The Missing Ink: A Tattoo Shop Mystery

by Karen E. Olson

  Joel took a deep breath. “Ace said the guy came in, pushed him around a little. Ace told him there wasn’t any cash. When the guy went into the staff room, Ace tried to be a freaking hero and jumped him. The guy hit him across the nose, but didn’t break it. Ace said he fell then—it wasn’t because the guy pushed him—and he slammed his head against the floor and then passed out.”

  “Sounds like it was convenient,” I said.

  “Yeah, maybe. But weird. It looked like the guy had beaten Ace to a pulp, but when he got all cleaned up, it had just been a bloody nose, and he’d bitten his tongue when he hit the floor, which bled like crazy.”

  We pondered that a few seconds, not really knowing the significance.

  “But it doesn’t mean he didn’t mean to hurt him,” I finally said. “And he did trash the place. Did the guy tell Ace what he was looking for?” The outline of the diamond was sticking out of my pocket, but no one would notice but me unless it was pointed out.

  “No. Ace said it happened really fast.” Joel looked around. “Did a good job cleaning up.”

  “Bitsy did most of it. I was out playing detective with Tim, but I’m not changing jobs anytime soon.” I told Joel about my afternoon. “I have to get over to see Ace,” I ended.

  “They’re keeping an eye on him, and your brother was over there, too, asking him all about it.” Joel snickered. “Ace is loving the attention.”

  “Wouldn’t have guessed,” I said.

  “Why don’t you go over there now, before visiting hours are over?” Joel said.

  I looked anxiously around the shop.

  “Why don’t we just close up? Put the gate down.”

  He had a point. The mall security folks knew what had gone down here. I couldn’t be held responsible for shutting down early, considering. On the whole, they didn’t like that, but these were extenuating circumstances. I nodded.

  “Sure. Sounds like a plan.”

  We went through the motions, locking the front doors, pulling the gate down, locking that, too. Passersby didn’t even seem to notice. It was almost suppertime anyway.

  Which reminded me . . .

  “I have to make reservations for eight across the way,” I said, indicating Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant. It wasn’t nearly as fancy as Giverny, but I wasn’t in the mood for fancy.

  Joel frowned, and I told him about my date with Simon Chase.

  “You like this guy?” he asked.

  That was a loaded question if I’d ever heard one. “He knows Matthew, the guy who broke into the shop,” I said.

  “And you want to know if he knows anything about this,” Joel finished for me.

  I nodded.

  “So you’re going to wine and dine him? What else are you going to do?”

  I slugged him on the shoulder and made a face at him. “What do you think?”

  “I think you like this guy, even if he’s mixed up in all this.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t it always?” He put his arm around me. “Want me to sit at the next table and glare at him?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t mind knowing you’re nearby somewhere.”

  He thought a second, then said, “Okay, I’ll come at eight and hang out in the square, have some gelato or something. I’ll keep an eye on you. Make sure you sit outside.”

  The restaurant had tables on the square.

  “Sounds good, but you have to try to be discreet.” I was a little worried, because Joel wasn’t exactly the type to melt into the background.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  We parted ways at my car, and I watched Joel’s frame make its way to his Prius. I looked for more notes on my windshield, but it was clear. Had that drawing been Matthew’s way of warning me he’d be coming around?

  I pushed the thoughts out of my head and backed out of the space, following the exit signs.

  As I turned the corner, my rearview mirror revealed that I wasn’t the only one following the signs.

  A white Dodge Dakota was gaining ground on me.

  Chapter 53

  I couldn’t stop and get out to confront him. Not that I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t because of the way the parking garage was configured and the fact that there were two cars coming toward us going in the opposite direction and then it was too late. I’d started down the incline.

  The Venetian’s garage had steep entrance and exit inclines—streets-of-San Francisco steep. The ceiling hung low, so it probably would take off the roof of a Hummer, but I was disappointed to see that the Dakota, while large, managed to be barely under the height requirement. I could hear a sort of scraping sound, and I hoped it scratched the crap out of the Dakota’s roof.

  I was going too fast. He was right on my back, nudging me forward, and while I usually didn’t hit the accelerator going down, I tapped it and the Mustang lurched forward, tires screeching. I gripped the steering wheel, nudged the brake, and felt the slight impact of the truck on the back of the car as we skidded down the concrete path.

  The turn came up fast, and I yanked the wheel around, smelled the rubber, saw the truck looming large in the mirror, sliding along the bumpers of three parked cars.

  I didn’t stop at the stop sign, barely glancing to the left as I spun the car to the right, onto Koval Lane.

  He didn’t stop, either.

  He was gaining on me as I turned right, toward the Strip. This might be a mistake, since traffic was abysmal and pedestrians crowded the intersections, but it could slow him down, and if the traffic gods were with me, I’d sail through a light that would turn red, keeping him from pursuit.

  The speedometer inched up higher than I was comfortable with, but I didn’t have a choice. While I’d toyed with the idea of just pulling over and confronting him in the nanosecond before we started down that incline, I wasn’t leaning in that direction now. I just wanted to get away, slow my heartbeat to normal, and then call Simon Chase to find out why, if he was meeting me in a few hours, he felt compelled to show up early and scare the bejesus out of me.

  Oh, right. I had the diamond. But he didn’t exactly know that right now.

  The light was red ahead of me, where I’d turn onto the Strip. A mass of tourists moved like a slow swarm of bees. The light turned green just as the last pedestrian moved out of my way, and I sped to the left, the Dakota hot on my butt.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work.

  I squinted ahead and saw the next light was red. And stayed red, the closer I came. Lights on the Strip were longer than James Cameron’s Titanic.

  A minivan slipped between me and the Dakota. I could see a slip of smoke coming out of the driver’s-side window of the truck. Simon Chase smoked? Oh, right. All those Europeans were like chimneys. Another thing I could bolster my resolve with when I met him tonight.

  If he didn’t manage to get me beforehand.

  If he’d wanted to meet earlier, I would’ve been open to that.

  The light changed. Cars ahead of me began to crawl toward the next light, which was, remarkably, still green halfway there. I put a little more pressure on the accelerator, spun around the taxicab in front of me. The light blinked yellow, and I threw caution to the wind, weaving around a tour bus as if every nerve ending weren’t on fire, and got through just a second after the light turned red.

  A glance in the rearview mirror showed the Dakota stuck behind that minivan.

  I resisted the urge to pump my fist and instead took my sunglasses out of the glove box and slipped them on. I went past the Monte Carlo, New York New York, the MGM, and sat at the light at the Tropicana. Where was I going? Home? I was pointed in that direction; I could use a nap.

  But the truck was still behind me somewhere. He might figure I’d go home, and I didn’t want to go to a place where he’d find me alone.

  My options were limited. I should’ve stayed at the shop with Joel.

  A phone rang.

  Simon Chase’s phone.

  I t
ook it out of my bag and hit the button to answer. “Hello?” I asked, this time not bothering to disguise my voice. He knew I had the phone. It might even be him.

  “Brett?”

  It was him.

  “Yes?”

  “Something’s come up. I can’t meet you this evening.” Something came up, all right. I just outran him. I smiled. “That’s too bad. I was looking forward to it.” Considering how fast my heart was pounding, it was amazing my voice didn’t vibrate.

  “Me, too.”

  “Listen,” I started.

  “Yes?”

  “Why did Matthew trash my shop, take my safe, beat up one of my tattooists?”

  Silence.

  I didn’t want to let him off the hook. “I saw you talking to him. At Versailles. And you and he and Elise were all at Viva Las Vegas last night. And why are you driving a Dodge Dakota, and why did you just chase me out of the parking garage?”

  He was so quiet, I thought he’d ended the call. Just as I opened my mouth to ask if he was there, he spoke.

  “What are you talking about? I’m not driving a Dodge Dakota. I’m in my office, at Versailles. I haven’t left all day.”

  Chapter 54

  I looked at the phone number on the BlackBerry. It was his office number.

  If Simon Chase hadn’t been driving, who was?

  “You were driving a Dakota last night,” I pointed out, uncertain where to take this, doubts about all my theories crowding my head.

  I heard a short intake of breath, then, “We’ve got a couple here at the hotel for management to use, left over from when it was just a construction site. I took one last night because, to be honest, a place like that isn’t a place for a Mercedes.”

  I could hardly blame him.

  “Why the twenty questions, Brett?”

  Why, indeed? “Because you met Elise last night, and you know Matthew, and you dated Kelly, and you obviously knew Matt Powell, and you seem to be some sort of link between everything that’s going on.” I hadn’t really meant to let it all out like that, but I was tired of the whole thing.

  Surprisingly, I heard him chuckle. “Why don’t you leave the detecting to your brother, Brett? I’m sure he’ll get to the bottom of all this.”

  “Do you know where Elise is?”

  “Let it go, Brett.” It had gotten a little frostier in the car, and the air wasn’t even on all that high.

  “I just want to find her,” I said.

  “Why?”

  Should I risk telling him I had the diamond? If he was in on it, then it would give him another chance to sic Matthew on me. No, thank you. I’d have to try another tack.

  “Someone thinks she left something behind when she came to my shop.”

  “Did she?”

  “Someone thinks so.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And you didn’t answer mine.”

  Silence indicated we were both going to be stubborn about this.

  “I’m going to make time to see you,” Chase finally said, like it was totally putting him out. “I’ll be there at eight, as I said. But I won’t have time for dinner. I’ll just meet you at your shop.”

  “Don’t go changing plans just for me.”

  “I think we have some things to clear up. We need to do this in person. I’ll see you at eight.” And now he really did end the call.

  I stared at the BlackBerry, then tossed it on the passenger seat. What exactly had just happened here? The only thing he said for sure was that he wasn’t driving that Dakota. It was the only thing he hadn’t skirted around.

  Speaking of skirts, I touched the outline of the diamond in my pocket. I couldn’t drive around with this; I needed to do something with it. Put it in a safe place. But where? My safe was gone, lifted—literally—by Matthew. The safest place for the ring, ironically, had been in that orchid pot. I probably should’ve just left it there.

  The sign for the In-N-Out beckoned just ahead. When in doubt, go for a Double-Double.

  I took my burger and lemonade to an empty table and sat down, peeling back the paper on the burger and taking a big bite. I was still chewing when my phone rang. My phone, this time, not Simon Chase’s.

  “Hello?” I asked after swallowing, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

  “Brett?” It was Tim. “What’s going on? What do you want?”

  “I found something,” I said. “I found what they were looking for.”

  But before I could elaborate, a hand clasped itself over mine, yanking the phone away from my ear. I heard Tim distantly asking, “What?” as another hand twisted my other shoulder.

  I wrenched my head back as far as I could to see the eagle wings on his neck.

  Matthew.

  Chapter 55

  His breath was hot against my ear.

  “You’re coming with me.” His voice was deeper than I’d imagined, gravelly, like he smoked three packs a day. But I didn’t smell cigarettes on him, just a musky odor mixed with sweat.

  His hand shifted underneath my armpit and lifted me up. I still held the burger as he almost carried me out the door. My phone was on the table.

  I expected to see the Dodge Dakota, but it wasn’t in the parking lot. Instead, Matthew led me to a motorcycle, a Harley.

  “We’re going for a ride,” he said, handing me my bag and taking the burger, throwing it in a trash can.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder and shook my head. “Not on that thing.”

  He nodded. “Yes, on that thing.”

  I shook my head more violently. “I don’t ride bikes. I can’t.” The tremble in my voice caused him to hesitate, peer into my face. “I really can’t,” I whispered, memories flashing through my brain like a slide show: motorcycle, asphalt, blood, exposed bone.

  My fear must have registered with him, and his face changed slightly.

  “Tell me why,” he said.

  I swallowed hard, but the fear still stuck in my throat.

  Finally, he nodded, the veins in his neck pulsating, causing the wings to move. “We’ll take your car. But I’m driving.”

  I looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but the line for the drive-up window was on the other side of the building, and it wasn’t exactly lunchtime, so there was a distinct lack of customers. As I pondered screaming—not even sure I could because my mouth was so dry—he shoved me into my car after grabbing my bag and finding my keys.

  He’d started the car, and we were peeling out of the lot when I realized he hadn’t shown a gun or knife or anything. He was just there. Big and imposing. I found my voice.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He glanced at me, then looked back at the road. “Where is it?” he asked.

  I forced myself not to touch my pocket. “What?”

  “You were saying you found it.”

  “My keys. I found my keys. I’d lost them.”

  “You said you’d found what ‘they’ were looking for. That doesn’t sound like your keys.”

  Give the guy a gold star. He wasn’t stupid. Even though he might look it.

  “I misspoke.” I sounded like one of those politicians making excuses for saying something truly stupid.

  “No, no, I don’t think you did.”

  “Where’s Elise? What have you done with her?”

  “Don’t worry about her.”

  “Why not?”

  “What did you do with it?”

  Back to the diamond again. This guy was getting a little tiring. I studied the eagle on his neck for a second.

  “Coleman does a nice tat,” I muttered. “Even if he likes flash.”

  “It’s not flash.”

  “What?”

  “My sister designed it.”

  “Kelly?”

  “She was good.”

  “I saw she worked at that shop in Malibu.”

  He gave me a quick glance before looking back at the road again. He didn’t speak for a long time as we headed west on 215
, and abruptly he got off the highway, turned onto Charleston toward Red Rock Canyon, through Summerlin. The housing developments on our right clashed with the brown desert on the left. Everything was brown here; it was the hardest thing to get used to after the greenness of the East Coast. But after a while, I saw past the brown to the touches of green in the banana yuccas, the Joshua trees, the bright blooms of the desert in the winter, the red rocks that crashed into a bright blue, cloudless sky.

  “She loved him at first,” Matthew finally spoke, and I took “him” to mean Jeff Coleman. “She was grateful for what he did. I was grateful for what he did. But she got restless. And she was pretty once she got cleaned up, really pretty. Coleman kept her in that shop; she needed to go.”

  I knew how she felt.

  “Who killed her?” I asked.

  He slammed on the brakes, the car skidding across the road and over into the breakdown lane. When we stopped, he twisted around in the seat, his left arm draped across the steering wheel, his right looping over the top of my seat. His fingers grabbed my hair and yanked me back.

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  There were a lot of things to worry about now, and he was right: Kelly Masters’s murder wasn’t exactly at the top of the list for me at the moment.

  “I was just making conversation,” I tried.

  He let go of my hair and turned back to the wheel. My fingers found the armrest and crawled over to the door release latch. I had to get out of here. The guy had beat up Ace, trashed my shop, and who knew what else?

  I yanked at the release just as the car started to move. My door swung open, and before he could register it, I threw myself out of the car, rolling along the dirt by the side of the road. When I came to a stop, I saw the car was next to me, idling, and Matthew was getting out.

  I scrambled to my feet, hoping the Tevas would find purchase in the slick desert sand, happy when they did, and I took off toward a subdivision entrance just a few feet away.

  The sign proclaimed it Desert Bloom. A lovely name for rows and rows of red-tiled roofs over caramel-colored stucco. I could hear Matthew’s feet pounding the pavement but didn’t turn around for fear of losing ground. I dashed around one of the town houses, skidding a little on my Tevas as I rounded the back of it. My chest heaved as I panted, sucking in air as quietly as possible. The dry heat filled my lungs, and I wanted to cough in the worst way.