Blood, Ash, and Bone (18 page)

“Hey, Tai. You change your mind about that job?”

“Not yet.” I took Trey’s elbow. “This is my boyfriend, Trey. Trey, Winston Cargill, my former boss.”

Winston gave him the salesman grin and extended a hand. Trey didn’t take it. He didn’t do anything. He just stood there, a look of dazed bafflement on his face.

“Trey? What’s wrong?”

He held up one finger.

“Trey?”

He sneezed, then sneezed again, violently. “I can’t—” Another sneeze, this one sending him up against the wall. A blowsy woman in a sundress moved out of the way, clucking to herself. Trey buried his face in his elbow and sneezed three more times.

“Parrot,” he said into his elbow, and pointed.

Jezebel cocked her head at him. Trey sneezed again. “I’m allergic. I can’t…” And then he shoved open the door and threw himself back onto the sidewalk. I watched the door shut behind him, jingling cheerfully.

The parrot trilled like a ringing telephone, then screamed. Out on the cobblestones, Trey sneezed again. The bird reached up a clawed toe and preened.

Winston shook his head. “Damn. Is he okay?”

I sighed. So much for tapping Trey’s cranial lie detector. Out on the sidewalk, I heard two concerned voices offering aid. Female, of course.

“He’s fine.” I propped my elbows on the counter and regarded Winston pleasantly. “We can talk without him.”

“Talk about what?”

“Did you hear about Bob Simmons?”

“The guy who drowned? Yeah. Did you know him?”

“No. Uncle Dexter did apparently. The newspaper had a good article, but it didn’t say anything about the map.”

Winston tried to look innocent. “What map?”

“The one I found last night. On Wassaw Island. Somebody set that man up with a fake treasure map, and he died trying to find the gold it supposedly pointed to. But it was a hoax. Another lost cause.”

Winston looked sick. “You found the real map?”

“Trey and I did. Long story. Here’s the kicker. The authorities are anxious to figure out where it came from.”

“What can they tell from a map?”

“Oh, lots of things. It’s a CSI Wonderland out there now.” I leaned forward until we were face to face. “Fingerprints, specks of dust, even DNA from skin cells. It’s amazing.”

Winston looked like a catfish out of water, his mouth opening and closing, his eyes wide. That was all a bunch of lies, but the less he knew, the better.

I lowered my voice. “I’m guessing it was a game to start with, a joke. But somebody’s dead now. And the cops aren’t laughing. Neither is the GBI. The Feds either. Multijurisdictional nonamusement.”

Winston collected himself. He shook his head slowly, with manufactured regret. “That’s a damn shame, that is.”

“I know. But here’s the thing. I’m sure Hope’s behind it, and I’m sure she’s not working alone. You have any ideas about that?”

“No, n-nothing.”

His eyes were clear and guileless, but the stammer gave him away.

“Listen to me, Winston. I—”

Three loud knocks at the back door interrupted me. Winston’s face went slack with relief, like he’d been tossed a life preserver.

“Hang on a second,” he said. “That’s UPS.”

And then he slipped out the door in back, like a rabbit making for the underbrush. I shook my head. Six months since I’d left town, and already he’d forgotten who he was dealing with.

I started with the shelf under the counter, whipping the cloth cover aside. The box was gone. I hadn’t really expected it to be there, of course, but sometimes amateurs get lucky. I gave the rest of the shelves a cursory examination to no avail. Whatever he’d been hiding under there, he’d hidden it better somewhere else.

I moved on to his desk calendar, getting a pencil and poking through it, flipping pages. The bird looked at me without judgment.

“I’ll bet you’ve heard all kinds of stuff, haven’t you?” I said.

Another trill.

“Polly know a secret?”

Another croak.

I returned my attention to the desk calendar. I recognized most of the entries as the typical tour shop agenda. But there was an interesting bit on Friday night, a seven o’clock meeting marked with an asterisk. Unlike every other entry in the meticulous calendar, this one had no meeting place, no person to be meeting. It reeked of mysterious assignation.

I heard the back door and slammed the book shut, hurrying to the other side of the counter. Winston came thumping in with frustration written bold on his face, which was as shiny and red as the splotches on his shirt.

“Look,” he said. “Hope Lyle is bad news. But are you really suggesting she killed that old guy?

I shrugged. “Who knows? But seriously, Winston, don’t get in over your head. You’ve got my card—call me if she shows up. I don’t want to be reading about your untimely demise in tomorrow’s headlines.”

***

I found Trey waiting in the Lincoln, sitting in the driver’s seat, head tilted back. I climbed in and slammed the door behind me.

“Parrots? Really?”

He nodded, not raising his head. His eyes still watered, but otherwise the allergic reaction had died down.

I fastened my seat belt, annoyed despite myself. “First reptiles, now birds. Any other conflicts with the animal kingdom I should know about?”

He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and held it in my direction. I caught a glimpse of numbers and letters.

“What’s that?”

“License plate number. From the car that pulled up to the back entrance of Winston’s shop.”

“UPS?”

“Not UPS. Silver Mercedes convertible.” Despite the watering eyes, Trey was back to his usual sharpness. “It was driven by this man. Five-six, light brown hair, slender build.”

He pulled out his phone and held it my way. He’d captured an image of Winston’s unexpected visitor, and Trey was right—not a delivery person. The two men looked to be arguing. Winston’s expression was tight with anger, the young man’s pale with anxiety. I looked closer, enlarged the image with a swipe. It was fuzzy, but I recognized the figure anyway.

“Aw, hell. That’s Skip!”

“Who?”

“He used to work at the tattoo shop where I met John. Talented artist, Skip. He quit, though, before I moved. I have no idea where he is now, but I bet Train might.”

“Train?”

“Yeah, he owns the tattoo shop. And I bet he can put me on Skip’s trail. After all, Winston’s got the knowhow and Hope’s got the goods—the missing link in this equation is someone with the artistic talent to create a forgery, and Skip’s got that in spades.” I handed Trey’s phone back to him. “Wanna come see where I got my first tattoo?”

Trey checked his watch. “I can’t. It’s almost noon.”

“Oh yeah. The Dragon Lady Summoneth.”

“Indeed.”

“No problem. You take the car. I’ll catch the water taxi back to the hotel.”

“Are you sure?”

“Train’s shop is at the other end of River Street, a five minute walk. In public, broad daylight.”

Trey did the rapid calculation, factoring in all the various ways I could screw things up, multiplying that by the probability that I would, divided by the potential information coming my way. The verdict? Probably sensible.

“Okay. But call me when you leave.”

“Where will you be? On some helicopter again?”

“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

He took my hand. The abrupt intimacy started me, but then he pulled out his pen and wrote a number in my palm.

“This goes directly to the security desk at the hotel. I’ll have my phone, of course, but in case you need to access my schedule, they’ll have it. Be careful.”

I closed my fist tight around the number. “Careful and sensible. I promise.”

***

Soul Ink resided on the west end of River Street in the shadow of the electric plant, the funkier section of the strip. It was where I’d met John, Skip too. During work hours, Hope and I would often rendezvous with the two of them in the long connecting passageway behind the shops —sometimes at Winston’s, sometimes at Train’s—smoking and sneaking beers before going back to our respective workplaces.

The old tattoo parlor had been redecorated. It now felt like a slightly gothic day spa—big stained glass windows, a gold-washed concrete floor stamped with swirls, red leather seats. When I opened the door, I heard wind chimes and smelled incense.

Train looked up from one of the art books. He grinned. “Tai!”

He was a well-muscled guy, with chestnut hair and a penchant for tight white t-shirts, the better to see his intricately inked forearms and biceps, a garden of lush roses and finely-wrought crosses woven with Bible references. His face was boyish under a tough-looking goatee.

“Hey, Train. How’s it going?”

“Excellently, thank the Lord.”

Train took the name of his shop seriously. Soul Ink was born as spiritual outreach. The plaque above his work station read Isaiah 44:5: “And a generation will write on their hands, ‘I belong to the Lord.’” But he welcomed anyone into the shop, Christian and heathen alike. I liked to imagine that if Jesus himself wanted a tattoo, he’d come to Train.

He clapped his hands to his thighs. “So what’s up? You looking for new ink?”

“Yes, but not today.”

I pulled out my phone and showed him the photo Trey had snapped. Train’s eyes flashed with disappointment.

“What’s he done now? Making fake IDs again?”

“Maybe. But I’m not out to get him for that.”

“What are you out to get?”

“Information about the person who hired him.”

Train looked at me skeptically. He volunteered in the prison. He knew that the vilest of all the sinners in the criminal world was a snitch.

“I know,” I said, cutting him off. “Criminals don’t cough up information. But Skip isn’t a criminal, is he?”

Train sighed. “No. That’s why he gets in trouble so much. No street smarts.”

“He still work here?”

“No, not for months.”

“So how’s he paying the bills?”

“He’s Big Nate’s newest sugar baby. He never finished his degree, but he’s cute, so now Nate pays for his errant ways.”

“And lets him drive his convertible. A silver Mercedes, I’m guessing?”

Train nodded. I looked at the photo again. Skip was attractive enough to be a kept man, yes. But if he was living the high life now, why was he at the shop arguing with Winston? And what were they arguing about?

I put the phone away. “Trust me when I tell you that Skip has no idea the trouble he may have tapped. He’s working with some low level people, but they’ve provoked a killer, it seems.”

Train got serious. “Murder?”

“Maybe. Which is why I’m staying as far away from that end of it as I possibly can. I need to get to Skip before the people who killed Simmons get to him first. Do you know where to find him?”

“It’s Thursday night—he’ll be catching the show at the Speakeasy. He’s got a crush on the bartender, the redhead.”

“Does Nate know?”

Train fixed me with a look. “You think he’d still be letting him drive that Mercedes if he did?”

The Speakeasy. I hadn’t been there since Rico left town. It was a secret bar located within Club One, the infamous glitter den and dance club. You had to ask the bouncer to let you in. He’d tell you to go up the stairs, find the door marked Employees Only, then knock three times. A little panel would slide, and if you knew the password, they’d open up.

It was all for show. The Speakeasy trafficked in secrecy and gimmick, but it wasn’t illegal. They liked to pretend, though, playing ragtime and serving absinthe and other supposedly illicit cocktails in a dark 1920s styled bar.

Train shook his head. “If he sees you coming, he’s gonna run. They don’t call him Skippy for nothing.”

“I can run too, you know.”

“Not like Skippy. Especially since he does not want to get caught there, you know what I mean?”

I did. And while Skippy’s illicit crush was certainly leverage I could use, it did mean I’d have to act fast. Or have a Plan B.

***

Plan B was sitting at his desk when I got back to the hotel. I was happy to see him there—a few hours crunching numbers always recalibrated his composure back to the cool and steady range.

I perched on the edge of his desk. “Hey you.”

He didn’t look up. “Hey.”

“What are you doing?”

“Profit and loss calculation. Did you know that hole-in-one insurance costs three times as much as a rain cancellation policy?” He sat back and looked my way. “A fax came for you.”

“A fax? Who faxes anymore?”

Trey handed me an official-looking piece of paper. “Police departments.”

I scanned the information quickly and got a buzz of excitement. “Who sent this?”

“Garrity.”

It was a letter from the detective in Jacksonville. Thanks to Rico’s tip, they’d done some extra puttering into Vincent DiSilva’s life. E-mails led to PO boxes, which led to certain dealings with a whiff of scam about them.

I looked at Trey. “He was making private antique trades using assumed names.”

“He was, ever since his retirement. Documents and letters mostly, some books. The Jacksonville PD will be tracking down his customers next.”

“Wanna bet his wares were as fake as that treasure map? He was a drafter, after all. He had the copywork skills to make an excellent forger.”

“Whatever he was doing, it seems to be small scale; they’ve found only one or two trades a year. The money trail is insubstantial.”

A mild-mannered retiree trafficking in forgery for beer and bingo money. It would not be the weirdest crime spree I’d heard of. I ran a finger along the edge of Trey’s desk.

“So, on that note, I have this idea.”

“What idea?”

“It involves going to the club.”

“What club?”

“The Speakeasy.”

He frowned, waiting to see where I was headed.

“Skip will be there tonight, and I would like to hear his side of things. And no, it’s not illegal, or dangerous. It’s a two-person job, that’s all.”

He tapped his pen on the yellow tablet. I told him what I’d learned at the tattoo shop. Trey listened, then shook his head.

“Criminals sometimes react violently to being confronted.”