I’d lost my balance and ended up on the ground. When I rolled slightly to get up, I saw the gun near my feet. I stood and picked it up. It was big, like that Smith & Wesson that came in the mail for Ray Lucci. Had Lucci been waiting for the gun to kill Lou? Is that why it took so long that Parker felt he had to take matters into his own hands?
“Dear, are you all right?” Sylvia climbed out of the Impala and came toward me. She took the gun out of my hand as though it weighed next to nothing and went over to Will Parker, who lay on the ground, his leg twitching slightly.
Sylvia pointed the gun at him.
“Who do you think you are?” she demanded.
Her white hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with those little butterfly clips; she wore cotton pants and a fleece pullover. If it weren’t for the big gun locked between her hands, she’d look like someone’s grandmother on her way back from book group or knitting club.
Movement caught my eye. I turned to see Tim running across the intersection, his face grim.
When he caught sight of Sylvia holding the gun on Will Parker, he stopped short, and a big grin crossed his face. He hid it quickly, though, and strode over to her, putting his hand over hers and carefully taking the gun. He tossed a “How are you?” back at me.
I nodded to indicate I was okay.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Tim demanded of Sylvia as he leaned down and turned Parker over, slapping handcuffs on his wrists.
“I tried to tell you, but you weren’t paying attention,” Sylvia said. “I saw him”-she cocked her head at Parker-“taking Brett over here and it didn’t look like anything friendly. Someone had to do something,”
“That’s the last time I leave my keys in the car,” Tim muttered, pulling Parker to his feet.
“If you didn’t keep the keys in the car, then who knows what would’ve happened to your sister,” Sylvia said sharply. She was almost a foot shorter than he was, but she looked a lot taller as she stood with her hands on her hips, admonishing him.
I stifled a chuckle.
Parker glared at me. “It’s your word against mine,” he growled.
Tim shoved him. “Somehow I think her word is worth more,” he said.
A cruiser skidded to a stop behind the Impala, and Tim opened the back door and pushed Parker in, closing it behind him. He turned to me.
“Hate to tell you, but we’ve got to take a statement.”
Story of my life.
I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to get myself to the shop by eleven the next morning. I was sitting with my coffee and a bagel when Bitsy and Joel came in. They were laughing about something as they pushed the door open, but when they saw me, their faces froze.
“What happened to you?” Bitsy demanded, her voice stern, although I could tell I was totally off the hook for abandoning everyone yesterday.
Joel came over and gently touched my face. “Sweetheart, you look terrible.”
“Thanks,” I said, making a face at him. I’d looked in the mirror exactly once that morning and decided I wouldn’t do that for the rest of the day.
I’d spent most of the night at the hospital with Sylvia, waiting for Jeff to wake up. When he did, he gave me a small smile and raised his eyebrows as he assessed my bruises and scrubs, but he didn’t say anything. They wouldn’t let me stay, because I wasn’t family. Tim took me home after I gave my statement about Parker, and I got exactly two hours of sleep. But at least I’d gotten another shower and I could put on clean clothes.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I said. “I went out for chocolate, and the next thing I knew, I was riding the Monorail and going to Summerlin and getting shot at. And Jeff’s in the hospital, and Will Parker tried to kill me a second time and-”
“Jeff? What’s wrong with Jeff?” Joel asked, concern etched in a frown across his forehead.
“Parker shot him after he ran us off the road. But he’s okay,” I added. “He’s out of surgery, and they say he’s going to be fine.”
Bitsy held her hand up. “Stop. You know you have to tell us everything from the beginning, but you’ve got a client coming in about two minutes. Is that enough time?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not nearly enough.”
As I spoke, my client came in. I was a little worried I’d be too tired, but turns out there’s a little thing called autopilot. I didn’t want to tell the client that I could do this in my sleep, because I practically was.
Bitsy plied me with more coffee after my client left, and I went over the story piece by piece. She and Joel and Ace, who’d come in while I was with my client, hung on every word and didn’t even interrupt.
I’d gotten pretty much all of it right. When Tim took me home to get a little sleep, he told me Rosalie admitted she and Parker had had an affair; she was protecting Parker by telling me that Lou killed Lucci. Bernie admitted-after the blood type found on the Gremlin matched Lou Marino’s-that he’d contracted to have his daughter’s husband killed, and when it didn’t work out, he took matters into his own hands.
And the thing that Parker thought I found in the locker room? The reason why he’d tried to run me and Bitsy down at the university and then Tim and me in the parking garage? And why he’d shot at Jeff and me?
A love letter from Rosalie.
“Are you sure?” I asked for the umpteenth time.
Jeff sat in my chair, in my room at The Painted Lady. His shirt was off, showcasing his tattoos. My eyes lingered on the Day of the Dead tattoo that he’d designed himself-a skeleton in a big sombrero, playing a guitar-before moving up to the ugly red wound that was still healing near his clavicle.
“I know you think I’m good-looking, Kavanaugh, but let’s get to it,” he quipped. He’d been out of the hospital for two weeks. So far we hadn’t talked about anything that had happened. I tried, but every time I did, he changed the subject. Like now.
“Bitsy says you’re having dinner with that Dr. Sexy tonight.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “That’s not really your business.” I’d had a long conversation with Colin Bixby and asked him why he’d pointed me in the direction of Dan Franklin, who clearly had only an unrequited relationship with Rosalie. But the rumor around the university lab, however, had them having a heated relationship, and Bixby felt Franklin was suspect.
“Bitsy says you have a hard time with commitment,” Jeff was saying. “But I don’t think so.”
I frowned. What would Jeff Coleman know about that? I secretly thought Bitsy was right. I’d had a series of relationships in the last ten years, and none of them had lasted.
“You don’t get it, do you, Kavanaugh?”
“I guess I don’t,” I said, slipping a new needle into my tattoo machine.
He watched me for a second, then said, “Every time you mark your body, you’re making a commitment. A lifelong commitment. One of these days it won’t be just a tattoo.”
What? Was Jeff Coleman becoming profound? Who knew?
But then he ruined it. “Maybe it’ll be Dr. Sexy. Tonight. Should I tell your brother not to wait up?” He winked.
I dipped the needle in black ink. Despite his attempt to distract me, the question remained. “Are you sure?” I asked again, the machine poised.
Jeff pointed to a small space of bare skin just above where his wound was. “Right there. And I’ve never been so sure in my life.”
“You and Sylvia have talked about it?”
“That’s between me and her, Kavanaugh. Don’t worry your little head about it.”
But I did worry about it. This wasn’t just another tattoo.
I sighed and pressed the foot pedal, and the machine began to whir. I touched the needle to his skin.
There was no stencil. I didn’t need one.
It took fifteen minutes.
I wiped the last of the ink and blood away with a soft cloth and took my foot off the pedal. I handed him the small mirror so he could see it.