Sounded like the guy who shot the cork at Trevor. But the sweatshirt had been found in the dressing room after the incident. So it couldn’t be the same one. I was making connections that couldn’t possibly be there.

I pulled the drawing of Rusty Abbott out of my bag and put it on the counter. “Was it him?”

He pushed the picture of Abbott right back at me and gave me a squirrelly look.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking away.

Now I knew how Tim probably felt when he was questioning reluctant witnesses. I decided not to push it.

“Do you know Wesley Lambert?” I asked.

He frowned and shook his head. “Should I?”

His reaction seemed genuine.

I’d been wondering how Frank DeBurra knew the woman who was in here was Charlotte, so I asked, “The girl who was in here this morning. Did you tell the police about her derringer tattoos?”

He nodded. “And the cool ivy and flower chain ink around her neck.”

The description fit. But still, how did DeBurra get her name?

“She never told you her name?” I asked.

“I asked her about the tats. Asked where she got them. Told me she worked at The Painted Lady.” He paused a second; then a wide grin spread across his face. “I know who you are now. I recognize you. Jeff told me about you.”

Of course he did.

“He said I should try your shop next time I want a tat,” he continued.

I was going to have to tell Jeff to stop talking up my shop. I didn’t need his help. I tried to smile as graciously as I could, considering I never wanted to see this guy in my shop. Ever. I gathered up my sketch and stuffed it back in my bag. I had to get out of here. “My rates start at five hundred,” I said.

I think the rest of his teeth almost fell out as I gave him a little wave and left the store.

My phone warbled “Born to Run” when I got back into the car. I flipped it open after seeing Ace’s number on the screen.

“Tell me you’re still with Charlotte,” I said without saying hello.

“I am.”

“This idiot detective is looking for her. I need to talk to her.”

I heard muffled talking, then, “Hello? Brett?”

“A cop came to the shop looking for you, something about an incident at this pawnshop.”

A long silence, then, “What of it?”

“I was just in the pawnshop. I talked to that creepy guy with no teeth. He said some guy came in and harassed you. He thought it was a domestic. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Then why are you hiding?”

Silence.

“It’s not like you did anything wrong,” I said after a few seconds. Although I was starting to think that there might be a bit more to this than what Mr. Pawned had described. “Why did you go there asking about Trevor’s pin? Did you know it had been reported stolen?”

“Trevor can explain.”

Trevor? “I talked to Trevor. He came by the shop looking for you. He didn’t know anything about you going to a pawnshop or that the cops want to question you. At least that’s what he said.” I paused. “Anyway, Trevor’s back in the hospital. He got really sick at the shop. We had to call the paramedics.”

“He’s sick?”

“Yeah, he was looking for you.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t really know.”

“You have to go see him, find out. Tell him I’m okay. He can tell you about the pin, why I went there.”

And then the phone went dead.

I didn’t like visiting hospitals, but it didn’t seem like I had much of a choice. I had no idea where Charlotte was, so I decided to take her up on her advice and try to get some answers out of Trevor. Problem was, I didn’t know where they’d taken him. We’d just let the paramedics leave the shop with him and not asked. I called Bitsy and asked her whether she could call around, see if he had been admitted anywhere.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Charlotte tells me Trevor can explain what went down this morning at that pawnshop.”

“But he says he wasn’t with Charlotte. And why can’t she tell you?”

“She just won’t. I don’t know why. So I figure I’ll see if Trevor will be a little more forthcoming. Can you make some calls?”

Bitsy knew Las Vegas a lot better than I did. She’d lived here for most of her life, could remember when the Strip was just a shadow of what it was today.

I waited only about five minutes before my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. Bitsy.

“That was fast.”

“UMC on West Charleston. University Medical Center.”

She told me how to get there from where I was, and I headed north.

“They said he’s still in emergency, so go there.”

I felt like I’d been running all over the planet today. Back and forth like a yo-yo. I found the medical center and the parking garage, going around and around until I was on the roof. Must be a busy day. I didn’t want to know how much they were going to charge me for parking.

The emergency room was packed. All sorts of people, some moaning, some wailing, some bloody. I went over to the information desk.

“Yes?” The woman’s voice was sharp, as if she’d spent the whole day shouting at a bunch of preschoolers who’d gotten out of hand.

“I’m looking for Trevor McKay. The paramedics brought him over here from the Venetian earlier. I understood he was still in emergency.”

She was one step ahead of me, her long nails clicking against her keyboard. She stared at the screen, pursed her lips, and looked up at me. “Just a second, please, miss. Are you family?”

I decided to lie. A little white lie.

“Yes.”

The woman picked up the phone and indicated I was to go sit and wait.

There were no seats. Not that I’d want to sit anywhere. Not that I wanted to even have my feet on the floor in this room. There were smells in here, booze and vomit and body odor mixed together. Some blood splattered the floor near a young man holding a dark cloth over his arm. A closer look showed that the cloth had blood on it.

No, thank you. I think I’ll stand.

About five minutes passed, and I heard the woman saying, “Miss? Miss?”

I turned to see a man in a white lab coat standing next to her, a smile on his face. Sister Mary Eucharista would say that a smile in this place was nothing short of a miracle.

A second look at him told me he was good-looking, very good-looking, in that George-Clooney-in-ER kind of way. He was taller than me, thin, with spiky dark hair, green eyes, a long nose, and a nice jawline. My heart did a little jump, as did other parts of me.

“Miss McKay?” he asked.

I shook myself out of my reverie and shook my head. “Kavanaugh. Brett Kavanaugh.”

Confusion clouded his eyes. “I was told you were Mr. McKay’s family.”

I couldn’t lie to this guy. “I’m a friend. He became ill in my shop.”

He frowned, obviously uncertain whether he should continue talking to me, but then made a decision.

“Please follow me.”

We walked through sliding frosted doors into the actual emergency room. Beds were lined up in a semicircle around a big nurses’ station. We didn’t stop, just kept walking until we reached a door to a small office. He indicated I was to go in, and he came in behind me, shutting the door.

“I’m Dr. Bixby.”

He held out his hand, and I took it, a shock running through my arm. I let out a nervous giggle, pulling my hand away too quickly. A glance at his face told me he felt it, too. He was blushing. Really blushing.

I saw now that his name tag read, DR. C. BIXBY.

“What’s the ‘C’ for?” I asked, indicating his tag.

He put his hand up and fingered it. “Colin.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He pointed to a chair. “Have a seat, please, Miss Kavanaugh.”

I did as he asked. I might have done mostly anything he asked.

I’d dated a guy a few months back who was rich, good-looking, and a playboy. We’d had some laughs, but I knew I had to pull out of it before I got sucked in even further. He was the kind of guy who’d break my heart if I let him.