He might have. But I wasn’t going to ask.

“Kyle, is there anything else here that’s Trevor’s?” Charlotte asked, kicking my brain into gear and reminding me that MissTique was really Kyle Albrecht.

I was too young to start having senior moments.

Kyle looked around and shrugged. “Honey, if you leave something behind, he can get it tomorrow.”

I’d filled the top of the makeup kit, so I slid open a drawer at the bottom of the case. Trevor had more makeup than I’d managed to acquire in a lifetime. The fact that he was a man made this wrong somehow. Although it could be argued that my ink was a substitute for the stuff I’d put on my face.

I grabbed a lipstick off the table, hoping it was Trevor’s, and stuffed it in the drawer. But it went in only halfway. Something was blocking the back of the drawer.

I pulled it out as far as I could, then tried to push it back in. Something had gotten stuck behind it, so I took the whole drawer out and set it on the table before taking the case and leaning it on an angle so I could see what was in there.

I reached my hand inside.

And pulled out a large brooch.

It was covered in sparkling clear and red stones. I had no idea whether they were real or not. But it was the design that made me catch my breath.

It was a queen-of-hearts playing card.

Chapter 4

Kyle had been taking his makeup off with a baby wipe when he saw the brooch in my hand. He waved his hand in the air.

“Trevor made such a big deal over that thing.”

I turned it over in my hand. “Where did he get it?”

“At a fund-raiser about a year ago.”

Bitsy looked over my elbow at the brooch.

“Pretty,” she said, but I knew she didn’t mean it. It was garish and over the top, not something either of us would like.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop staring at it.

“It’s the queen of hearts,” I said softly.

“Like the tattoo you saw.” Joel had joined the party, now that Kyle was Kyle and wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.

Kyle put the baby wipe down. His eyes looked a lot smaller without all the shadow and eyeliner and lashes. “What tattoo?”

I told him about the guy who’d shot the cork at Trevor.

“So you think because of this pin that there’s some sort of connection?”

His tone indicated his doubts about that. He was probably right. This was Vegas. Over-the-top brooches and playing-card tattoos were part of the fabric of Sin City.

I put the brooch in the makeup-kit drawer, added the lipstick, and shoved it back into the case. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s just a coincidence, I guess.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Wouldn’t you know we’d hear from Bitsy the peanut gallery.

Kyle cleared his throat. “The fund-raiser where Trevor got the pin? It was the Queen of Hearts Ball. They were raising money for AIDS research.”

So maybe I wasn’t completely off base. But I was hard-pressed to see how the tattoo would be a part of that.

“This isn’t the first time someone’s gotten hit with a champagne cork.”

I’d almost forgotten Charlotte was in the room, she was so quiet.

“That’s right,” Joel piped up.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

Joel said, “Some guy’s been going to clubs all over the city for months now, spraying champagne on people. I can’t believe you haven’t heard about that.”

So sue me for not paying attention to the local news. The story, however, indicated that perhaps Trevor was just another victim, and the queen of hearts thing was just a coincidence, despite Bitsy’s belief. It also would explain why the detective was here. A serial champagne-cork shooter could warrant that.

“He got beat up,” Charlotte continued when Joel went silent. “The guy who was spraying the champagne. He got some guy soaked, and the guy went nuts and beat the crap out of him. Cops arrested the guy who did the beating, but they let the champagne sprayer go.”

“So why would he keep doing it if the cops know who he is? I mean, he must have pressed charges after getting beat up,” I said, then wondered again about the detective. Wouldn’t he already know who the guy was?

Unless it was a copycat.

This was the problem being brought up in a family of cops. I always think of all the angles.

Kyle finished taking off his makeup. He had been a gorgeous woman, but he was a good-looking guy, too. The makeup had made his face look even longer and thinner, but without it he looked more normal, less anorexic, perhaps. A little stubble had started to sprout on his jawline and chin.

“Where are the rest of the girls?” Charlotte asked him.

Kyle shrugged. “They’re probably drinking for free out there.” He got up. “I need to make sure they’re all going to come back tomorrow night for the next show.” He saw me with a piece of shiny fabric in my hand. “That’s Miranda’s, not Britney’s.” He picked up the gray hooded sweatshirt and studied it a second. “I’ll see if this belongs to anyone. If it doesn’t, we can give it to the police.” His eyes skirted around the room. “I think you’ve got everything. Thanks much.” And with that, Kyle disappeared out the door.

I tried not to think about the brooch as we lugged Trevor’s makeup case and duffel bag back out into the front of the club.

Kyle was right: Everyone was standing around with cocktails in their hands, gossiping about what had happened. The police had gone; I was glad I wouldn’t have to interact with that detective again. Miranda Rites came over to us, her sequins blinding me for a second.

She reached out for the makeup case I carried.

“I’ll take that.”

“Trevor asked me to take his things back to his place,” Charlotte said. I could see the strain on her face; dark circles were starting to form under her eyes, which sagged a little under the weight of exhaustion. This had taken a toll on her. She was Trevor’s friend and because of that seemed to take responsibility for him.

Miranda smiled at her. “That’s nice of you. But I can help.”

“We’re all set to go,” I butted in. “We’ve packed up all his stuff, and Charlotte ’s just going to drop it off.”

Miranda’s face fell slightly. “I want to do something.”

Couldn’t fault her for that. But I still hung on to the case.

“You could go by the hospital and keep him company until I get there,” Charlotte suggested.

Bitsy, Joel, and I stared at her.

“You’re not thinking of going over there tonight?” Bitsy asked, sounding like Charlotte ’s mother.

Charlotte ’s smile was tired. “I promised.”

I could feel all my energy dissipating the longer we stood there. I clutched the makeup kit tighter and nodded at Miranda. “Maybe that’s a plan. Come on, guys; let’s go.”

Miranda drained her martini glass. “Fine,” she said with an edge in her voice. So she wasn’t happy. I was too tired to care.

We stepped outside into the cool desert night. The sky was clear; the stars flickered over the shadows of the distant mountains. I thought about Red Rock Canyon, with its weathered cliffs, banana yuccas, and Joshua trees, and how I could totally use a hike tomorrow if I could find time for it. Now that it was the end of September, the temperatures had moved from blistering in the nineties and hundreds to perfect in the eighties, and I’d switched from my summer swimming schedule back to anything outdoors.

My Mustang Bullitt looked like a thug next to Joel’s sleek green Prius and Bitsy’s dainty MINI Cooper that she’d outfitted so she could reach the foot pedals. A few spaces away, Charlotte ’s Honda Fit had a look similar to a mailbox, all squat and square. She opened the hatch in the back and I put the makeup case next to the duffel bag.

“Thanks,” she said, then leaned toward me a little and whispered, “You talked to that cop?”