Finally my hand settled on something that felt like a business card. Yes, this was it. I punched the number into my phone.

“Hello?” he asked hesitantly. Oh, right, we hadn’t exchanged phone calls yet, so he wouldn’t know my number offhand.

“It’s Brett,” I said, and before he could respond, I told him what was going on.

“You should call an ambulance,” he said.

“Are you free right now? Can you meet me there, and then we can see what’s up?” I asked. “Kyle’s with her. I think if it was that bad, he would’ve called an ambulance even if she said not to.”

“I hope so,” he said slowly.

“Can you get there?” I asked. “I’m sorry to ask, but you were the first person I thought of.”

“I like the sound of that,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, I can meet you. I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”

I thanked him and hung up.

For about a nanosecond I thought about calling Frank DeBurra, too, but if Charlotte really was that sick, then we could call him when we assessed the situation. It might not even be the ricin. I hoped.

I was walking out when my client walked in. She smiled shyly at me. Shoot.

“Oh, Susan, I’m really sorry, but I have an emergency,” I said quickly.

Bitsy looked up with a frown. I hadn’t told her yet.

“Is Joel here?” I asked, and Bitsy nodded, although I could see that she was eager to find out just what my “emergency” was. “Can you tell him Susan’s stencil is on the light table?” I turned back to Susan. “Do you mind? Joel’s fantastic.” It wasn’t like it was her first time. She had four other tattoos.

She smiled. “Sure, do what you have to do.”

I leaned toward Bitsy and whispered, “It’s Charlotte. Kyle called. She’s sick. I’ve got Bixby meeting us at Chez Tango.”

Bitsy’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “I hope she’s okay.”

“Me, too,” I said as I walked out.

I’d forgotten that I’d valet parked. I had to wait too long for my car to show up, and when it did, the valet got out of the car and stood by the door as I walked around to get in.

“Miss, I hate to tell you, but I think something’s wrong with your trunk latch. It keeps popping open. Whenever it hits a bump.” He cocked his head toward the back of the Bullitt, and I could see that the trunk was slightly open.

I went around the back and saw the lock had been punched out. My heart dropped, and I swallowed hard before I felt the anger rise. I looked up at the valet, who was shaking his head.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said, but he knew a complaint would be filed. I certainly wasn’t going to pay to fix my trunk lock when the car had supposedly been safe in the parking garage under the eye of resort security.

He handed me a card with the name of the manager I needed to contact, and I stuffed it in my back pocket.

I lifted up the trunk lid farther, because something inside had caught my eye. Something that I hadn’t put there.

It was Trevor McKay’s makeup case.

Chapter 50

Immediately I thought about Rusty Abbott. Had he left this for me before showing up at Lester Fine’s photo op? If he did, he must have followed me from Trevor’s, then waited to see where the valet would park the car. Creepy. I thought about Jeff Coleman’s stalker comment. And why put the case in my trunk at all?

I took the case out and balanced it on the edge of the trunk, opening the top. Trevor’s makeup was strewn about, sort of in the same way things were strewn around his apartment. I tugged on the bottom drawer, and it slid out.

I shifted the hand that was holding the case, but I miscalculated. The case toppled to the pavement, lipsticks and mascaras rolling across the driveway. The valet gave me a dirty look.

“I’m sorry,” I said, leaning down to gather them up.

The drawer had come out completely, and papers skittered along the pavement, a bunch of receipts from Wal-Mart and Terrible’s-our local convenience store and gas station rolled into one-and what looked like a couple of pictures. As I picked up the drawer, I scooped everything up. I tossed the receipts into the trunk but held on to the photographs.

One of them was that picture I’d seen on Trevor’s Facebook page of the drag queen, the one who’d been across the street at Chez Tango when Jeff’s tires got slashed. I wondered again who she was as I turned over the other photo.

This one was the same picture of Lester Fine that I’d seen on Trevor’s laptop.

I held the two photographs side by side, wondering whether Lester Fine was the drag queen in the first picture. I couldn’t tell. These guys were so good at changing themselves into women that it was hard to pick out their male features under all the makeup and the glitter.

There was something, though, about the photo of Lester Fine that was tugging at my brain now. Not the intimate details, but something else. Finally I focused on it. Lester Fine had a tattoo on his arm. On his inner right forearm. I couldn’t make out exactly what it was because of the angle, but considering the other tattoos I’d seen in that same spot lately, I wondered if it could be the same one.

It also would clear up who the third mysterious person was at Murder Ink that night of the Queen of Hearts Ball. If the drag queen in the other picture was Lester Fine, this all made perfect sense. And since Lester knew Colin Bixby, it might make a little twisted sense to use the doctor’s name rather than his own. It’s not as if he would have been recognized, since Jeff said he was in drag.

Granted, I had seen pictures of Lester and his wife at the ball, and Lester was wearing a tux. But maybe he’d dressed up to get the ink.

“Miss?”

The valet was staring at me. I tucked the pictures back in the makeup case drawer and left it in the trunk. I slammed the lid shut and hoped it would stay until I could at least get some string or something.

As I leaned down to get into the car, I felt the brooch in my pocket, where I’d stuck it when Bixby had given it to me. I’d practically forgotten it was there, I’d gotten so used to the way it felt. But I figured I shouldn’t drive with it like that-what if the pin came unclasped and stuck me?

I took the brooch out of my pocket and stuck it in one of the cupholders in the center console as my brain ran faster than a hamster on a wheel.

It seemed pretty clear that Rusty Abbott wanted me to find those pictures. He couldn’t have known I’d already seen them on the laptop. And even if he did, I’d needed that little nudge to make the connection between them.

I wondered what his angle was. He worked for Lester Fine. Maybe Fine was a lousy boss.

I pulled out of the Venetian driveway and onto the Strip heading north. I hit a bump and the trunk opened. This was going to be a pain in the butt; however, I didn’t really have time to stop and fiddle with it now. It bounced up and down as I drove, and a couple of people pulled up next to me to tell me my trunk was open.

No kidding. Like I hadn’t noticed.

I ignored them and thought about Lester Fine. And that ink.

Something Bixby had said came back to me. I punched in his number.

“I’m on my way,” he said without saying hello. “There’s an accident, though. Traffic’s stopped.”

Great. “I have a question. The procedure that Lester Fine had? Did he have a tattoo removed?”

The silence told me my suspicions must be right.

“How did you find out?” Bixby asked after a few seconds.

“No time now. I’ll explain when I see you. It doesn’t seem like there’s any traffic this way.”

I wasn’t sure which direction Bixby was coming from. I had no idea where he lived, and again I wondered whether he lived with his mother. I made a mental note to find out.