Tattoo Killer (A Tattoo Crimes Novel Book 1)

by A. J. Norris

  “But that’s what I do. I worry.”

  “Well, stop it.”

  “How?”

  “Get a life.” Natalie said and winced.

  “Ouch.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Mikey

  Mikey held onto his grieving son. Marie looked around the room and avoided eye contact with everyone. Brayden wasn’t close with his grandmother and therefore the woman shouldn’t’ve been shocked by her grandson’s diss. The slight hadn’t been intentional on Brayden’s part. There were some things only a father could help with.

  “I…love you,” Brayden said between sobs.

  Mikey pulled his son onto his lap. Brayden laid his head on his shoulder. At a time like this, even at ten years old, sitting in his father’s protective hold was what he needed most in the world.

  Mr. Rose went to the front again. He told the guests the location of the cemetery and everyone filed out of the funeral home.

  Six of the men in attendance and Brayden loaded Cynthia into the back of the hearse. Mikey stood back and watched. Should he have been a pallbearer? Probably, but no one had asked him and he didn’t want to volunteer. Brayden returned to his side.

  “We’re supposed to get in our cars now, I think,” Brayden said.

  Mikey nodded, his voice box locked up.

  Once the cars were all lined up in procession, an employee secured orange and black flags on the cars.

  “How far is it to the cemetery?” Marie asked after shutting her door.

  “Not far,” Mikey managed to eke out. His jaw tightened. This was the longest day in the history of the world. He took a couple of deep breaths and glanced at his son. The hearse rolled forward and they followed closely behind.

  “Well, that was a very short, wasn’t it?” his ex-mother-in-law asked.

  “I guess.” Mikey shrugged.

  “I can’t believe no one said anything nice about her. And you…how embarrassing.” Marie shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t say no one. Brayden said some—”

  “You were married to my daughter. You could have said something.” Oh for fuck’s sakes.

  Mikey’s hands flew off the wheel for a second and returned to their white-knuckled grip. “Marie, if you had such a problem with it, why didn’t you say something? Tuesday you were so hell bent on Cyn being remembered as a selfless mother.”

  “She was selfless.” She set her chin.

  “Yeah? How would you know? You didn’t even know your daughter.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means what you think. You come to town once a year, if that. You don’t have the first clue who your daughter was, let alone your grandson. And half the time you don’t even remember his name.”

  Her pupils flared. “That’s not true.”

  “It is true.”

  Marie clamped her mouth shut and remained silent for the rest of the drive.

  Peaceful Pines Cemetery had a long, winding driveway before the main gate. Tall white pines lined both sides of the road. The pebbles dinged off the underside of the SUV as the procession moved past the gate. The hearse led them alongside a temporary awning set up near the side of the paved pathway. Mikey waited until the casket had been removed from the hearse. Brayden scrambled out of the car to take a position between two of the pallbearers.

  The men strained as they set the casket down on the lowering device trimmed with a green velvet skirt over the grave. Mikey went to his son and stood behind him, placing his hands on Brayden’s shoulders. His little body trembled. Mikey bent down and kissed the top of his head.

  “Do you want to sit down?” Mikey asked.

  “No. Can we stay here? I wanna be close to her.”

  “Of course.” Mikey looked heavenward.

  Marie sat directly across from them in the provided wooden chairs, her eyes burning with contempt. Although she kept staring at him, every time he glanced her way, she averted her eyes. Her opinion of him wouldn’t matter after today. Mikey and Brayden were never going to see her again.

  The minister made a short, generic speech, after which someone handed each of the guests a white rose. The coffin lowered into the ground. People walked by and tossed their flower into the pit. Marie remained seated until everyone but Mikey and Brayden had left. For some strange reason, Hunter still lingered.

  The rose Brayden tossed in landed on top of the shiny box then slid down the side. “Goodbye, Mom,” he whispered. He looked up at his father. “I’d like to go now.”

  “Okay. But we can stay as long as you like.”

  “I don’t want to be here any longer. It’s not like she’s coming back.” Brayden grabbed Mikey’s hand and practically dragged him to their car. Marie had disappeared, thank God. So had Harry Hunter.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-SIX

  Mikey

  Mikey allowed Brayden to ride in the front seat on the way home from the cemetery. His eyelids drooped before they turned out of the driveway and he fell asleep. As soon as he nodded off, Mikey wrangled out of his tie. He sighed in relief after turning onto the main road away from the graveyard, with not an ounce of remorse about what he’d said to Marie. He never liked the wretched woman and felt her coldness contributed to Cynthia’s lack of compassion for other people. That shit had to have come from somewhere.

  Inside the car all Mikey could hear were the road noises and Brayden’s even breathing. This day had been one of the toughest since giving up drinking.

  Ten minutes later he stared at the glass fronted beer case at the gas station. Brayden was awake and standing next to him.

  He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “What are we doing here, Dad?”

  “Nothing.” The twelve pack of Budweiser made Mikey’s mouth water. Alcohol sounded so good. He could almost taste the exquisite elixir. Oh, what was he saying? He didn’t want this. Did he?

  Mikey palmed his cell and punched in the number of someone he hadn’t talked to in over a year. He brought the phone up to his ear. The person answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Sam. This…is M-Mikey—” His throat was dry like he’d chewed on a sheep’s fleece.

  “I know who this is. I have caller ID. Been a long time, man,” Sam said.

  A long pause passed between them, involving a lot of sighs and “um’s,” on Mikey’s part.

  “What’s going on? Although, I can probably guess. I read the paper, so you can spare the details if you’d like.” Sam had been sober twenty-three years last October. “There’s a meeting tonight. Same place and time as always.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Mikey sighed. “I’m looking at a case full of,” he paused, “beer.”

  “Figures. Is your son with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Look at him.”

  “I am.” He continued staring straight ahead, beyond his reflection in the glass. The red and white boxes stared back.

  “Bullshit. Look at him, now. What do you see?”

  Tears shone in his eyes when he finally gave in and looked at his son.

  Brayden looked concerned. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  Mikey huffed. “I’m having a hard time. That’s what’s wrong.”

  Brayden nodded. “I kind of know that.”

  “Good, keep talking to your son,” Sam said in his ear. A tear rolled down Mikey’s cheek.

  Brayden squeezed his father’s hand. “We’ll be all right. I won’t be much trouble, Dad. I promise.”

  “I know. You’re the best, kid.”

  “Mikey,” Sam said, “listen, I want you to turn around and walk out of the store with your boy. Call me when you get home. I’m trusting you to do the right thing here.”

  Mikey ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. “Let’s get out of here, before I do something stupid.”

  God, what a burden to lay on a kid. He wished he could take back all the shitty years he’d spent drinking. Brayden needed a father, not some low-li
fe drunk. No wonder he’d been unable to gain full custody of his son when he and Cynthia divorced. Nor was it a surprise she’d left him to begin with.

  His mind numbed out during the drive home. He called Andrea and asked her to come over later, then called Sam back.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Harry

  Harry sighed for the eightieth time. Marie Dove liked to talk. Although she didn’t have anything interesting or even mildly amusing to say, the woman loved the sound of her own voice. For someone who had lost their daughter in a horrific way, she didn’t come across like a grieving mother. Even though he knew her opinion would be biased, he capitalized on her inability to shut her mouth and interviewed her about Mikey. Off the record, of course.

  “Marie, can I ask you something?” Harry had borrowed Natalie’s car so if Cody had shown up at the funeral, he wouldn’t suspect anything. He flipped on the turn signal and decided to take the scenic route back to her hotel from the cemetery.

  “Of course you can.” She pulled down the visor and primped her hair in the mirror.

  “How long were your daughter and your grandson’s father married?”

  “Well, let’s see…I think…um…oh, I know…Cynthia left him when Brandon was four. Or was it five?”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. This lady didn’t even know her own grandson’s name.

  “Why do you ask? Have you known him long?” Marie pursed her lips in the mirror and turned her head side-to-side, then put the visor back up.

  “I’m curious. And I’ve known Mikey a while.”

  “So you’re good friends then?”

  “Not really, but I wanted to pay my respects.” The truck in front of them swerved without warning, revealing a cardboard box lying in the middle of the road. To avoid it, Harry also swerved quickly. The car jerked. Without thinking he put a protective arm out like he would do if Grace were in the car. His hand brushed against Marie’s too large and high not to be fake, breasts and he braced for a slap. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to touch your—”

  “That’s all right. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Uh…” His expression turned from embarrassment to dumbfounded.

  Marie giggled. “It’s been a long time since someone touched me.”

  “I, uh, huh?” Harry’s eyes shot toward her. The driver of an oncoming car laid on their horn and he veered back into his lane. Under no circumstances had he intentionally touched her breasts.

  “I’ve never had a police officer make a pass at me.”

  Is she delusional?

  “I didn’t. I—”

  “Of course you did.” Marie turned in her seat and faced him. She slipped her hand along his thigh toward his crotch. Higher. Higher. Harry sucked in a breath.

  Jesus. Christ.

  He squeezed his legs together. Marie giggled.

  Screw the long way back to the hotel. He jerked the wheel into an illegal U-turn. The centrifugal force sent Marie sliding into the door. “Heeey!” she scolded. He sped through a light that had been yellow too long. A siren kicked on and red and blue strobes flashed behind him.

  “Pull over!” the cops who tailed them broadcasted. He turned onto a side street and rolled to a stop.

  A uniformed officer he recognized came up to the window. “License and registration, please—oh, Hunter. I didn’t know it was you.” The cop smiled sheepishly.

  “It’s all right. This is a friend’s car.”

  “Driving a little fast. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  Harry got an idea. “Marie, can you step out of the car for a moment?”

  Although confusion marred her face, she complied.

  “Rudy, could you do me a favor? This woman needs to be dropped off at the Embassy Suites on Grand Avenue.”

  “O-okay, but I—”

  “Great. Marie, this officer can drive you the rest of the way.”

  She had the gall to look wounded. “I thought you were taking me—”

  “Not anymore. Have a safe flight home.” Harry raced round the block and back onto the same road, headed in the other direction. He’d call Rudy later and explain. And apologize. As soon as he walked in the garage door which led into his kitchen, he plopped down in a chair. His elbow knocked the edge of the table while he shrugged out of his blazer. He buried his face in his hands and dissolved into a fit of laughter. What in the world had just happened? That woman had to be the craziest person he’d ever met. What a nut job.

  His phone vibrated against the leg of the chair. Natalie’s name lit up on the screen. “Hello?” His voice hinted at the humor he still found from the Marie incident.

  “I made spaghetti sauce.”

  “Bring it and yourself over here.” He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

  “O…kay. Are you feeling all right? You sound funny,” Natalie said. Harry could hear what sounded like a pot being covered with a lid. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Natalie knocked on the front door a couple of minutes later and he let her inside.

  “The pot is very hot.” She shook her hands out after setting the saucepan on the stove.

  “Did you burn yourself?”

  “Not really, the pan’s hot and heavy.”

  He chuckled.

  “What?” she blushed. “The sauce is hot.” Natalie turned the knob on his stove. It clicked a couple of times and the blue flame ignited. She lowered the temperature. “Hope you have some pasta.”

  “I’m a bachelor. I always have noodles.” He searched his cabinet for a package of angel hair pasta and handed her the box. They settled at the table after she put a pot of water on another burner.

  “How was the funeral?” she asked.

  He sighed. “Terrible.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured. It was a funeral.”

  “No, it’s not that. There was a low turnout and when I say low turnout, I mean, low turnout.”

  “You see Mikey and his son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s a nice guy. Mikey, that is.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Yeah, a couple of times.”

  “And?”

  “Harry,” she grasped his hand, “do you think he did it?”

  “No. And I’m really pissed off about it. I want to hate this guy.”

  The toilet around the corner from the kitchen flushed. Harry’s heart thundered inside his chest. His hand gripped the hilt of his gun. The snap on the holster sounded louder than usual.

  “Harry, take your hand off your gun, it’s only me.” Cedric turned the corner into the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong with your own crapper?”

  “I prefer yours.”

  Natalie ignored the banter and patted Harry on the hand. “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. The stubborn old goat is a pain in everyone’s ass,” Cedric said and stabbed his cane into to linoleum. He put a file folder down in front of Harry. “I interviewed Chelsea Rand’s family.”

  “You did what?”

  Cedric pulled out a chair. “Shut up and listen. I asked if she had a new man about the time of her death. They told me she didn’t have a man because she was one of those lesbians. Something else they told me was that she befriended this man a week before her death. Someone her dad thought may have had mental problems.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe this guy was the killer. They described him. Brown hair, said he reminded him of that sicko who ate all them little boys a few years back. Got shanked in prison.”

  “Anyway?” Harry prodded.

  “I remember you saying Grace said the same thing about the guy who attacked her. And maybe—”

  Harry opened his eyes wider and he cut in, “It’s the same person.”

  “Yeah.”

  This wasn’t news to Harry. Cody Pollard was definitely a suspect after attacking his daughter. The detective in him wondered why the previous investigators wouldn’t have asked Chelsea Rand’s parents i
f their daughter were seeing someone or been hanging around anyone new. Maybe they had and this was the reason they never followed up with more probing questions.

  “Did these parents give you a name?”

  “They couldn’t remember, but her mother thought his first name started with an ‘L.’”

  Harry snorted. “Not really all that helpful, is it?”

  “S’pose not,” Cedric conceded. “But we know it wasn’t Hardin. From the way you described him, at least.”

  “All right, boys, this isn’t good dinner conversation.”

  He’d forgotten Natalie had gotten up and finished making the noodles. Harry set the table while she laid out a platter of spaghetti.

  “Thanks for inviting me to supper,” Cedric said.

  “We didn’t,” Harry said.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Mikey

  The library was the biggest room and the only one with carpeting inside the community center converted from an old elementary school. The room still smelled of a ditto machine and paste. Bookshelves lined the walls but now held a collection of donated novels and self-help guides. Fridays from seven to ten, Alcoholics Anonymous met in this room. Outside the door, a sign meant as a joke read, ‘Top Secret Meeting.’

  Mikey walked past a card table with cups of juice and stale cookies near the entrance. He grabbed some grape juice and stared at a corkboard screwed to the wall above the table. Papers were haphazardly pinned to it vying for space—yellowed posters on what to do in case of choking and a fire route plan were curled around the edges.

  “Excuse me,” someone he’d never met said.

  Mikey edged away from the table. A circle of chairs sat in the middle of the room and he sat down on the edge of one with his back toward the door. In his mind, he figured if he didn’t sit squarely on the seat, he wasn’t actually there. His eyes darted from person to person as everyone found a seat.

  His sponsor Sam, the group moderator, nodded from a chair opposite him. Mikey recognized a few of the members. As they each greeted him in their own ways, he started to feel more comfortable. He eased to the back of the chair and crossed his arms over his chest, his legs kicked out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. The tattoos on his biceps popped. He’d ditched his funeral attire in favor of a black muscle shirt and cargo pants. On his way out the door, he’d shoved his feet into a pair of combats boots and left them untied. Some of the members he didn’t already know stared at his clothing. He glowered at them.