by B. C. Sirrom
ONE
Bonnie watched the blood ooze from the pores of her calf just before Karina, her tattoo artist and long-time friend, wiped it deftly away with a damp paper towel.
“I think I’m actually going to be sad when this is finally finished.” Karina mused in her thick, Ukrainian accent without lifting her eyes from her work.
She was an immigrant and an artist in every sense of the word but you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. For one thing, she didn’t have a single tattoo of her own and, aside from a delicate silver ring in her right nostril, she lacked any other forms of body modification at all. If Bonnie had simply met her on the street as opposed to in the shop she would have pictured the woman attending a yoga class or a drum circle in a public park, based on her appearance. She had long, fuzzy brown dreadlocks that she always wore pulled up in a messy pile atop her head and her clothes always looked like they were homemade from some kind of organic fabric spun from plant byproducts. But she was one of the kindest people that Bonnie had ever met and, without a doubt, one of the very best artists in the business.
“Are you saying you’re going to miss me, or the art?” Bonnie replied playfully.
In truth she knew that Karina would probably miss the paychecks that she’d been receiving more than anything. Bonnie had spent nearly ten years and over twenty-thousand dollars in Karina’s shop adding to her gray-wash full body tattoos. To be honest, she wasn’t really that into body art either, but like all Valkyries, Bonnie had been born with some unusual physical characteristics that made it difficult for her to interact with humanity. Among those characteristics were her large leathery bat-like wings, long red hair that always burned on the ends and smelled of sulfur, and her naturally gray-colored skin. She’d found a plastic surgeon in Seattle who had removed the wings for her and, even though he’d sworn not to tell anyone, she’d killed him when he was finished just to be sure. Shaving her head dealt with the burning hair problem and the sulfur stench, but the only way to hide gray skin was to cover it in gray-wash art to make people think that somewhere under all that ink she must have been pink like everyone else at some point in her life. Karina was the only one who knew that Bonnie’s skin was naturally gray but she didn’t seem to care and she spoke so little English that she doubted anyone would believe her if she ever did try to tell them.
“You will still come to visit me, no?” Karina asked, glancing up at Bonnie only briefly.
“Of course.”
“You must bring me, still, the number for the man who did the horns.”
Bonnie sighed. Another physical trait of all Valkyries was two thick, amber-colored horns that grew from the front of her forehead and curled upward into sharp points. She’d told Karina that the horns were implants that she’d purchased from a modification clinic in San Francisco, but this had only been a lie to pacify the artist. Modification clinics were rare and horn implants even more so, but they were possible and there were a select few, eccentric humans that had them. Unfortunately for Bonnie, Karina had asked for the clinic’s number so that she could recommend them if she ever had other customers that were interested in the extreme. Bonnie had been making excuses to Karina for years when it came to the fictitious clinic, but now her tattoos were almost complete and, despite the fact that she’d grown fond of the artist, she had no intention of ever returning to this shop once they were finished.
At that moment the tiny bell on the shop’s front door chimed and Bonnie could hear Beth, Karina’s assistant, welcoming someone from the front of the shop.
“I’m looking for Bonnie Hansen.” A deep male voice said as the sound of his shoes clacked softly across the linoleum floor. Bonnie stiffened in her seat and Karina glanced up at her, irritated by the movement.
“No one works here by that name.” Beth replied, sounding as polite and considerate as she always did.
“She’s a customer, actually. I was told that I’d be able to find her here.”
“I’m sorry sir but HIPPA laws prevent me from confirming or denying the names of our patrons.”
Bonnie smirked and Karina sighed with hopeless annoyance.
“Bonnie Hansen!” The stranger called out, loud enough for his voice to echo from the shop’s rear walls.
Now it was Bonnie’s turn to sigh and she shot Karina an apologetic look before replying in her normal speaking voice. “I’m back here. Who wants to know?”
The rhythm of the man’s shoes thudded toward her slowly as he approached and when he finally came into view around the privacy screen between her station and the next, she immediately knew what he was. His crisp denim jeans and white button up shirt would have looked mismatched were it not for the gray suit jacket, left unbuttoned, and the sliver of a gun holster peeking out from beneath it. He wasn’t a cop or he would have been wearing a uniform and he carried himself with too much arrogance to be a criminal, so that left her with only one other possibility – detective.
The expression of surprise on his face when he took in her physical appearance was one that Bonnie had seen a thousand times and still couldn’t get used to. The shaved head, tattoos, and smattering of facial piercings might have only surprised some people but the horns got to everyone, every time.
“I’m – um – Detective Kirk – uh – mam.” He stammered, confirming her assessment.
Bonnie smirked again. “Mam?”
“Do you know a gentleman by the name of Walter Brown?” He asked, ignoring her taunt.
Bonnie felt her stomach drop as she nodded. Walter was one of her customers from the RedTail, the strip club where she worked. Most of the men that came to watch her dance simply drank their beers, enjoyed the show, and went on with life but occasionally she could pick out the lonely and the ones with low self-esteem, work her magic on them, and have them eating out of her palm – and dishing out their pockets – for the rest of their lives.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Brown?” He asked.
“Walter.” She corrected. Mr. Brown sounded too formal for someone like Walter.
Detective Kirk merely nodded in concession, waiting for her to answer his question.
“Maybe a little over a week ago. He moved to Dutch Harbor so we don’t see each other as often as we used to. Is he missing?”
“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this but, Walter is dead.” His apology sounded more like a reflex from his many years on the job than it did a sincere consideration of her feelings.
“How did he die?” She asked, allowing her voice to catch slightly in a feigned show of emotion.
“He was murdered. Stabbed twice in the back and left face-down in a field just outside of the Royal Yukon logging camp.”
“Do you know who killed him?” She asked, though she already knew the answer. If the police knew who the murderer was Kirk wouldn’t be here asking her questions.
“Where were you last Monday night between the hours of eight and eleven?” He asked.
“I was working.” Her answer came quickly and as naturally as if it had been the truth.
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“Lots of people, I’m an exotic dancer at the RedTail on Gibson. Ask Russ, the bouncer. He was there that night.”
“What time did you leave work?”
“I’m not sure exactly but I rarely get out of there before one or two in the morning.”
“I’m finished.” Karina announced, interrupting their chatter.
Bonnie looked down to admire the work even as Karina began applying some ointment to it.
“It’s beautiful, as always.” Bonnie said, swinging her leg off the edge of the bench and reaching for her Prada purse. “I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve gotta get to work.”
Detective Kirk cleared his throat to remind her that he wasn’t done questioning her yet. She turned her head to look at him while putting on her left shoe.
“I’m sorry Detective, I’d be more than happy to answer your que
stions but Sal, my boss, is an ass. If I don’t show for work tonight he’ll explode and make everyone else’s life in that place hell. Can I come by your office in the morning? I promise you’ll have my undivided attention.”
He looked like he was preparing to argue but Bonnie stood, without waiting for his answer, and began squeezing past Karina in the narrow cubicle.
“Sal is the one that told me where to find you.” He admitted.
“Then you know what a prick he is.” She said, feigning relief and heading toward the front of the store. “I’ll be there first thing in the morning, bright and early. I promise.”
Kirk followed, taking up a stance between her position at Beth’s register and the door.
“Am I under arrest?” She asked, cocking out her hip.
“No.” He answered quickly … too quickly. She must be their only suspect at this point.
“In that case I’m going to work and you can’t stop me. Feel free to have someone keep an eye on me if you want.” With that she handed three one-hundred dollar bills to Beth and called softly toward the back of the store. “See you in a few months Kar!”
When she turned to leave she was surprised to see Detective Kirk holding the door open for her. “Just one more question, if you don’t mind.” He pressed.
Once outside she stopped to oblige him.
“Do you know where, in Dutch Harbor, Walter was living? We tried the address on his identification but it’s vacant and none of his former co-workers have seen him in over six months.”
She nodded, now understanding how he’d found her. Walter used to work in cod processing on the docks but he was fired last spring. If Kirk spoke to the other dock boys one of them would have told him about her and since the majority of them were regular customers, they all knew where she worked.
“He was renting a spare room from Geoff Banks and his grandson. Geoff is the skipper of a red crab boat called the Caramina; he gave Walter a job and a place to stay after he got canned here in Anchorage.”
Detective Kirk nodded his appreciation and Bonnie broke into a jog toward the city bus half-a-block away.
