“You’ve got to be kidding,” was the first thing out of my mouth, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say.
“What are you implying?” Simon Chase’s voice surprised me, as he approached Brian.
Brian looked from me to Chase and back again. “Perhaps we need to take this downtown,” he said.
“You should take her into custody now,” Manning demanded.
I glared at him. “Can I at least get a phone call?” I heard something in my voice that was not conducive to speaking to police officers.
“We’ll call your brother for you,” Brian offered, but it wasn’t more than an official gesture.
“I think I’d rather call him,” I said, reaching for my messenger bag, which was still slung around my shoulder.
I don’t know if it was my sudden movement-maybe he thought I was going for some sort of weapon-but Brian body-slammed me and I fell back over the top of the sofa and did a sort of backward somersault. Before I landed between the sofa and the massive coffee table, however, I felt a strong arm around my shoulders, helping me up.
Simon Chase asked, “Are you all right?”
I nodded, adjusting my skirt and shirt and messenger bag, combing my fingers through my hair. “Thanks,” I murmured, glancing at his profile, which was really quite striking. So he was chivalrous, to boot. Not like Brian the detective, who just stood there, staring.
“I think you owe Miss Kavanaugh an apology,” Simon Chase demanded of Brian.
I was liking him more and more.
Instead of saying he was sorry, Brian shoved a cell phone at me. “Call your brother.”
I took it before he changed his mind and went across the room, in front of the magnificent marble fireplace that dominated the far wall. I hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but as I heard Tim’s cell ringing, I studied the painting above the mantel. It was a splash of colors in the Impressionist style. But it was merely an imitation, and not a very good one at that.
“Kavanaugh.”
That’s right: He wouldn’t know it was me because it wasn’t my phone.
“Um, Tim? It’s Brett.”
“Brett?”
“I’m in a bit of trouble, I think. At least your friend Brian of the LVPD thinks so.”
Silence, then, “Why is that, Brett?”
“He thinks I have something to do with the body found in the bathroom in the Marie Antoinette Suite at Versailles.”
More silence.
“Why would he think that?”
Yeah, why would he? Except for a pair of latex gloves you could buy at any Wal-Mart. I didn’t say what I was thinking this time, though. I had to tread lightly with Tim. He didn’t like it that I kept ending up on his turf.
So I ran through the afternoon’s events as quickly as I could, without even taking a breath. When I was finished, he said, “Okay, I’ll be right there.”
As I closed the phone, I felt someone behind me. I expected to see Brian, but it was Simon Chase. His brow was furrowed, like he was worried about me or something.
“Everything all right?”
I nodded. “My brother,” I said, indicating the phone. “He’s a detective. He’s going to be here shortly.” I tossed my head toward the painting. “You know, the Impressionists didn’t paint until the nineteenth century. Your interior designer was off a century with the decorating. Or did she perhaps just choose it because of the colors?”
His eyebrows slid up slightly. “And you know about paintings, Miss Kavanaugh?”
I liked the way my name sounded when he wrapped his accent around it. Not like when Jeff Coleman barked it at me.
“I have a degree in fine arts from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, concentrating in painting.”
The eyebrows slid even higher. “That explains the tattoo on your arm.” He smiled, a sly little smile that made me tingle unexpectedly. And what he said next was even more unexpected: “But what about the dragon over your breast?”
The way his tongue lingered on the word “breast” took my breath away for a second. It was completely inappropriate, considering there was a dead guy in the next room and Brian thought I was some sort of person of interest. But I couldn’t help myself. He was the sexiest guy I’d met in a long time.
Maybe it was just the accent.
No, it was the whole package. I was ready to storm his Bastille.
“I like Chinese dragons,” was all I could spit out. I was sure he saw right through me, but to his credit, he didn’t call me on it.
“So you’re a fan of Asian art? Or French Impressionists?”
“Neoclassicists.” I said it before thinking.
Again with the eyebrows. “Really? Who?”
“Jacques-Louis David. Death of Marat. Death of Socrates.”
“You’re into death, then. You must feel right at home here.”
He was flirting with me. A little “yay” echoed through my head, but I merely smiled. “At least he’s French.”
“Yes, he has that going for him.” Simon Chase’s eyes twinkled. “So why don’t you have Marat on your arm?”
I thought about the painting: Marat slumped over the side of the bathtub, the blood on the sheet underneath him, the bloodstained letter in his hand. So real it was as if you could touch him.
It was just like the guy in the bathtub just yards away. Sans the letter and the blood. Coincidence?
I shivered with the thought. “A little too gruesome to wear,” I admitted.
“Water lilies are more cheerful?”
“You could say that.” I was distracted by the police officers who had started to dust for prints.
Simon noticed. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation over dinner sometime.”
“If I’m not in the big house,” I said grimly, only half joking.
“I’ll bring you a cake with a saw inside so you can break out,” he teased.
“Will you have a car waiting?”
“A big black Cadillac. That’s the car of choice, isn’t it, for you convicts?”
“Or a Town Car.”
“Oh, those are nice, too.”
It was as if we were the only two people in the room, until the elevator doors slid open and my brother walked into the suite.
Before I could say anything to him, Brian pulled him aside and whispered something in his ear. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered slightly as he looked at me. Something was wrong, and I didn’t think it was just the latex gloves.
Brian let go of Tim’s sleeve and went back into the other room. Tim approached me, but he now seemed to notice Simon, who held out his hand. “Simon Chase, manager.”
Tim nodded, shaking his hand. “Detective Kavanaugh.” He was through with pleasantries and turned back to me. “Brett, I need to talk to you.”
Simon cleared his throat. “I need to speak to Mr. Manning anyway.” And he went in search of his boss, who had disappeared into the other room as well.
“What is it now?” I asked Tim. “You know, I really just came here for a job.”
“I believe you, but we’ve got to go through the motions.”
“What motions?”
“Fingerprints. We have to confiscate your case.”
I had a momentary panic attack. “My tattoo machine is in there.”
“Don’t you have another one?”
“That’s my favorite.” As I said it, I realized it sounded stupid, but it was true. That particular machine fit perfectly in my hand; it was just the right weight. “What’s the problem?”
Tim nervously shifted from foot to foot, not very good at hiding his emotions from me.
He sighed. “We need to check the machine. The needles. The victim? His neck was punctured. That’s how he died.”
I had a bad feeling about this.
“Brett, there’s a tattoo needle stuck in his neck.”