedged in the door, so I think I might have crunched it a little when I pushed the door open, but I didn’t go in, I didn’t touch it.”

“I’ll send someone over there to dust for prints. We found a fingerprint at our house. Maybe whoever it is was as careless there.”

“Whose print was it?” More hopes.

But then he dashed them. “No one we know yet. But we’re still looking. Wait for the cops; wait for Jeff.” And he hung up.

I handed the phone back to Joel and shrugged. “He says to stay here.” As I looked around the alleyway, the Chinese food smells mixing with those in the Dumpster, I realized it was the last thing I wanted to do. I felt like a shark: If I stopped moving now, I might die. Well, that was an exaggeration, but you get what I mean. I needed something to do, something that made me think I was being helpful. Sure, Tim would think otherwise, but he wasn’t here.

Neither was Jeff.

Although as we turned, a familiar orange car swung into the alley. He slammed on the brakes, parking right behind Joel’s Prius. Jeff got out of the Pontiac with a frown.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I quickly told him about being detained at the Venetian, but adding the stuff Tim had said about how someone called saying I was wanted for murder, then went on to include how Joel had helped me escape. I must have been going on a little too long, because Jeff held up his hand to interrupt.

“Get to the point, Kavanaugh. Why are you outside my shop?” He noticed the door was open, and he went over to it, pushing against that pink flamingo, just like I had. “What the hell is that?” he asked, spotting it.

“Tim said I should come over here,” I said, “but I found that flamingo in your door. You weren’t here. He’s sending someone over to take fingerprints.”

Jeff was shaking his head, running a hand through his buzz cut, the tattoos on his arm flexing with each movement. Joel and I exchanged a look, but neither of us said anything. Finally, Jeff looked at me.

“You’re full of trouble, you know that, Kavanaugh?”

“I thought you liked that about me,” I quipped before I could stop myself.

A smile spread across his face. “And you are way too sensitive.” He paused. “I guess the cops aren’t exactly treating a plastic flamingo like an emergency.”

“It’s not like it’s going to walk away,” Joel piped up.

Somehow that struck me as really funny. Guess you had to be there. But within seconds, the three of us were laughing so hard it hurt. In retrospect, though, it wasn’t so much funny as it was a chance to let off some steam.

A lot of steam.

I realized Jeff had stopped laughing and was studying the door to his shop. Joel and I stepped forward, and I could see it then. The scratches on the dead bolt, the deep grooves in the side of the door.

“Someone jimmied the lock,” Jeff said. “And did a damn poor job of it, too. I’m going to have to fix that.” It was a casual statement, as though he had a drawer full of locks in his office and he’d just have to replace this one with one of those. “What I don’t get is this thing with the pink flamingos. I mean, I understand the symbolism and all, but do they really think a pink flamingo is going to scare anyone?”

Scared the daylights out of me. I tried to look nonchalant.

“I’m going around the front,” Jeff announced. “See if anything’s up over there.”

He started down the alley, then looked back at us. “Aren’t you coming?”

I hadn’t realized it was an invitation, but I didn’t have to be asked twice. Joel and I trailed Jeff around the edge of the building and along the alley between it and Goodfellas Bail Bonds. I wondered if Sonny was over at the police station trolling for celebrity clients. When we reached the front entrance to Murder Ink, it didn’t seem as though anyone had tried to get in this way. The door had no marks on it at all. Jeff reached into his pocket for his keys and pulled them out.

“You can’t go in,” I said. “The police are coming.”

Jeff snickered. “It’s my shop.” He put the key in the lock and pushed the door in.

The front of the shop was dark; blinds had been pulled down over the big front windows. He yanked on them and they snapped up, letting in light from the streetlamp that struck the flash on the walls and illuminated it. Joel perused the designs, nodding. He was comfortable in a shop like this; my shop was the most upscale he’d ever worked in. The chain hanging out of his pocket jingled slightly as he absently toyed with it.

A glance around told me nothing seemed out of place, although at the same time, something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it wasn’t just the flamingo in the back. Jeff’s back straightened, tense. He sensed it, too. But so far it was eluding both of us.

Until Joel spoke up.

“I didn’t realize you picked up Brett’s flamingo design.”