“They’re perfect!” she said.
After pulling on my gloves, I applied the stencil, assessed the outline of the first derringer, arranged the ink caps, dipped the needle, and pressed the foot pedal. A tattoo machine is like a sewing machine; it’s all in the foot action.
I ran the needle along the lines of the stencil, feeling Charlotte flinch only as the needle first touched her skin.
Getting a tattoo feels like a hundred bee stings all at once. It hurts for the first few minutes, and then the endorphins kick in and the excitement pushes away the pain.
It was a quick job, just an hour and a half for both tats.
“Fantastic,” Charlotte said as she surveyed her arms in the mirror.
I wrapped her up in Saran Wrap; she knew the drill. Just before she left, though, she asked to see me privately.
Bitsy, who was in the midst of cleaning up for the night, raised her eyebrows at me, but I shrugged back. I had no idea what Charlotte wanted.
Once back in my room, Charlotte hesitated.
“What is it?” I asked.
She was a pretty girl, with sleek black hair and green eyes that sparkled. “I was wondering, well, if you ever, well, you know…”
“Spit it out,” I said.
She smiled shyly. “I was wondering if you would be willing to take me on here, like an intern or something.”
“What about being an accountant?”
She sighed. “I don’t think it’s in my cards. I bought my own machine, and I’ve been tattooing my friends.”
I caught my breath. “Not a good idea, Charlotte.”
“I know, but I just want to do this.”
I had to stop her, and the only way was to agree to have her come in and talk it over with the rest of the staff. We hadn’t had a trainee since I took over, but we’d all been starting out ourselves at one point. If Mickey hadn’t taken a chance on me, I don’t know where I’d be today.
Since I didn’t want her to overlap with the TV crew, Bitsy scheduled her for the next week.
“What do you think?” I asked Bitsy as we watched Charlotte skip out of the shop.
Bitsy shrugged. “It’s not like we don’t have work we can give her. And she’s a nice kid.”
I was preoccupied, however, with the Murder Ink address on Elise’s drawing. I didn’t tell anyone about it. If I did, it could end up all over national TV, and I wanted to talk to Jeff Coleman about it first. It was conceivable that Elise had never shown up there, that she’d come to our shop first, but I figured some well-placed questions to Jeff would get me the answers I needed.
Since he was open until four, I’d head over there now.
Joel and Bitsy told me to go ahead home, they’d finish closing up. They’d decided I was a “gloomy Gus” and felt I was raining on their 20/20 parade.
It was more like a monsoon.
Sure, I should probably feel guilty about that, but they were out of control, talking about outfits and Joel wishing he’d started Weight Watchers last week because he’d surely lose at least ten pounds right away, and you know how the camera puts weight on people.
Joel had completely forgotten about the creepy tattooed guy by now, but I didn’t see anyone suspicious as I left the mall and went to the parking garage. I started the Bullitt up and headed out into the night.
The lights of the Strip sliced across my windshield, and I thought about putting the roof down, but decided against it. It was still pretty hot, and the air-conditioning felt good as it blasted against my face.
I was halfway up the Strip when my cell phone rang inside my bag. I dug it out and flipped it open, noting Tim’s number on the screen.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Brett? You on your way home?”
I didn’t want to tell him about Murder Ink unless I knew Elise had been there or had some contact with them, so I sidestepped the question by asking one of my own: “Why?”
“You said that the picture of Elise Lyon on TV was definitely the woman who came into your shop?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
Something was up. “Why are you asking?”
“If I send you a picture on your phone, can you confirm or deny whether it was the woman who was in your shop the other night?”
“This is about that body in the car at the airport, isn’t it?”
“I can’t comment at the moment.”
By his not commenting, I knew it was.
“What about Chip Manning? Why can’t he identify her? What about her parents?” Yeah, what about them? Weren’t the parents the ones who were always plastered all over the TV screens begging for information about their lost girl?
“Her father is on his way to Vegas now, but her mother’s staying behind just in case she goes home.”
For the wedding. If she still wanted to get married, she’d be there now. “So why me? I only talked to her for, like, ten minutes.”
He sighed. “I’d rather not get her mother all upset-”
“Just in case it’s not her, right?” I finished for him.
“Just do it, Brett, okay?”
“Okay, okay, keep your pants on.”
“I’m sending it now.”
I pulled over so I wouldn’t get stopped by the cops for paying more attention to my phone than to the road.
I waited a couple of seconds, and a picture popped up on the screen. It wasn’t a great picture, but I knew one thing: Elise Lyon’s mother wouldn’t be upset.
Because it wasn’t the woman who’d come into The Painted Lady.
Chapter 11
“It’s not Kelly Masters,” I said.
“But it is,” Tim said.
“What?”
“Her name is Kelly Masters. She’s got ID on her; the rental car agreement is in her name. She’s from L.A.”
“What happened to her?”
“I really can’t say.”
I was ready to smack him. He couldn’t tease me like this. “But you’ve already told me plenty. And I might find out on the news anyway.”
“You might.”
Something in his voice told me I might not. “You’re not releasing anything about this, are you?”
“We need to find out the connection between Kelly Masters and Elise Lyon-”
“Because there is a connection, isn’t there?” I interrupted. “Why else would Elise use Kelly’s name?”
He was quiet a second, then, “You can’t tell anyone about this. Promise?”
“A 20/20 camera crew is coming to the shop tomorrow to interview us about Elise Lyon,” I said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Wish I were.”
“So there’s even more of a reason to keep the lid on this, okay?”
“No problem.” Not like I was ready to spill the beans to the media. And it was a good thing Bitsy didn’t know about this. Or Joel. Ace wouldn’t care, because Ace rarely paid attention to anything that didn’t directly involve him.
I toyed with the idea of telling Tim where I was heading. Just as I decided to, he said, “Listen, I’ve got to run. I probably won’t be home tonight.” And he ended the call.
I stared at my phone, the picture of Kelly Masters staring back at me. Kelly was a pretty girl, too, but now that I paid attention to more than her face, I saw there was another big difference between Kelly and Elise.
Kelly had a tattoo on the side of her neck. I couldn’t make out what it was, but it was definitely ink.
I punched Tim’s number into my phone.
“What?” he asked, annoyed.
“Quick question about this picture.”
“Shoot.”
“Kelly Masters has a tat on her neck, right?”
He was quiet a second. Then, “You can see that?”
“It’s my business, Tim.” My turn to be annoyed. “What’s it of?”
“What?”
“I can’t make out what it is.”
“You never know. It might actually tell you a lot.”
“Come on, Brett.”
“Just humor me, okay?”
Tim sighed. “Will it get you off the phone?”
“Yes,” I promised.
“It’s an eagle. It’s actually on the back of her neck, and what you see are the wings that come out on either side.”
A shiver ran through me.
“Why does this matter?” Tim asked.
“It doesn’t,” I said, although it seemed like it most definitely did. But I wasn’t one hundred percent sure about it, and until I was, I didn’t want to say it out loud. “Thanks.” And this time, I ended the call.
I sat for a second, staring out at nothing.
The tattooed guy, the one I’d seen in the mall. He had the same ink on his neck as Kelly Masters.
I had to park in the lot at the Bright Lights Motel, across the street from Murder Ink. The motel didn’t live up to its name-the shabby building was mostly dark except for a faint glow behind a couple of windows covered by what could only be flimsy curtains-but the tattoo shop’s lights were spilling out onto the sidewalk, its bloodred neon sign flashing. It wasn’t the greatest neighborhood, and even though I knew Jeff Coleman, it was cold comfort, considering we couldn’t stand each other.
A couple of people were walking around inside, but I couldn’t see their features from where I was because the shop name was painted in large script on the window. With the neon, it was a bit redundant.
I got out of the car and locked it, shoring up some confidence as I jaywalked over to the shop and pushed open the door.
Jeff Coleman was working on a kid who looked like he couldn’t possibly be eighteen. He barely had any facial or chest hair. From the looks of it, he was getting the entire cast of the original Star Trek on his abdomen.
To each his own.
“Hey, if it isn’t the famous Brett Kavanaugh,” Jeff said. “Slumming, are we?”
The Star Trek kid looked over at me. “Painted Lady, right?”
I recognized him now. We’d kicked him out last month when he showed up drunk and definitely underage with a bunch of his friends.
I ignored him, concentrating on Jeff. “I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”
Jeff’s machine stopped whirring.
“You want to ask me some questions?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
Jeff studied the Star Trek tat for a second. “Let’s take a break,” he told the kid as he peeled off his latex gloves and swung his leg over the swivel chair he was sitting on.
Jeff Coleman was a slight guy, shorter than me by a couple inches, and skinny. His arms were covered with ink, and I could see it just around the collar of his T-shirt, hinting at the tats on his torso. He was older than me, maybe around forty, and the lines in his face indicated he’d lived hard. The buzz cut on his head was salt-and-pepper, and his beard was scruffy, as if he hadn’t shaved in a day or so.
He grabbed a pack of smokes and indicated I should follow him outside.
“What’s up, Kavanaugh?” he asked as he lit a match, touching it to the cigarette that was now balancing precariously between his lips.
“Have you seen the news? The girl who’s missing from Philadelphia?”
He blew a perfect smoke ring, his eyes never leaving my face as he leaned his shoulder against the side of the building.
“Saw it. Also saw you. She was in your shop?”
I nodded.
“Figures. Girl like that wants a custom design.” He took a long drag off his cigarette. “What does she have to do with me?”
“The address of your shop was on the back of the drawing she gave me.”
The smoke curled out of his nose and from between his lips. “Really?” His demeanor didn’t tell me whether it was a surprise or not.
“She didn’t come in here, did she?”
“And take one look at my flash and decide to go upscale instead?” Jeff chuckled.
“Come on, Jeff, I’m serious. Can you let the competition go for a few minutes?”
He studied my face for a second, nodded, and took another drag off his butt. “Okay. No, she didn’t come in here. Although I wish she had. You’re getting some great free advertising.”
If I couldn’t explain how I felt about that to my own staff, how could I possibly explain it to Jeff Coleman? I let it alone, let him think what he wanted. Elise Lyon may have written down the addresses of more than one shop-it had been only half a piece of paper, after all-and stopped checking out any others once she came into The Painted Lady.
Jeff tossed his butt on the sidewalk and ground it with the heel of his boot. “Is that all, Kavanaugh? Or do you want some ink as a souvenir of your walk on the dark side?” A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but on him it looked more like he’d just bitten into a lemon.
I was about to say “thanks for nothing,” but then I had another thought. I pulled my cell phone out of my bag, hitting a couple of buttons, and watched the picture of Kelly Masters pop up. I held it up so he could see.
“What about her? Did she ever come into your shop?”
Jeff’s face turned white and he froze.
“What happened to her?” he asked, his voice tight, as if he were afraid to take a breath.
I didn’t want to say. But maybe I’d get a straight answer if I did.
“She’s dead.”
He swallowed. “How?”
“Not sure. How do you know her?”
He didn’t answer.
“Jeff, she’s dead.”
“Murdered?”
Tim hadn’t said as much, but I was willing to bet something had gone down. “Yeah, possibly.”
Jeff pulled another cigarette out of his breast pocket and lit it, his hands visibly shaking. I watched him take a long drag and then let it out slowly. As the smoke hung in the air between us, he said softly, “She’s my ex-wife.”
Chapter 12
Jeff swore he didn’t even know she was in town. They’d been divorced for three years.
“She was living out in L.A. Went upscale after we split, got mixed up with celebrity life,” he said. “Heard she might be getting married again.”
“When did you hear that?”
Jeff was on his third cigarette. “Not long ago.”
“Who’d you hear from?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got my ear to the ground.”
I wasn’t going to get anywhere with that. “She looks young,” I said.
Jeff gave me a wan smile. “Younger than me, right, Kavanaugh? Sure, she was twenty-two when we hooked up. We were married five years. You do the math.”
The look on my face elicited a smirk.
“You’re wondering what she was doing with me.”
I was, but I tried to be nonchalant. “None of my business.”
“I pulled her out of a hole. She was a mess when we met-drugs, hooking. I helped her; she straightened out.” He paused, took another drag on his butt. “And then she left.”
Interesting.
“Did you do the tat on her neck?”
The question threw him. He was still trying to digest the fact that Kelly was dead. “The eagle, you mean?”
“Yeah,” I said, like I’d seen more of it than just the corner in the picture on my cell phone.
He nodded.
“Did you do another one like it?”
“What?”
“Have you done others like it?”
Jeff frowned, not knowing where I was going with this. “I don’t see how it matters, does it?”
I couldn’t get the image of that big guy out of my head. “Might, might not,” I said, hopefully with enough mystery in my voice so he’d think it really was relevant.
“Sure, I’ve done the eagle at least a dozen times. Probably more.”
“How about a big guy, at least six-four, looks like a biker, shaved head? He’s go
t a face full of tats.”
It was the second time I’d rocked Jeff’s world. He caught his breath, the smoke moving slowly out through his nose as he pulled the cigarette from his lips.
“What does Kelly’s brother have to do with this?”
Her brother? Why would Kelly’s brother be following me at the mall and watching my shop?
“Did he have something to do with Kelly’s death?” Jeff asked.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t know.”
Jeff suddenly caught wind that I might be asking questions I shouldn’t.
“Cops don’t know about me, do they?” he asked.
“I just found your address on the paper a couple hours ago. I haven’t told anyone.” I paused. “You don’t have any reason not to want the cops to come around, do you? Because they’ll probably find out you’re Kelly’s ex-husband. That’s their job.”
“You really didn’t know?” Jeff took another drag off the cigarette.
“No. I was just looking for a connection with Elise Lyon.”
As I said it, I realized I’d found another connection between the two women. The first was that Elise was using Kelly’s name; the second was Jeff Coleman’s shop, if not Jeff himself.
“So you never saw Elise Lyon here?”
Jeff took a deep breath. “No.”
“Did Kelly ever mention a friend named Elise?”
“You think Kelly knew her?”
I shrugged.
The Star Trek kid poked his head out the door.
“Jeff?” The booze was starting to wear off; I recognized the weariness in his voice.
“Be right there, Scottie.” The door shut again.
Jeff tossed the butt into the street, and we watched the glow from its tip for a second before he said, “Listen, Kavanaugh, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to your cop brother about me. They’ll figure it out eventually, but I’d rather it was later rather than sooner.”
“Why?” I blurted it out before I could stop myself.
Jeff chuckled. “Kelly and I didn’t have the most friendly of divorces. But I really didn’t know she was in town, and I didn’t have anything to do with her murder. The cops will think I did. Ex-husband, always the first suspect.”
He had a point, but how did I know he didn’t kill her?
The Missing Ink Page 5
