Tattooed

by Pamela Callow

  * * *

  Who the hell was this guy? Kenzie seemed too friendly—way too friendly—with him.

  McNally had been sitting outside the blond guy’s place for at least thirty minutes, and he had not yet drawn the blinds on his windows. He was arrogant. Or stupid. McNally could not decide which. Did he think no one could see them?

  The guy rose from his chair and took off his shirt. Kenzie stood behind him, inspecting a tattoo. But she was too close.

  The guy walked upstairs.

  A minute later she followed him.

  McNally knew that look on her face.

  He knew that sway in her walk.

  She had walked into the basement of Lovett’s grandmother’s house, fiddle case in hand, dressed in a short pleated skirt with a tight white T-shirt and over-the-knee stockings. She glanced around. “I hear you need a fiddle player.”

  Matt walked over and put his arm around her shoulder. “Thanks for coming, Kenzie. I think you’ll add a really cool vibe.”

  “I’m psyched,” she said, and flipped a mass of glorious red hair back over her shoulder. She crouched to unpack her instrument. Her skirt barely skimmed the tops of her thighs.

  She wore a red thong.

  When she stood, bow in one hand, fiddle in the other, she flashed McNally a look.

  The following weekend, she took him out to the bunker. It was late, about two in the morning. She turned to face him, mouth parted, eyes heavy-lidded.

  He had drawn her face with that look a thousand times since. But it had never been for a customer. It had always been for him.

  The light in the guy’s apartment went out.

  McNally smashed his fist on the dashboard.

  No wonder she didn’t want him following her.

  I’ll contact you, she had told him just hours before in the park.

  Bull. She would never call him. He knew that now. She was having an affair with another guy.

  God. Damn. Her.

  He could not wait a moment longer. If he didn’t act soon, he could lose her.

  He turned on his engine. It was time to put his plan into high gear.

  Nothing like being complicit in a sensational murder to keep a girl loyal.

  * * *

  Finn now slept. He faced her, his hand curved over the Foo Dog on Kenzie’s hip. She felt safe. Protected. As if his arm connected her Foo Dog to the one she’d inked on his shoulder, creating a pair of guardians.

  But could they really guard her?

  She studied Finn’s features in the darkness. The finger that had pulled a trigger seventeen years ago smoothed an errant wave of his hair. Tears tightened her throat.

  Mr. Right.

  He was one of the good guys.

  And, thus, not right for her.

  * * *

  McNally crept around to the backyard of Kate Lange’s house. This was his preliminary scouting mission. He was searching for the best point of entry.

  He stepped on a few branches to see if the dogs would bark.

  And waited.

  But they were silent. The house was completely dark.

  He paused in the shadow of a bush.

  Maybe she wasn’t home. Maybe she had taken the duffel bag and her dogs to her neighbor’s because she planned to spend the night.

  He studied the back of the house. By his estimation, Kate’s bedroom was the second window on the right. These old Victorian homes, with their fussy detail and trims, were perfect for footholds. The bonus was the roof-covered back porch. He could climb on the roof… .

  He climbed an old maple tree that grew by the porch and jumped to the narrow porch roof, landing on the balls of his feet. He crawled to the edge of the roof. The blinds to the window on the right were only half-drawn.

  The strap of her silky nightgown slipped down her arm. Her face was turned to the side, her hair fanned out on her pillow, revealing her long neck.

  She didn’t know he was there. He could watch her limbs move under the sheets, her breathing slow and deep while he imagined his fingers trailing over her.

  He crouched down and peered into the window.

  The large bed was neatly made. Kate was not in it. But he had been right—this was her room. Her clothes were folded on the chair. Two dog beds—empty—lay at the side of her bed.

  He thought of Kate leaving her house with her duffel bag. And the woman from the home-care agency who had left her neighbor’s house as soon as Kate had arrived. His gut told him that Kate was spending the night at her neighbor’s.

  He swallowed his disappointment. You’ve got Plan B, McNally.

  And, fortunately, he had come prepared. He slipped the center punch window breaker from his pocket and smashed the window.

  The security alarm blared through the air.

  Shards of glass fell on him as he swung himself over the windowsill into Kate Lange’s bedroom. He ran straight for the bureau and yanked open the drawer.

  His efforts were rewarded.

  He scooped up several pairs of panties, shoving them into the pocket of his hoodie, the alarm blaring in his ear.

  He calculated it would take the police at least five minutes to respond.

  And that was all he needed.

  He dropped a folded piece of paper on her bed, threw himself out the window, leaping from the porch overhang onto the deck. All that gym training had paid off.

  He sprinted over the fence and through the yard of the house behind hers.

  Fifteen minutes later, he sat on a bus and gazed out the window, taking the long way home.

  Kate Lange’s panties burned a hole in his pocket.

  30

  The shrill blaring of a siren from somewhere outside woke Kate from a deep sleep.

  She sat up in bed. Her heart began to pound.

  It was her house alarm.

  Alaska raised his head. Charlie opened her eyes.

  She threw back the covers just as her cell phone rang. She grabbed it. “Kate Lange speaking.”

  “It’s Secure For Life Alarm Systems,” a woman’s voice said. “Our system indicates a forced entry at your residence.”

  “I can hear the alarm. Have you called the police?”

  “I needed to ensure that this was an unauthorized entry. Do you want me to call 911?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Kate threw on her clothes. She hurried over to Muriel’s room, gesturing for the dogs to wait in the hallway. But the elderly lady had not woken up.

  She ran to the front door. Through the window she saw the flashing blue lights of two patrol cars.

  First the note on her car windshield. Now a break-in.

  This wasn’t random, she was sure of it.

  Once Ethan heard of the break-in, he would call her. So she would call him first.

  On the second ring, he answered. “Drake.” His voice was surprisingly alert, given it was after three in the morning.

  “It’s Kate.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone just broke in to my house.”

  “Where are you?” Panic sharpened his voice.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not at home. I’m at Muriel’s.”

  “Thank God. Have you called patrol?”

  “My alarm service just did.”

  “Kate, promise me you will stay put. Don’t go over there. Patrol can handle it.”

  She wanted to see what had happened to her house. But she said, “Okay. But are you coming?” There was a note of pleading in her voice that she didn’t try to disguise.

  “I’m on my way.”

  She felt bereft when she disconnected the phone. She hugged her arms.

  Did her intruder know she wasn’t home? Had he planned to attack her?

  A patrol officer approached the Richardsons’ house. “Ms. Lange? Detective Drake told me to find you here.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have a key so we can search inside your house?”

  She rummaged in her purse and found one. He left
and she stood by Muriel’s front door, watching the police search her property.

  The two dogs lay on the mat by her feet.

  He arrived six minutes later, his hair still mussed by sleep, his T-shirt on inside out.

  “They are searching the property right now,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “God, Kate.” He pulled her into his arms.

  She sagged against him. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Tell me what happened.” He smoothed her hair.

  She stepped back. “I don’t know. I was sleeping, but the alarm system woke me up.” She shivered. “Did patrol tell you anything?”

  His mouth tensed.

  Uh-oh.

  “Someone broke the window of your bedroom—”

  “But that’s on the second floor.”

  “He climbed onto the porch roof and used a window puncher. It’s kind of strange, Kate, unless…”

  “Unless he was looking for me.”

  “Or for something in your bedroom. Do you have anything of value in there?”

  She laughed, a mirthless sound. “No. The only things of value were sleeping with me over here.” She felt sick. What if the dogs had been there? And someone had attacked them?

  She swayed. Ethan put his arm around her. “Let’s sit down,” Ethan said. “I’ll make some tea.”

  He led her into the kitchen. She was numb with fatigue—and fear. She sank into a kitchen chair and watched him fill the kettle.

  “I have something to tell you.” Her voice was low. “Someone left a note on my car this morning.”

  He spun to face her. “What kind of note?”

  “It said ‘The Body Butcher left you for me.’” There was the slightest tremor to her voice.

  “Jesus Christ, Kate! Why didn’t you call me?”

  “At the time, it didn’t seem important.” She heard his exclamation of frustration. “I thought it was a prank. You know, someone who saw the news coverage and wanted to upset me. They had stuck a photo of me from the newspaper in the envelope.”

  Ethan stared at her. “And you didn’t report it?”

  “No.”

  God. She was an idiot. She saw it in his eyes. But she knew it, anyway. She could have been attacked. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.”

  “You are just lucky—”

  Someone knocked on the door. Kate hurried to answer it. A patrol officer nodded to Ethan and said, “Ms. Lange, we’ve looked through the entire property and adjacent lots. We found a footprint in your garden bed, but that was it. We’ve brought in a sniffer dog.”

  “What was stolen?”

  The patrol officer shook her head. “We were hoping you could tell us. None of the usual high-ticket items are missing.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right over.”

  She glanced up the stairs. What if Muriel woke up?

  Ethan saw her concerned look. He turned to patrol. “Do you have a spare constable? Someone who could wait here in case Ms. Richardson wakes up? She is easily disoriented.”

  A patrol officer was found, and five minutes later Kate hurried down the sidewalk to her house. The scene felt surreal: lights flashing, uniformed officers striding around her property with flashlights.

  A patrol officer accompanied her to the front door and Ethan pushed it open for her.

  “Let’s do this systematically,” he said.

  “After I see my bedroom first.” Kate marched up the stairs. She paused in the doorway to her bedroom. Ethan stood behind her.

  “Damn,” she said softly.

  Jagged glass glittered in the frame of the tall window that overlooked her backyard. The blind hung crookedly at the top, the louvers bent. The bureau sat in the corner as if it were drunk, with drawers half-opened and clothes spilling out. She stepped toward it.

  “Why don’t you look in the top drawer,” Ethan said. “That’s the one patrol said had been touched.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “Because the contents had been dumped on the ground.”

  He stood at the window, ostensibly inspecting the roof outside, while Kate opened the drawer. The contents were in disarray, her bras jumbled on one side, her panties crumpled on the other.

  Everyone, it appeared, had gone through the contents of her underwear drawer.

  She separated the items, doing a mental inventory. All her bras were there.

  Where were the black-lace panties?

  And the pink ones?

  “Everything okay?” Ethan asked.

  “No. Some of my underwear is missing.” She shook her head. “What a pervert.”

  She stared at the drawer, tears choking her throat.

  She felt so…violated.

  She closed the drawer and rummaged through the rest of her bureau, hoping the missing underwear had been accidentally placed in a different drawer by the police when they searched her room.

  No. The underwear was gone.

  She couldn’t believe it.

  She spun away from the bureau and opened her closet.

  Nothing had been disturbed. It looked just the same as it had looked yesterday.

  “Kate.” Ethan’s voice was gentle in her ear, but she started nevertheless. “Patrol found something else. On your bed.”

  Her skin crawled. “What do you mean?” She rushed over to her bed. “I don’t see anything.”

  Ethan handed her a bag. It held a piece of paper. “They found this on the bed.”

  Kate held it up to the light.

  It was a sketch.

  “My God.” The sketch was of her. As a pinup girl. Naked, seductive Kate. The object of someone’s fantasy.

  She thought she might throw up.

  “Who would do something this sick?” she whispered.

  She pressed it against her chest, ashamed by the wanton nakedness in the picture. “Don’t show it to anyone.”