Tattoo Killer (A Tattoo Crimes Novel Book 1)

by A. J. Norris

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  The waitress interrupted the embarrassing moment. “What can I get you?”

  “Uh, I’ll have a Coney, fries, and a diet Pepsi.”

  “Everything on it?”

  “Yep. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Pink-n-blonde shimmied off toward the kitchen.

  “Her name’s Jennifer if you need anything. She’s cool,” he said.

  “What?” Grace filed the menu behind the condiments caddy.

  “Nothing. Just trying out more conversation.”

  Grace giggled quietly. His tone sounded like she wasn’t the only one nervous. However, he never blushed. “Can I ask you something?”

  He shrugged and sipped his soda through the straw.

  That was stupid. She didn’t have any question lined up, she wanted to hear him talk some more. “Umm…” There was a ridiculous amount of gape-mouthed staring on her part and no talking.

  “Yeah?” His eyes widened and he smiled. “Did you have a question or…?”

  “I guess not.” She laughed. “God. You can ignore me.” Her feline demise was a real possibility. When would she stop living in the backseat of her life and get behind the wheel?

  He sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Well, see, now I can’t do that.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Oh God. Why not?”

  “You caught my attention. Well, truthfully you grabbed my attention when you walked through the door.”

  Yikes. Holy crap.

  The man wasn’t nervous like she thought before. “Can you at least make an effort?” she squeaked.

  “Nope,” he chuckled. “I’m Mikey Hardin by the way.”

  “Grace Bell.” Divorcee spinster she felt like adding. She put her elbow on the table and leaned her cheek on her palm.

  “Hey, uh, listen. This restaurant is dead tonight. You wanna sit here?” He gestured to the seat across from him.

  “Um…” She glanced at the floor and thought about flesh-eating Siamese cats.

  He waved her off. “It’s all right, you don’t—”

  “No. I mean, okay, why not?” Grace blurted. She stepped over to his booth and pursed her lips. “What should I do with your helmet?”

  “Oh, sorry. My bad.” He got up and removed his helmet from the seat.

  The waitress came over with his food and her drink. “Your food will be up in a minute,” she told Grace. Mikey thanked Jennifer and the girl’s eyes lingered on him.

  “So, that question you weren’t going to ask me earlier…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Was there ever a question?”

  Grace smiled. “I don’t know?” She searched his face for a reaction.

  “O-kay. Cool.”

  “I hope you don’t think I’m too weird.”

  “I make you nervous.”

  “A little.” After she answered, Grace realized that was a statement on his part, not a question. Jennifer dropped off her Coney-dog and fries. The waitress set a bottle of ketchup on the table before she left again. Grace busied herself squirting the Heinz all over her fries and putting a napkin on her lap.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mikey

  Grace defined beautiful. Mikey smiled at her single-minded focus on her French fries. She glanced at him as she brought a golden crispy up to her lips. The less than a millimeter gap (he’d measured once) between his two front teeth seemed as wide as the Grand Canyon. She may have been nervous but he was self-conscious. He put a couple of fingers up to his mouth then felt silly and removed them. He’d been smiling so much she would have already seen the space anyway.

  They spent the next thirty minutes eating and chatting between bites. Mikey leaned back against the seat after Jennifer cleared their plates. They talked for a long time even after their waitress had glared at him and slapped the check on the table. He knew why too.

  “I never asked, what do you do for a living?” she asked.

  “I own Ink Addiction.”

  “The tattoo parlor? You’re a tattoo artist?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh.” She studied the condensation on her glass of soda. “My mother passed away about eleven years ago.”

  “Sucks doesn’t it? Both of my parents are gone now. What about you? Is your dad still aroun—?”

  “Do you live near here? I mean,” she giggled, “do you come here often?”

  He tilted his head back and laughed. “Every Sunday. Well, I guess it’s Monday night now but usually I only come on Sunday nights.”

  “Only Sundays, huh? No, I’m sorry, I should’ve have said that.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

  He chuckled and reminded himself not to get cocky and screw this up. He opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it and smiled instead.

  Grace yawned. “Listen, it was nice meeting you. But it’s getting late.”

  “Yeah. We should do this again sometime. Preferably somewhere nicer.”

  “I’d like that.” She dug inside her purse and handed him a business card. “Call me.” The raven-haired beauty slid out of the booth. She waved goodbye and turned, only to pivot back around. “What do I owe for my part of the check?”

  He waved her off. “I got it.”

  “Oh no. I can’t.”

  “We’re good,” he winked. “Get out of here. I’ll call you and you can make it up to me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Talk to you later, Grace.”

  She dipped her head. “Thanks. Bye.”

  Mikey watched her all the way to the door. She turned back and glanced at him before she left, a smile lighting up her face.

  He picked up his helmet and walked up to the register to pay the bill. Jennifer took the twenty-eight dollars he offered.

  “How late are you working tonight?” he asked.

  She checked the clock on the wall. “I get off in about an hour. Why, what’s it to you? You strike out with that chick?”

  Hmm…Okay, he deserved that. “You keep the change all right, darlin’?”

  She glanced down and realized he’d given her a ten-dollar tip. “Ah, thanks. Sorry if I was—”

  “Well, have a good night and be safe. That parking lot out there is pretty dark.”

  “Yeah, I know. Some jerk keeps shooting the bulbs out.”

  Mikey surveyed the restaurant. The several diners that had come in earlier still remained. Once outside, he laced his fingers, stretching his arms over his head. He mounted his bike and looked around before starting the Harley. He sat enjoying the vibration and familiar “potato, potato” from the exhaust. There was no substitute for the shovelhead and single-pin crank. Three cars were parked by the dumpster near the rear of the building, in the darkest part of the lot. The smallest one, a Chevy Spark, belonged to Jennifer.

  * * *

  TUESDAY

  12:05 a.m.

  The killer’s breath caught in his throat when he spotted the girl. Her hair was up in a…what did they call that hair style? …pigtail. She was young, blonde, and had a love of bright pink, evident from the streaks of the color in her hair. He readjusted his position in his car seat.

  The girl fished her keys out of her purse as she made her way around to the side of Hector’s Coney Island to her car. His timing had to be perfect. From his vantage point he could no longer see her, so he left his vehicle. He wasn't the largest of men, but he was strong and could easily overpower her.

  “Hey,” he said to get her attention. He spoke with a kindness to his voice as to not spook the girl.

  “Hi,” she said, guarded. “What are you doing out here?” She looked at her surroundings and visually measured the distance to her car, clutching her purse close to her side.

  “I was wondering if you had the time?” He pointed at one of his wrists.

  “Midnight. Don’t you have a phone?” She walked faster and glanced behind her.

  “Not on me.”

  “It’s late. I’ve got to get home.”
Her eyes widened when he moved closer to her. She held her purse tighter. “I have pepper spray,” she said, swallowing hard.

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

  She tried to run. Abruptly, he put his hand out and grabbed the leather strap of her handbag. With it still draped over her shoulder, she couldn't escape. A muffled scream left her lips as he wrapped his hand around her face and covered her mouth. He pulled her flush against his chest.

  He marched her back over to his idling car. The parking lot was poorly lit. The lamps had been knocked out the week before by a pellet gun. Shooting wasn't the killer’s forte so he'd paid cash to a couple kids he knew from his neighborhood, the type that wouldn't squeal.

  The lid to his trunk was down but not locked. Jennifer tried to squirm away from him but he picked her up with little effort. When she managed to kick him, he swung her around and slammed the heel of his palm into her jaw. Her head rocked back and she lost consciousness. He shoved her into the trunk.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Harry

  The rhythmic knocking of the windshield wipers aggravated Detective Harry Hunter. Driving to a fresh crime scene always stressed him out and the noise seemed louder than normal. He saw the red and blue strobes through a blurry windshield and continued in the direction of the emergency vehicles. The Crime Scene Investigators' truck and uniformed officers were gathered near the side of the road. This stretch of two-lane was a bridge that covered a ravine. Springtime meant the bottom of the valley was flooded with water, and the rain only made things more miserable. Several cops looked over the edge at the terrain below. Harry stepped from his vehicle and looked up at the sky. The rain continued to pour with no signs of stopping. He blinked water out of his eyes.

  Harry ducked under the caution tape. The yellow plastic ribbon had been placed lower than it usually was. Right? Or he was just getting old?

  “Who called it in?” Harry asked while he peered over the side.

  “Kids on a nature hike,” a cop answered from behind him.

  Harry swore under his breath, again with kids finding a body. In his experience, with the similar description of the victim and cause of death, they might be looking at a serial killer.

  ME Tech Daniels approached Harry. The man’s boots and pants were covered in mud. Dammit. The crime scene was already contaminated. With the rain, any attempt at gathering evidence would be pretty much pointless. “COD?”

  “Crushed skull, so blunt force trauma, I'm assuming. We'll know more after the ME reports his findings.”

  Harry groaned.

  “Removal of the body has been cleared by the ME.” Daniels said.

  Harry already knew that. The fact he wasn't the first on the scene to lead the search annoyed him. He had preferences when it came to how a scene was explored for evidence, a spiral pattern starting from the victim and circling out was what he thought was best. Although it may not be the most efficient, he liked to search this way. Harry made his way down the embankment to join the search for evidence. Fat raindrops pattered his rain-jacket reminding him of the drippy faucet his late wife had nagged him to fix.

  The female victim lay face down in the bottom of the shallow stream which ran under the road. She was drenched. Strands of pink hair were threaded through the blonde. She wore a black skirt of some kind, hiked up to her hips, her pantyhose were torn in many places, and her bloody white t-shirt was plastered to her body. Harry could almost taste the old meat smell of death. No matter how many times he'd rolled up on these scenes he found himself covering his nose and mouth with a napkin. There was a stash of them in his coat pocket. Her hands had already been covered with plastic bags and taped at the wrists. Maybe they’d get lucky and some DNA under her fingernails from her attacker had survived the creek.

  Any evidence collection in this slop proved nearly impossible. What the stream hadn't washed away, the rain had. Nothing left but the poor girl and her clothes. Harry caught a glimpse of her face as she was turned over. The sight of her slack jaw and muddy appearance etched into his memory. Some things never got easier to see and could never be forgotten, especially since Harry had a daughter of his own. The whirring sound of a winch started up. Slowly, the stretcher rose.

  By the time Harry crawled back up the embankment, the young woman’s body had been loaded into the back of an ambulance. He thought about Mikey Hardin and how the guy’s ex-wife was also a blonde.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mikey

  “Thanks for the ride, man,” Mikey told his best friend Brad.

  “No prob. Do you want me to wait? See if it starts?”

  “Why wouldn't it start?”

  “Because it’s been parked out front of your psycho ex-wife’s house for the last forty-eight hours.”

  Amazed neither his ex-wife nor the police had towed the car, Mikey laughed and got out of Brad’s Jeep. “Whatever, man. But yeah, stay.”

  “That's what I thought,” Brad said, chuckling to himself.

  The engine cranked over like it should. When Mikey looked over at Brad, he gave him the thumbs-up and looked relieved, like Cynthia may have wired a bomb to the ignition. With a honk, Brad pulled away from the curb.

  Mikey killed the engine. He dreaded going over and ringing the front door bell of his ex's house. However, his desire to see his ten-year-old son won out. As he got out of the car, Brayden, shot out of the front door. “Hey, kid.” Mikey lifted Brayden into his arms and hugged him.

  “Hi, Dad. Whatcha doing here?”

  He knew his son was worried because he glanced up the street both ways as if he was expecting the police to come screaming up the block. He wondered if Brayden had been traumatized after the fiasco of his father being arrested. He shivered the idea away.

  “I missed you,” Mikey told his son.

  “I miss you too.”

  Mikey set him down and walked back to the porch with his son. Only the screen door was closed. Mikey couldn't resist the urge to peer inside and was surprised when he didn’t see Cynthia lurking in the hallway like she usually did.

  Cynthia's garage door trundled up, the wheels squealing along its track, adding to Mikey’s irritation. Cynthia’s car turned into the driveway. He cringed.

  “Mom's home,” Brayden said with the enthusiasm of a dental patient.

  “Why don't you go back inside? I'll see you next weekend.” Mikey placed his hand on his son's head and mussed his hair. Brayden nodded and retreated behind the screen door.

  Mikey went and stood directly behind his ex-wife's car so she couldn't close the garage. He beckoned her with the crook of his finger. She peeked at him out of her rear view mirror. Her lips moved in the mirror and she swore before she exited her car.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, glowering at her.

  “I guess so. You're here, aren't you?”

  Man, she was unbelievably snotty. He thought about squeezing her neck and snorted to himself. “How long did you leave my son home alone?” He placed his hands on his hips.

  Cynthia stepped up close to him. Even though she invaded his space, he remained planted to the ground and didn’t budge. “He's our son, in case you forgot. And what I do with him on my time is my business, not yours. I don't tell you what you can and cannot do when he's with you.” She pushed a finger into his chest.

  “I don't want you endangering him. Who knows what could happen while you're gone? You don't have a land-line. What if there’s an emergency? What then, huh?” He chose not to raise his voice because there was no reason for the neighbors to hear. Or Brayden.

  “Don't tell me how to raise my son!”

  “What happened to he's ours?” He started losing his patience. A little longer until he could get into his car and then he could lose it.

  “You don't care about him. You never cared about him!” Her eyes darted across the street to the neighbor watering flowers, who was now looking over, and at someone walking their dog. Mikey caught a hint of a smug expression on Cynthia’s face
when she turned back.

  “What are you talking about? I'm the only one of us who does care,” he snarled.

  “Then why did you leave us!? You cheated!”

  Mikey nearly choked on that one. “Excuse me? You're crazy. I never cheated on you. What in the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Then why did you leave? I'll tell you why. You never loved me! Your drinking always mattered more!”

  “I'm not having this conversation with you.” He turned and walked away, shaking his head.

  Mikey got into his car and slammed the door shut. He beat the steering wheel with his fist a couple of times. “Fuck! God, I hate that bitch.” He put the car in drive and peeled away from the curb, tires squealing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Grace

  Her hair refused to cooperate and Mikey was on his way over. Grace had agreed to go out with him, except now she was having difficulty justifying the date with the state of the mop on top of her head. Her hair was a disaster.

  Time for a ponytail.

  The doorbell rang.

  Grace opened the door and hitched a breath. She'd forgotten how handsome he was.

  Hello, Gorgeous.

  “Please come in,” she managed to say.

  “Hi,” Mr. Gorgeous said.

  After he crossed the threshold, she turned to shut the door and mouthed, holy crap, behind his back.

  “Did you say something?” he asked.

  “Uh, no.” Grace prayed she hadn't said that out loud. She gazed up at his slate-blue eyes. “Um, I was thinking we could go to this one restaurant if—”

  “I made reservations. A friend of mine owns a restaurant.”

  “Oh, your friend owns a restaurant? That’s cool. What’s the name of it?” she asked, truly interested, but looked at the floor.

  “Cocoa.”