Tattoo Killer (A Tattoo Crimes Novel Book 1)

by A. J. Norris

  “A year ago. You didn’t know her?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Do you keep records of your customers?”

  “Clients. Yes, but names only unless they pay with a credit card. Sometimes emails.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have the list handy or on a computer, would you?”

  Mikey walked behind the curtain where he’d tried hiding from the detective. Hunter followed him.

  He sat down at a glass top desk with chrome legs and began tapping on the laptop keyboard. He entered the name into the search function of the scheduling program. Chelsea Rand came up, along with her email address used for newsletters with the dates and times of all her appointments. Hunter leaned over his shoulder.

  “How come I see her name?” the detective asked.

  “I guess a Chelsea Rand did get a tat here, but I wasn’t the one who worked on her.” Mikey pointed next to the dates and times and at the name of the artist who did the actual tattoo. The last date entered for her was over a year old and Needles had worked on her then.

  Harry stepped away from the desk. “Can you print that out?”

  “No problem. I wouldn’t want to obstruct justice or anything.” They waited for the printer to warm up and spit out the list. Mikey handed the sheet of paper to Harry. “Tell me something, Detective, are you any closer to catching whoever killed those girls?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.” Harry scanned the printed schedule. “Is this Eric who tattooed Chelsea around?”

  “Yep. Needles,” Mikey called over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Harry, “this detective wants to talk to you, man.”

  Needles Ned was hunched over the drawing table against the back wall of the shop. He swiveled his stool and looked over. “Sure. No problem.” He stood and joined them by Mikey’s station.

  Harry cleared his throat before speaking. “This list says you worked on a Chelsea Rand on May fourteenth, two thousand and fifteen.”

  Needles held his hand out for the paper. Harry handed it to him. “May have. I don’t remember the name.”

  “Let me refresh your memory.” Harry showed Ned a photo from his phone.

  Mikey looked at the picture too and didn’t recognize the girl at all. Ned closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to remember the girl.

  Ned pursed his lips and shrugged. “Still don’t remember her.”

  “Are you sure?” Harry persisted. “Says on that piece of paper you worked on her four different times within six months.”

  “Don’t know what to tell ya, Detective. See a lot of faces and it’s been a year since she’s been in here.”

  Harry sighed heavily and grabbed the list out of Ned’s hands. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Well, let me know if you need anything else,” Mikey said. There was no tattoo to be done in twenty minutes; he’d lied to get rid of the cop quicker.

  “Don’t worry, I will,” Harry said. “Are you sure you don’t remember her? Either of you?”

  Mikey made an exasperated noise. “Yep.”

  Ned grumbled and went back to the drawing table.

  Harry eyed Mikey for a pregnant moment. “Do me a favor and call me if you remember anything.”

  “Will do. Goodnight, Detective.”

  Harry wandered toward the front exit, pausing to look at the wall of tattoo designs before deciding he’d seen enough and left the shop.

  What the hell was that all about? Mikey had no idea someone named Chelsea Rand even existed. The girl in the photo didn’t look familiar at all. If she had been in there, Mikey must’ve been out or too busy with another client to notice. Not that he would have remembered her anyway.

  He entered Chelsea Rand into the computer again and noted the dates and times then did a search using the dates for his activity, starting with the most recent.

  “What the fuck?”

  Cody Pollard. He’d been working on that asshole at the time the girl was in the shop. Mikey sat back in the chair. He tried to recall the day.

  Shit.

  Now he remembered; this was the first time Cody had been in Ink Addiction. He’d worn a green polo shirt and khaki pants, hardly the free-spirited type to get a tat. But when he’d pulled off his shirt, numerous designs were tattooed in random spots all over his torso, front and back. As Mikey worked on Cody’s latest ink, the guy sat so still, he had to wonder if the bastard had any nerve endings. He also didn’t make a sound.

  Mikey fished his wallet out of his back pocket and threw Hunter’s business card on the desk. After he punched in the cell number, he paused. There were three things Mikey knew. Grace had been attacked by Cody. Hunter came in asking about a Chelsea Rand, a murder victim, and Cody had been in the same place at the same time as her. Was there a connection or was this merely a coincidence?

  He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. Maybe he should call the police station instead of bothering Hunter. On the other hand, Cody obviously was prone to violence. Fuck it. He hit the green circle on his iPhone to complete the call and was immediately sent to voice mail.

  Mikey listened to the ridiculously long generic greeting then disconnected the call.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  Harry

  “Grace, please, when you get this message, call me. I only want to talk.” Harry hung up the phone before he started groveling again. He hated that his daughter was angry with him. Sure, it was his own fault, but two weeks had gone by and she still wasn’t taking his calls. He would have stopped over her apartment if Natalie hadn’t told him Grace was now staying at her new boyfriend’s house until Cody was apprehended.

  Harry had been so desperate for company he went over to Natalie’s and apologized for being such a shit to her all these years. He actually felt relieved and they had the most open conversation they ever had with one another. They even shared a few laughs, although the whole time he wondered if she knew how he felt about her.

  The walk down the hall to his bedroom seemed further than usual. Today had been tiring and he’d still had no luck in discovering Cody Pollard’s true identity. The video feed from the bank revealed only a blurry glimpse of the suspect, not even enough for the Feds to use their facial recognition software. Clever bastard knew how not to be seen. He remained behind Grace during the assault or had his back to the camera. His daughter fought him off better than he’d expected. Harry couldn’t have been prouder or more terrified in his life. The jolt to his heart as he watched the events unfold would be enough to make a defibrillator jealous.

  Harry sat on the end of his bed, took his shoes off, then crawled up to the pillows and laid down. He didn’t bother with his clothes.

  His phone rang somewhere in the distance as his eyes closed. He didn’t care. Tomorrow was Sunday, his only day off, and he was going to take full advantage of the day. And sleep.

  * * *

  SUNDAY

  6:00 p.m.

  The kitchen inside Cynthia Hardin’s home looked like it had never been used. Even in the dim light shining down from the cabinets above, he saw a thin layer of dust coating the countertops. The killer swiped his rubber gloved finger across the dark quartz countertop. He examined the dust stuck to the latex.

  Silently, he walked from room to room using a flashlight he’d found in one of the drawers next to the refrigerator. He climbed the stairs and ignored the portraits leading up toward the bedrooms.

  The first room on his left, with an open door, was decorated like a child’s room. ‘Brayden’ was painted on a wooden plaque hanging on the door handle by a curly wire. The killer scoffed quietly.

  At the end of the hallway a closed door stood between him and Cynthia. He’d been in her house before, therefore, he knew this was the master bedroom. He wondered if the child’s father had ever lived in the house, not that he couldn’t have discovered this on his own, he simply hadn’t bothered with the meaningless detail.

  He set his sledgehammer down on its head and used bo
th hands to turn the knob. Although there was no real reason to open the door this way, it seemed logical to him. He slipped inside the room like a shadow, careful not to bang the hammer into anything. He approached the en suite bathroom. The shower was on.

  Buzz. Buzz.

  The killer turned his head to the sound of a cell vibrating on the glass topped night table. He picked up the Samsung Galaxy. The caller ID read, ‘Asshole’. Tapping ‘ignore’, he lifted up his disposable rain poncho to pocket the phone.

  He slinked inside the bathroom. Cynthia was in the shower, her back turned to him. Water splashed the plastic shower curtain and the bottom of the tub. Steam fogged up the mirror above the sink.

  The disposable poncho itched around his ears but he endured his discomfort in favor of not getting his clothes and hair all dirty. He slid the curtain over slowly. Cynthia turned and screamed. The killer shoved her back; she slipped on the soapy water standing in the tub, cracking her head on the tile behind her. With a moan she slumped to the bottom. Her eyes shut and opened again, the lids fluttering.

  Adrenaline rushed through his veins, a state of euphoria settling in.

  “No. Oh my God. Help!” Cynthia tried to paw away from him. He gripped one of her ankles and wrenched her over the smooth lip of the tub and onto the floor. She grunted. A streak of blood ran down the inside of the shower. She rolled to her stomach and crawled away.

  “Oh God…noooo!” Her voice sounded tiny.

  Grabbing her by the back of the hair, the killer slammed her face first into the ceramic floor. Thick globs of blood gushed from her nose. She lay still, the fight gone.

  The killer gripped the heavy mallet in both hands, mid-shaft. He sucked in a breath and swung the end of the sledgehammer above his head. The steel came down and met the back of Cynthia’s skull with a crack. Blood splattered all over the front of him. He didn’t flinch, only closed his eyes to keep his vision from being compromised. The woman didn’t make a sound. She never regained consciousness.

  Steel hit the fractured bone again. More blood and bits of skull flew out from where the hammer connected. He swung again, this time the sound wasn’t of bone breaking but a sickening thud and a squish. The killer breathed hard, sweat dripping from his face. He stepped back with the hammer clutched in both hands.

  With one arm he swiped at all of the clutter from around the sink. Perfume bottles, hairsprays, and Estee Lauder cosmetics clattered and lay broken on the floor.

  He cranked the faucet on and ran the hammer under the flow starting at the head. Reddish water filled the sink. Using his palms, he rubbed the handle to dislodge stubborn globs of blood and brain bits. Most of the proof washed down the drain. He couldn’t do anything about trace evidence but he liked to keep his tool clean to the naked eye. His gloved hands, face, and neck were the next things he attended to. Once he was satisfied, he carefully drew the slicker over his head, balled it up, and tossed the poncho into the tub. Water pelted the plastic. Normally he would take everything he brought to a crime scene with him, but tonight he didn’t have the luxury. He’d made sure not to leave any fingerprints.

  The phone vibrated in his back pocket. He read the front, ‘Asshole’. He shook his head. “She’s not taking any calls,” he said to himself and pressed “end” to stop the ringing.

  Thirty seconds later, there was a chirp signaling a voice mail. The doorbell rang. He picked up his sledgehammer and exited the room, crept down the hall to another spare bedroom, and looked down on the front porch. Mikey and his son stood outside. The bell rang again. Cynthia’s ex-husband swore.

  “Well, shit,” resounded up. “Looks like your mom’s not home, kid. What do you think? You wanna stay and wait in the car?”

  “I dunno. She should be home.” The son shrugged.

  The killer dialed 9-1-1.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  Mikey

  Brayden ran ahead of Mikey up the front porch steps of Cynthia’s colonial. They had already said their goodbyes in the car. She had given Mikey permission to keep Brayden until six o’clock. His son rang the doorbell. Usually his mother greeted him, opened the door just wide enough for Brayden to sneak in, and then slammed the door shut. Cynthia didn’t answer the door. Brayden shifted his weight from foot to foot and rang the bell again. Mikey looked at his son. More and more, Brayden seemed older than his ten years. “Well, shit. Looks like your mom’s not home, kid. What do you think? You wanna stay and wait in the car?”

  “I dunno. She should be home.” Brayden shrugged and stared at the locked door. He knocked on the panel. “Mom!”

  Mikey banged his fist on the door. They waited for a couple of minutes.

  “I don’t think she’s home.” Mikey dialed her number but the call went straight to voicemail. “I think we should go and wait for your mom to call us back.”

  “Okay. You’re the parent. I’m the kid, remember?”

  Mikey chuckled. “You’re right, I say we go. Maybe you should try calling her first.”

  Brayden searched the pockets of his backpack. “Crap, I forgot my phone in my room.”

  “It’s all right. Call her again when we get home.”

  They listened to satellite radio on the drive back to his house. Brayden had an ear for old country tunes. Mikey had no idea where he’d picked up the love from. Cynthia wasn’t all that interested in music and he preferred hip-hop. Go figure. A Patsy Cline song came on as they pulled in his driveway.

  “Oh, I love this song.” Brayden said and turned up the radio. He sang a few bars. Mikey joined his son and turned off the engine.

  “Aw, Dad.”

  “Sorry, kid. I know I’m a buzzkill.”

  Brayden crossed his arms. “Fine. Did Mom text back yet?”

  Mikey shook his head. Cynthia usually didn’t flake out on him when it was time for Brayden to go home on Sunday nights. It was fine, though. He didn’t mind having his son for an extra night. They entered the house through the kitchen. Brayden sped past him to the refrigerator. “What are you getting?”

  “Thirsty.” He held his mouth under the water container on the top shelf. He opened the spigot and swallowed several gulps of water.

  “You know, you could use a glass.”

  “Not that thirsty,” Brayden said and wiped his chin on his shirt.

  “Go call your mom.”

  “You’re both back. Is something wrong?” Grace asked from the kitchen doorway. Brayden rushed past her.

  “She wasn’t home.”

  “She did know you were coming, right?”

  “Yeah.” Mikey scrunched up his face. “I’m a little worried. It’s not like her.” They moved to the dining area next to the living room.

  Brayden came back from his bedroom. “She’s not answering her phone.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. She always answers my calls.” Brayden’s shoulders sagged as he walked to the living room couch and sat down.

  Shit.

  Grace shut down her laptop at the dining table and wrapped the electrical cord around her large calculator all accountants seemed to use. Her hair had been pinned up on the top of her head. The tank top she wore revealed bare shoulders and accentuated her elegant neck. He wanted to kiss the column of her throat.

  “Dad?” Brayden stood next to him. “Jeez, Dad, did Mom text you back yet?”

  “Nope.” He smiled at his son, slightly embarrassed at how hard he’d stared at Grace. He checked his phone for the twentieth time since leaving Cynthia’s house. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was wrong.

  Grace crossed her arms and grabbed her shoulders then rolled her head around.

  “Sorry about this.” Mikey said.

  “About what? It’s not your fault. I don’t mind. I’m just stiff from leaning over the computer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I told myself a while ago to step away from the computer.” Mikey massaged her shoulders. “Ahhh…that feels good. Thank yo
u.”

  “Gross.” Brayden crinkled his nose and returned to the living room couch with his phone up to his ear.

  “You wanna watch a movie?”

  “Yay! Can we?” Brayden set his phone down and looked over at Grace from the couch.

  “Of course,” Grace said. “What movies do you like?” she asked wandering over and sitting on the opposite end of the sofa.

  Grace seemed to like Brayden, but kept her distance. His son didn’t seem to notice. Yeah, right, the kid saw everything. “Bray, why don’t you pick what we’re going to watch?”

  Brayden’s face lit up. He leaned forward and took the remote off the coffee table. He busied himself reading the on-demand film selections.

  Mikey sat next to Grace and tucked her to his side. He put his arm around her. She snuggled closer. “Brayden likes you, you know,” he whispered into her ear.

  “And I like him,” she whispered back.

  Satisfied she didn’t hesitate, he slumped further down and put his feet up on the coffee table. She rested her head on his chest.

  Brayden finally decided to watch Iron Man for the eight hundredth time. An hour and forty-five minutes into the movie his son passed out. Mikey looked at his watch. He still hadn’t heard from Cynthia so he picked up Brayden’s phone. No messages either. He huffed out a breath.

  “You still haven’t heard from his mom?” Grace asked.

  “Nope. I love having Bray here, but this is strange even for her, not to at least call.”

  “Try calling again.”

  He sent another text.

  Call me when you get this!

  “I’m going to put him to bed.” Mikey carried Brayden to his bedroom. Grace surprised him when she followed.

  “He’s so cute when he’s asleep,” she said as he shut Brayden’s door.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Uh huh.” She clasped his hand and led him back to the living room. They settled back on the couch into the same position as before.