The Next Victim (Kali O'Brien series)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Deena nodded, clearly delighted. “Don’t you dare say a word to her, though. You know how she is about not wanting us breathing down her neck.”

  “What makes you think she’s got a boy . . . a guy?”

  “Nothing I can put my finger on. More a feeling I’ve got. Little stuff, you know. Reading between the lines.” She gave him a long look over the top of the car door before she climbed in. “Women’s intuition. Some of us are pretty good at that.”

  Erling felt the burn of Deena’s eyes all the way into the pit of his stomach. Reading between the lines. Women’s intuition. Was she hinting at something about Sloane?

  There he was again, trying to read tea leaves.

  <><><>

  Erling was just pulling the car into the garage when Michelle Parker called on his cell.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not another homicide,” she told him straight off. When either of them called the other on off-hours, it was often because of a fresh murder. “I think I’ve found the tattoo artist who worked on our young Jane Doe. He’s in the shop this afternoon so I’m going talk to him. Do you want to come along?”

  Erling hesitated. The old conflict of family and job. Deena claimed to understand, but she also resented the time his work demanded. With Sloane’s call to the house still rattling around in his head, he was feeling more than a little paranoid.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, turning off the engine and setting the brake. “Where are you?”

  “It will be easier to meet me there.” She gave him the address.

  “More trouble?” Deena asked him when he’d pocketed the phone.

  “We may have a lead on the identity of that dead girl.”

  “Good. It’s sad no one has come looking for her.”

  “Yes, it is,” Erling agreed. The database of missing persons had triggered a few hopeful leads, but nothing had panned out. “I won’t be gone long.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got stuff to get ready for the classroom anyway.” She got out of the car and blew him a kiss. “Thanks again for going shopping with me.”

  “Any time.”

  She laughed. “Watch out. I might take you up on that.”

  <><><>

  The number of tattoo studios in the Tucson area was staggering to Erling, who’d grown up with the notion that only drunken sailors and hard-core criminals sported tattoos. He was aware that times had changed, but the widespread popularity of the fad left him scratching his head. For that reason, if none other, he was surprised that Michelle had actually been able to trace the tattoo to a specific artist. Although “artist” was perhaps a misnomer.

  The address she’d given him was in a low-rent district a couple of miles from the university. Recognizing her car parked on the street, Erling pulled in behind.

  “What do we know?” he asked when they were both out of their cars.

  “Guy’s name is Horse.”

  “As in ‘neigh’?”

  “Or smackhead,” she said. “I talked to a buddy of his at another shop who said the design in question looked like one of Horse’s. That delicate filigree stuff is apparently a specialty of his.”

  “Does he have a record?”

  Michelle cocked her head. “You thinking he might be our killer?”

  “I can see how it might happen. An attractive young woman comes in for a tattoo, the guy hits on her, she resists . . .” Erling stepped around a gluey wad of chewed gum on the sidewalk. “Just something we ought to keep in mind.”

  They entered the shop, sandwiched between a bar and a shoe repair place. The walls of the small anteroom were lined with drawings of tattoos—everything from monochromatic fire-breathing dragons and intricate geometric designs to colorful hearts and flowers.

  No one was at the counter, but muffled conversation flowed from the back of the shop. “Be right there,” a male voice called out. “I’m just finishing up with a customer.”

  A moment later a heavily tattooed man with a beefy face and shaved head appeared. Erling caught the flicker of wariness in the man’s expression when he saw the two of them. It must have been obvious they weren’t potential customers.

  “What can I do for you?” the man asked.

  “We’re looking for Horse. Is that you?”

  “To my friends.”

  Erling flashed his badge. “We’re trying to identify a body. A young woman with a tattoo. We’re hoping you can help.”

  “I talked to someone who thought it looked like your work,” Michelle added.

  Horse’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, I’m licensed and I’m careful. I use only disposable needles and fresh ink. If there’s a problem, it couldn’a been me.”

  “She was murdered,” Michelle explained. “We just need help identifying her.”

  The edge of suspicion in Horse’s expression eased some. “What’s the tattoo look like?”

  Erling showed him a close-up photo of the tattoo.

  “Yeah,” Horse said cautiously, “could be mine.”

  Michelle handed over the sketch of their Jane Doe. “This is an artist’s rendering of the girl. Do you recognize her?”

  “She’s dead, you said?”

  “Right. Do you recognize her?”

  Horse ran a hand over his shiny head. “Yeah, I think so. Last spring sometime. Jesus, murdered?”

  Erling nodded. “You know who she is?”

  “I’m not sure I ever got her name.”

  Another man, slight, studious, and in his early twenties, emerged from the back room. His scrawny bicep was glazed with a layer of Vaseline covering what Erling assumed was a fresh tattoo.

  “How are you feeling?” Horse inquired.

  “Fine.” The man admired his arm on his way out the door. “You do good work.”

  “Thanks,” Horse replied. “Tell your friends.” Then he turned back to Erling and Michelle. “I’d like to help you out, but I don’t think I can. This is strictly a cash business. I don’t take down personal information from customers. If I ever knew her name, I’ve forgotten it by now.”

  Erling had been afraid this might be the case. “Did she come in alone or with a friend?”

  “You expect me to remember?”

  “Try.”

  Horse sighed, thought a moment. “Alone, I think. Most women, they come with a friend, but not her.”

  “What else do you remember about her?” Michelle asked. “Where she grew up, went to school, anything. We’re starting with practically nothing here.”

  Horse scratched his chin. Shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “How about what she was wearing?”

  He snorted. “Do I look like someone who knows fashion?”

  “We’re not looking for labels,” Erling said.

  Another sigh. “Shorts and a T-shirt, probably. That’s what the chicks usually wear.” Horse sucked on his cheek; then his eyes flashed. “Yeah, it was a T-shirt. Pink. I remember because my girlfriend had just gotten into pink in a big way.”

  “Any lettering on it?” Michelle asked. “Or maybe a logo?”

  “No, just plain. She brought a denim shirt, too. She wore that home instead of the T-shirt because it was looser. A fresh tattoo is like a wound, you know.”

  Erling knew how much even the smallest cut could hurt. He didn’t want to think about what a tattoo must feel like.

  “What about distinctive jewelry?” Michelle asked.

  “Nothing that I remember. Like I said . . .” Horse frowned. “Wait,” he said suddenly, with a snap of his fingers. “She was a dancer, I think. Really limber and graceful. We talked a bit while I was working on her. I can’t remember what she said exactly, but that’s what sticks in my mind. A dancer.”

  “What kind of dancer?”

  “How the hell should I know? I didn’t interview her, for Chrissakes. It was just meaningless conversation.”

  Erling tried again. “Professional dancer?”

  Horse threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. “Maybe she wasn’t even a danc
er. It’s just the impression I got, okay?”

  “Okay,” Erling said, retreating. “We appreciate your help.” He handed Horse his card. “If you remember anything else, give us a call.”

  “Sure. Will do.”

  Outside the shop, Erling turned to Michelle. “What do you think? A young woman who liked to go clubbing or a real dancer?”

  “From what Horse said, I’d guess it was more than a social pastime.”

  “Ballet?”

  Michelle gave him the same look Deena sometimes did. Like whatever he’d said made no sense at all.

  “I don’t think so,” Michelle said. “Not with a chest like she had. She wasn’t built like a ballerina.”

  “There’s a certain build?” He’d never thought about that before. The only ballet he’d ever seen was the Nutcracker he and Deena had taken Mindy and Danny to years ago. What stuck in his mind most vividly was a dancing bear.

  Michelle ignored the question. “We ought to check with the musical theaters, dance troupes, bars, and nightclubs—”

  “That’s a lot of territory to cover,” Erling pointed out. The dance angle seemed like a long shot to him, anyway.

  “Yeah, but it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

  Erling could hear the frustration in Michelle’s voice. Finding the girl’s identity was only the first step. There was no guarantee it would bring them any closer to finding her killer.

  “We’ll circulate the sketch,” he said, “and pray we’ve got the winning numbers in the luck lottery.”

  He waited while Michelle fished her car keys from her purse. “What did you think of Horse?”

  “As a suspect, you mean? I didn’t see anything that set off alarm bells.”

  “Me either.” Erling glanced back toward the shop and shook his head. “I don’t get this tattoo craze. You see that nerdy little guy Horse had just finished with? Didn’t seem like the type at all.”

  She grinned. “You’re out of step with the times, Erling.”

  “So I’ve been told. Still, it makes . . .” He looked at her over the roof of her car. “What, don’t tell me you have a tattoo?”

  She smiled sweetly without answering and climbed into the car. She waved through the open window. “See you in the morning.”

  As Erling watched Michelle pull away, he felt the hot sun prickle his skin. He shook his head in befuddled amusement. Out of step with the times, indeed. Well, that was fine by him.

  He unlocked the car as another post-adolescent with tattoos strolled by. What about Mindy’s new guy? Erling wondered. Did he have a tattoo?

  It was one of those moments when Erling was reminded that being a parent was harder than being a cop.

  Chapter 17

  Kali was making coffee Sunday morning when John’s phone rang. Because Sabrina was still asleep, she grabbed it quickly.

  A moment’s hesitation on the other end; then a female voice asked, “Can I speak to John?”

  “Who’s calling?” Kali asked.

  Another pause. “Susan.”

  Kali checked the incoming call display. Susan Harris. It wasn’t a local area code. “What’s it regarding?”

  “Do I have the right number? John O’Brien?”

  “Right.”

  A stretch of silence. “Are you his wife?”

  “His sister.”

  “Oh, hi.” The relief in Susan’s voice was evident. “He said he wasn’t married but you never know. Is he around?”

  Oh, dear, Kali thought, as the pieces fell into place. Susan must be someone John had dated, someone who didn’t know what had happened to him.

  “I’m afraid there’s some bad news,” Kali said. “John died a few days ago.”

  “My God. What happened?”

  Kali’s throat tightened. Why did saying the words out loud make them more real? “He drowned,” she said softly. “In his swimming pool.”

  Her announcement was met with a moment of stunned silence. When Susan finally spoke, her voice broke. “How could that happen?”

  “We don’t know all the particulars yet.” Kali decided not to mention the alcohol and drugs. She had no idea where Susan fit into John’s life.

  “I can’t believe this. It’s so, so . . . terrible.” It sounded as if Susan was crying softly.

  Kali gave her a moment before continuing. “If you don’t mind my asking, what was your relationship with John?”

  “We met a couple of months ago.” Her voice broke again and she took a moment to collect herself. “I live in New York but I travel quite a bit on business. Tucson is part of my territory.”

  “You were dating, then?”

  “We went out whenever I came to town. It wasn’t anything serious. Not yet, anyway. But I think we . . . well, I was hoping it might be at some point. We really hit it off.”

  Kali had always seen John more as the dating type than one who would settle down in a long-term relationship, but there was clearly a lot about him she hadn’t known.

  “Did he ever mention me?” Susan asked after a moment. The hopeful tone of her voice made Kali cringe for her.

  “We didn’t talk much,” Kali explained. She made a mental note to ask Sabrina when she woke up.

  “I take it that’s a ‘no.’” Susan drew a quivery breath. “I thought things were going well between us. Then last time I was there, well, we’d planned to go out. He called at the last minute to cancel. A business meeting, he said.”

  “That happens.”

  “Yes, but I . . . I went to the restaurant anyway. I needed dinner, right? And Jack’s Bistro was someplace I knew. We’d been there before.”

  Kali recognized the restaurant name from John’s calendar. “You and John had planned to go to Jack’s Bistro?”

  “Right. It was one of his favorites.” Susan paused. “I saw him there. With another woman.”

  “When was this?” Kali asked.

  “Gosh, let me think. I had a Monday meeting in Phoenix, so it would have been a week ago Tuesday.”

  The night Sloane Winslow had been murdered. John had canceled a hot date with Susan in order to have dinner with Sloane, a woman with whom he was at odds. It didn’t make sense, but at least Kali understood now why John’s appointment book had listed a dinner reservation with “S.” Susan, not Sloane.

  “It didn’t look like a business meeting,” Susan added.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “They looked like they knew each other pretty well, if you know what I mean. I was devastated. I left as soon as I saw him, even though I’d already been shown to a table.”

  “He didn’t see you, then?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. He was totally focused on her. Whatever they were talking about, it must have been pretty intense. Then when he never called again . . . well, I assumed . . . I almost didn’t call this time.” Susan paused. “I hate to seem desperate, but I liked John. A lot.”

  Enough to kill “the other woman” in a fit of jealousy? Kali wondered.

  “For what it’s worth,” she told Susan, “John’s dinner companion was someone he worked for.”

  “Really?” Susan seemed to take heart in this information. “Maybe it actually was business, then.” She drew in a breath. “My condolences to you and your family. Your brother was a special guy-”

  “Thank you.” Kali felt the loss doubly. Not only for the brother she’d known, but for the one she hadn’t.

  When she’d disconnected, she hit the message button. Kali knew there were no new messages, but Susan’s call had made her curious about other people John might have talked to in the week or so preceding his death. She mentally chastised herself for not checking before now.

  She held the play button down and listened to an appointment reminder from his dentist; a short message from Sabrina; and another from a man named Wayne Clark, who sounded Australian and said only that he’d “talked to Jim, who knew nothing.”

  Kali had no idea who Jim was, but Wayne Clark rang a bell. She frowne
d, trying to remember why.

  Then it came to her. The date book Graciela had returned yesterday. She found it on the counter where she’d left it and flipped back through the pages.

  She’d remembered correctly. John had noted a two o’clock meeting with a W. Clark on the Monday following the murders. She checked the log of incoming calls. Clark’s must have been one of the numerous “private caller” listings because his name didn’t show up.

  Her own name and number did. Hers had been the last call John had received before he died. Kali recalled that hurried conversation where she’d hung up on him in a huff. Her eyes filled with tears and she brushed them away. God, she was such a fool sometimes. A self-righteous ass, as Sabrina would say. She’d known John had been trying hard to reach her, yet she’d been unwilling to cut him any slack. Was she so busy telling others how to live their lives that she never looked at herself? There was time still to build her relationship with Sabrina. But she’d run out of chances with John.

  She took her coffee into John’s office to work on her remarks for the funeral tomorrow, pushing aside boxes she and Sabrina had packed up. She wished she had access to his computer and again tried a few possible passwords before giving up. Instead, she wrote out in longhand ideas for what she’d say.

  Half an hour later, she heard Sabrina shuffling about in the kitchen, and then the sound of the doorbell. Sabrina appeared a moment later.

  “We got flowers. Well, technically, I guess, John did.”

  “From whom?”

  “Bryce Keating. Isn’t he the detective you’ve been seeing?”

  Kali nodded.

  “Come into the kitchen and look. They’re lovely.”

  They are lovely, Kali thought, as she looked at the bright, colorful arrangement. And thankfully not at all funereal. She recognized tulips, irises, alstroemeria, and yellow baby roses, but there were probably half a dozen other flowers she couldn’t name. The note, addressed to both her and Sabrina, was short: You are in my thoughts. Remember, I’m here for you. Love, Bryce.

  “That’s so sweet,” Sabrina gushed. “He must be a good man.”