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.”
Chapter 21
All my needles were still in their sterilized packages, but so were my latex gloves, so that wasn’t a good argument for my case. I watched as the forensics officers swept the room with the black dust. Bruce Manning could barely hold in his anger, but I noticed Simon Chase was very good at calming him down.
“Why isn’t she in custody?” Manning demanded at one point, indicating me.
My brother, to his credit, said, “We have no real evidence to arrest her.”
That should’ve made me feel better, but Tim still wouldn’t let me leave, despite that lack of evidence. Except for my case that had needles and gloves in it. Perhaps he meant physical evidence that I’d actually stuck that needle in Matt Powell’s neck.
Even though the suite had almost as many square feet as our house, there were only three rooms: the big living area, the bedroom, and the bathroom, which by itself was about the size of our garage. I wanted to find a corner so I could call Bitsy and tell her I wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day. However, privacy was out of the question.
“I could take her down to my office,” Simon Chase offered, hearing me arguing with Tim about it.
Tim looked grateful, although slightly suspicious. “Okay, sure, but you have to bring her right back up here after she makes her call.” He looked around the room. “I don’t have an extra body to send with you, so you’d better behave,” he told me.
I stuck my tongue out at him. Habit. Simon smothered a grin.
“You two have an interesting relationship,” he noted when we were safely in the elevator.
I’d been savoring the quiet. I hadn’t realized how noisy it was in the suite.
“Don’t you have siblings?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Only child.”
“Lucky you.”
He must have sensed I wasn’t in the mood for any more banter, because he didn’t say anything else. When the elevator finally eased to a stop and the doors opened, he led me down a long hall, opening a door to a small office. A woman sat at a desk in front of a computer. She looked up when we came in, and a long, sexy smile spread across her face. She was gorgeous, with those long black tresses and a bodice that was aching to be ripped, just like in romance novels. Not that I read romance novels. I’m just saying.
“Penny, we’ll be in my office.”
I followed Simon to a door in the back that I hadn’t noticed. When he opened it, an office the size of the Marie Antoinette Suite overwhelmed me. It wasn’t decorated in the same way; it was more retro, with a long Scandinavian desk and funky lights and a red leather couch that looked like it belonged on the set of Dan Tanna’s Vega$. The long windows along the back wall gave me a view of the mountains, reminding me about Red Rock and how I could totally use a hike right about now to work off this stress.
What I didn’t notice at first was the person at the bar—a full bar with glasses and bottles and a sink—over to the left. When he spoke, it startled me.
“What the hell’s going on upstairs?”
I recognized him now. Chip Manning. Son of Bruce and cuckolded fiancé of Elise. He’d had a few, from the way the amber liquid sloshed around in his glass as he swayed toward us.
Simon took his arm, steadying him and settling him onto the couch. Chip put his glass on the coffee table, leaned forward, and shouted, “Why doesn’t anyone tell me what’s going on? My father left me here, told me to stay, and he’s been gone, I don’t know, at least three drinks.”
Maybe four or five, but who was counting? And obviously Manning had known where his son was but had chosen not to say.
“There’s been a situation.” Again, that British accent made a murder sound like Sunday in the park.
Before he could elaborate, though, Chip noticed me for the first time.
“You!” He stood up and pointed his finger at me. “What are you doing here?”
Simon positioned himself in between us, like Chip was going to come after me or something. “She needs to use the phone. Why don’t we step outside for a moment?” And in one easy swoop, Simon pulled Chip around the table and steered him out of the office, nodding at me as he closed the door after them.
Now that they were gone and I was alone, my head started swirling. What was up with the guy upstairs? It certainly sounded like a tattooist had been there. Granted, anyone could get tattoo needles; you could order them off the Internet. But odds were that it had been a tattooist.
I really wanted to find Jeff Coleman and ask him some questions.
First, however, I had to call the shop.
Bitsy answered.
“Hi, it’s me. I’m not going to be back today.”
“You’ve got a seven-o’clock.”
“Cancel it.”
“What? You never cancel. And she was rescheduled from this morning. What’s wrong? Did something happen on that house call?” She paused. “Hey, I get it. He fell madly in love with you while you tattooed his butt and you’ve found one of those Elvises and you’re going to get married in one of those awful chapels and you’ll be all over the tabloids this time tomorrow.”
“Wish it were true, Bits. But no, I’ve gotten held up, and Tim needs me for something. I’ll be in in the morning.”
“Tim needs you? Hey, wait—”
I hung up, then shut the phone off, knowing she’d try to call me back. I didn’t have Jeff Coleman’s cel
l number, and he wouldn’t be at his shop if he was skulking around the city hiding from the cops. But maybe someone there would know where he was. I turned the phone back on—I would need to recharge the battery later—and dialed his shop.
“Murder Ink.”
Somehow the name of his shop had become prophetic.
“I’m looking for Jeff.”
“He’s not here.” The voice was curt.
“It’s Brett Kavanaugh. He sent me to cover for him on a job, and there was some trouble.”
Silence, then, “What sort of trouble?”
“I need to talk to Jeff. How can I reach him?”
“How do I know you’re really Brett Kavanaugh?”
Everyone was a bit paranoid these days.
I wasn’t quite sure, either, how to answer that. I couldn’t exactly prove it over the phone, and my personal cell number would show up on their caller ID, not my shop’s number. “You’ll just have to trust me,” I tried.
“Sorry, lady,” and he hung up.
A knock at the door, and Simon Chase poked his head in. “Are you all set?”
“Yeah,” I said, shutting my phone off again.
Chip Manning came back in with Simon and collapsed on the couch. He’d left his drink outside. He pointed at me again, wagging his finger like Sister Mary Eucharista used to.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, tears in his eyes.
“Why didn’t I tell you what?”
“She wanted a tattoo.”
“We already had this conversation, Chip,” I said flatly.
“But she loved Matt. You knew that. It was what she wanted. Why didn’t you tell me that?” He started to sob. “Where is she? Where is Elise?” He lay down, his face against the cushion.
I looked at Simon Chase, who shrugged. I didn’t quite know what to do. Chip was drunk and brokenhearted.
He swung his head around and looked at me with one eye open. “Do me,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Give me a tattoo. I want it to say ‘Elise.’ I want it”—he rolled over and pulled his shirt up, tapping a hairless chest—“here. I want to feel the pain. I deserve it.” Rolling over again, he closed his eye, and in seconds he was snoring loudly.
I stifled a chuckle.
“Maybe you should do it.”
I looked at Simon Chase, who was staring at Chip.
“Do what?”
“I can go upstairs, get that case of yours, and you can tattoo him right here, right on this sofa. I heard him tell you to.”
It was tempting. “I demand up-front payment,” I said. “I don’t think he’s in any condition—”
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much?” He was serious.
I thought about the fee I’d lost earlier. “A thousand,” I said.
“Do you take cash?”
This had gone on long enough. “As much as I’d like to—and I like a practical joke as much as the next guy—I really can’t.”
“How about a temporary one?”
Our eyes met and we both started laughing.
“Now that’s a good idea,” I said. “I could make a stencil; he’d think it was real.”
The phone on the desk startled me, and I jumped. I noticed Simon didn’t. He probably got calls interrupting him all the time. He went over to his desk, and I watched him for a few seconds, until Chip made a sort of snorting sound. He rolled over, and as he did, I noticed something on the tails of his shirt. I peered more closely and saw small, reddish stains that seemed at first to blend in with the pink stripes.
They sure looked like blood to me.
Chapter 22
I wasn’t a stranger to blood. The sight of it didn’t make me all queasy. Especially little splashes. I wiped more blood than this off a tat while I was working.
I thought about Matt Powell upstairs. I hadn’t seen any blood, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. He was stabbed in the neck. Had to be some. These stains couldn’t be from that—could they? Chip said he knew about Matthew, that he knew about the tattoo I was supposed to give Elise. How? As far as I knew, it wasn’t on TV yet. Had he found out anyway, like he’d found out about me—from his father, who was alerted by the police? Had he confronted his driver and the situation got out of control?
While it was a believable scenario, it didn’t explain the tattoo needle or the gloves. How would he get those? Chip didn’t seem that enterprising. In fact, I was having a hard time seeing in him what Elise had. Money could only go so far. Which was probably why she turned her sights elsewhere.
But then my train of thought veered onto another track. Where had Chip been this afternoon? He was drunk now, but was that just a reaction? Was it a cover-up, an alibi?
I was watching way too much TV.
“Mr. Manning is bringing your brother down to fingerprint you.”
Simon’s voice startled me. He noticed.
“Where were you just now?”
I tried to laugh, but it came out sort of funny, and his deep brown eyes unnerved me with their intensity. “Nowhere,” I said. I didn’t want to voice any suspicions about Chip unless I was sure. At least not to him.
He stepped closer, close enough so I could feel his body heat, which made me catch my breath. He was smiling, his hand reaching up—
The knock at the door made us both jump backward, away from each other. First time I’d seen him a little flustered. Part of me was sorry—I’d wanted to see where this was going—but the other part was glad. Because I wasn’t nearly emotionally ready for something that seemed prematurely potent.
Manning came in first, bellowing at Tim, “You have to wrap all this up; there’s media in the lobby, they’ve got their spies, they know something’s happening.”
Tim smiled serenely. I recognized that smile. It was the one he gave my parents whenever they asked why he wasn’t married, why he and Shawna didn’t patch things up, she was a nice girl, she would make a wonderful mother.
“We’ll do all we can to avoid the press,” he assured Manning.
It was at that point that they both noticed Chip passed out on the couch. Tim raised his eyebrows at me and I made a motion like I was drinking.
Manning seemed to lose a little of his bluster, looking disconcerted now instead. “How long has he been like this?” He focused on Simon.
“We came in and he was drunk,” I offered, causing Manning to turn and study me like I was an exhibit at the city zoo.
“Haven’t you caused enough trouble already, young lady?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to say something smart—I really didn’t like that he kept calling me “young lady”—but Tim caught my hand, which stopped me. He had his fingerprint case in his other hand, and he asked Simon if he could use the desk, he would be neat about it.
With Simon’s permission, we crossed the room and left Simon to Manning.
Tim rolled my fingers in the ink and pressed them one by one onto the print sheet.
“You might want to take a close look at Chip’s shirt-tails,” I whispered.
“What?” He stopped midhand.
“Stains. Red stains. I don’t know if it means anything.”
Tim glanced back at the trio on the other side of the room, Chip’s snores now resonating through the air. “You know what you’re implying, right?” His annoyance came through, but there was also a tinge of curiosity.
“He knew that a Matthew had captured Elise’s heart. Maybe he thought it was his driver,” I suggested.
Tim finished up with my hands and gave me a cloth to wipe my fingers. I needed more than that. I needed some soap and hot water. I also realized I needed a bathroom.
“Take a look,” I whispered.
Tim’s expression changed slightly as he approached Manning, and I asked Simon if there was a bathroom I could use. He directed me to a door in the corner.
I was almost afraid to actually use the facilities. The sink was a crystal bowl
that sat demurely on the blond marble vanity, a gold faucet perched over its top. I hoped it wasn’t real gold, but I wouldn’t count it out. This place had cost a fortune, and it was obvious no expense was spared.
I scrubbed my hands until they were red but with no more sign of ink. As I turned the water off, I lingered a moment to savor the decor. The door wasn’t all that soundproof, I discovered to my chagrin, but it allowed me to eavesdrop.
Tim was trying to get Chip’s fingerprints while he was passed out.
Manning was arguing that he couldn’t do that legally; he’d call his lawyers and slap a suit against him.
Simon Chase’s soft English murmur was indecipherable, but both Tim and Manning quieted down.
I stepped out of the bathroom to see all eyes on me.
“We’ll get out of your way now,” Tim said to Simon Chase, shaking his hand. He turned to Manning. “I’m sending a uniformed officer down here to wait for your son to wake up. We’ll want to ask him some questions.” Tim indicated that I should follow him, so I did, tossing back a quick, “Thanks,” to Simon Chase, who gave me another wink that made me blush.
“Can I go home?” I asked Tim once we were back out in the hallway, heading toward the elevator.
Tim bit his lip, like it was a tough decision to make. Then, finally, “It doesn’t look good, you know, the needle, the gloves.”
“You can’t possibly think I killed that guy, do you?”
Tim’s mouth set in a grim line. “No, I don’t think you killed him. And we’ve questioned the guy at the front desk and the elevator guy who brought you up here. They verify the time you came in. We’ll check the video, too.”
The video of the front entranceway, which would show what time I came in. The illusion was also one big Candid Camera, the black domes in the ceiling catching it all. I couldn’t fault Tim for having to double-check. It was his job.
Tim was still talking. “But I want you to promise to go straight home. Otherwise, I’ll put out an APB on you. I’ll be there in a few hours, and we can talk then.”
“It did look like blood, didn’t it, on Chip’s shirt?”
Tim stared me down before saying again, “Go straight home now.”
The Missing Ink: A Tattoo Shop Mystery Page 10
