The Queen of Hearts Ball was a fund-raiser held about a year ago to benefit an AIDS organization. Lester Fine had been there, as well as other celebrities and political luminaries. The organization had raised more than five million dollars at the event, which took place at the MGM, which happened to be right across the street from New York New York, where I’d had my gambling windfall. Not that that had anything to do with anything.

The MGM used to have a Wizard of Oz theme going, with statues of Dorothy and her friends in the lobby. It also had an amusement park in the back, to try to lure families to Sin City.

It didn’t work.

Now the resort was sans roller coasters but boasted five pools, Joël Robuchon’s restaurant, Studio 54, and one of the ubiquitous Vegas Cirque du Soleil shows. The lobby was spacious, with a gilded lion standing sentry in a fountain of flowers under a gold-lit inverted dome that distorted its reflections like a funhouse mirror.

Could be a cool place for a fund-raiser.

I read through a couple of newspaper articles announcing the event, and a couple more that reported on it. Small, jeweled pins with the image of a queen-of-hearts playing card were handed out as giveaways.

Since about five hundred people had attended, there were hundreds of those little suckers floating around.

But Trevor had one that was real. A gift from Lester Fine, according to him. What was up with that?

I clicked on images and found plenty of pictures from the ball. A lot of sparkly evening gowns and tuxedos. Ah, there was Lester Fine, dashing in his tails. His acting career had started thirty years ago, when he was twenty. He starred in a political thriller that grossed more than anyone expected. Fine had played the bad guy.

Another picture showed Fine with his arm around his wife, Alice. I knew their story. He’d married her before his first big hit; they were high school sweethearts. Hollywood praised their ability to keep it together when so many celebrity couples broke up.

A closer look at Alice showed a fairly attractive middle-aged woman who’d had a little too much Botox. She had that perpetual look of surprise in each picture; it couldn’t be the flash every time. She was used to the limelight, hanging on Lester’s arm. She wore a bright blue babydoll dress that was about twenty years too young for her, and her obviously dyed blond hair was too long. Women her age shouldn’t try to hang on to their youth; it made them look older.

I made a mental note to follow my own advice.

A close-up of the couple showed each wearing a queen-of-hearts pin.

I clicked on the next picture.

MissTique was posing with Lester Fine, who looked decidedly uncomfortable. A little homophobic, perhaps?

The next pictures were all of drag queens who’d performed at the ball. Britney Brassieres, Miranda Rites, Lola LaTuche, and Marva Luss had been together before MissTique brought them into Chez Tango. I had a small pang of sadness looking at Britney, aka Trevor McKay. He, or she, I suppose, looked like she was having the time of her life.

And here was Britney with her arm around none other than Rusty Abbott.

I still thought Rusty was pretty enough to do drag himself, but he was wearing a tuxedo and looking rather dashing. It was a lot better than the jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing at the roulette table.

Thinking about Rusty Abbott prompted me to remember Jeff Coleman’s call about how Rusty warned that accidents happen. I jumped up and went to the front door to make sure Tim had locked it.

I should have known better than to doubt Tim. The door was locked, as was the one that led out to the garage.

I settled back in with my laptop and a fresh cup of coffee.

I clicked through to the next page. There were a lot of pictures from the ball, mixed in with images of queen-of-hearts playing cards.

Another one caught my eye, and I double clicked.

A drag queen I didn’t recognize. This one looked like she was Donna Summer’s twin, only white: a big bouffant of black hair, thick, bright blue eye makeup, a slinky white sequined dress, and high boots straight from the seventies. I clicked on the picture. It was the images page from the Queen of Hearts Ball Web site. I read the caption and held my breath.

Shanda Leer.

Otherwise known as Wesley Lambert.

And he was standing with his arm around Charlotte.

Chapter 20

I sat back and sipped my coffee, staring at the picture. So DeBurra was right: Charlotte knew Lambert, and they had both been at the ball with Trevor and Rusty Abbott. I asked myself just how well I knew Charlotte Sampson.

I hated that I was doubting her, but the police were looking for her and she refused to come out of hiding. Instinct, or maybe it was growing up with a dad who was a cop, told me that hiding meant guilt. Or maybe she was just truly afraid of something or someone.

I sighed and took another sip of my coffee, which had grown cold.

I clicked on the next picture, just to get this one off my screen.

I sat up a little straighter in my chair as I looked at the image. It was Rusty Abbott and Lester Fine. Obviously later in the evening. Rusty wasn’t wearing his tuxedo jacket; his shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

He didn’t have a tattoo.

I tried to remember when Jeff said Rusty had come in with the two drag queens. I didn’t think he’d said specifically, just maybe sometime last year. From the looks of this picture, it could have been after the Queen of Hearts Ball.

I thought about the other two tattoos Jeff had done. Who were those drag queens? I had to find out.

I was willing to bet one of the three was the champagne shooter, though. It just seemed like it should be connected. It had to be.

I put Rusty Abbott’s name into Google. I wanted to see whether I could find his address before he could find mine. I’d at least feel like I had the upper hand that way, and I could tell Tim. Maybe he could check Abbott out for me.

There was nothing on the guy. I found a couple of Rusty Abbotts, but they were obviously not the one I was looking for. One was a contractor in Texas and the other a park ranger in Alaska.

I did find a phone number through Lester Fine’s campaign Web site. I jotted it down on a pad we kept next to the phone in the kitchen.

Just as I was about to call the guy-might as well nip this in the bud-the phone rang, startling me. I picked up the receiver, absently going back to the laptop as I said, “Hello?”

“Brett?”

“Charlotte?”

“Brett, I’m in trouble.”

“No kidding.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I mentally slapped myself. I shouldn’t kick someone while they’re down. “Sorry,” I said when she didn’t respond. “What’s wrong?”

“I need you to help me.”

“Sure,” I said, thinking that maybe now I could talk her into talking to the police, especially since DeBurra said her life might be in danger.

“I need you to meet me.”

“Charlotte, before you go any further, why don’t I bring Tim along?” Tim would be more friendly than DeBurra.

“You can’t bring Tim. Just yourself. I need your help.”

This was the second time she’d said that, and I grew concerned. “What have you got yourself involved with, Charlotte?”

I heard a sob. “Don’t tell Ace, either, okay? I didn’t call him. He wouldn’t understand.”

This was getting more and more mysterious. But I was willing to give her a chance to explain herself. Before I called Tim.

“Calm down, okay? Where are you?”

She gave me an address. It was just off the Strip, one of the high-rise condominiums. “It’s number twelve thirty-two,” she said. “Just go into the lobby, and take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Can you come now?”