The Missing Ink (25 page)

Reckless driving? Me? Give me a break.

“Listen, Willis,” I said. “This is a load of crap.”

“Do you want me to add any other charges?”

I shut up, took the ticket, and nodded. “Okay, fine.”

“Be a little safer on the road next time,” he said, his words butting up against a harder edge.

I didn’t want to push my luck, so I just nodded again and reached for the stick shift. But before I could put it in gear, he slammed his hand down on the windowsill.

“Next time, when someone asks you a question and you know the answer, you should just be honest,” he said, an edge in his voice.

“And maybe when you’re asking about something, you might want to give more of an explanation,” I said defiantly.

He stared at me a second, and I wondered whether he would give me another ticket for talking back, but then he surprised me by sighing, shaking his head, and turning away.

I watched him in the side-view mirror as he walked back to his cruiser, his shoulders straight despite the heavy chip that obviously sat on them.

I crumpled up the ticket and tossed it in the glove box. I’d give it to Tim when I got home.

 

Speak of the devil, Tim was making scrambled eggs and toast.

“Breakfast for dinner?” I asked, slinging my bag over the back of a kitchen chair.

“Most important meal of the day,” he said.

“In the morning,” I reminded him. I threw the ticket I’d gotten from Willis on the counter in front of him. “Met up with that cop who was looking for Elise that first day, and it seems he’s making my personal life his own personal business.”

Tim uncrumpled the ticket and read it. “Reckless driving? You?”

“Hard to believe, but Willis seems to think that staying within the speed limit is reckless.”

Tim shoved it in the pocket of his trousers. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

“He said I shouldn’t rely on you.”

Tim grinned.

“He’s holding a grudge. Because I didn’t answer his questions.”

Tim’s eyebrows popped up into his forehead. “Don’t blame the guy,” Tim said, scooping the eggs onto a plate. He cocked his head and frowned. “Speaking of guys, what’s up with you and Simon Chase?”

“What do you mean?”

“I called the shop and Bitsy said you were out to lunch with him. What’s going on?”

“Don’t play big brother with me.”

“Hey, who took care of Zack Turner for you?”

I smiled involuntarily. When we were in middle school, Zack Turner grabbed my science report out of my backpack and threw it out the school bus window. The bus driver wouldn’t stop. I cried all day, and after school, Tim went to Zack’s house, brought him to where my papers were still littering the side of the road, and made him collect them and come and apologize to me. I never knew exactly what Tim said to him, and no one ever mentioned the bruise on Zack’s cheek, but after that, Zack Turner left me alone.

I took off my red heels. My feet immediately expanded and began to throb. I plopped down into a chair at the table. Tim grabbed another plate and gave me some of the eggs. I dug in, giving myself a few minutes to formulate what I was going to say.

“I don’t know what’s going on with Simon Chase,” I said when I finished the eggs. “We had lunch, but then he got a call from Elise to meet her at that bar, and I went over there, and he saw me and made me sing karaoke; then we talked in the parking lot, but then he disappeared. And I saw him get into a Dodge Dakota.”

Tim’s confusion was clear. “What does his truck have to do with this?”

I told him about the white Dakota following me around.

Tim immediately became concerned. “Have you gotten a plate number?”

I shook my head, biting into a piece of toast. “No.”

“Why would Chase be following you?”

Matthew had been following me, too. Or at least watching me. I told him how I’d seen Chase and Matthew talking at Versailles. “Maybe he and Matthew think I know something I don’t.”

Tim rubbed his chin. “Possibly. Did Elise say anything to you that night she was in the shop, anything at all that they might think would implicate them in something?”

I’d been over it a hundred times, with Bitsy, too. “No. I’ve got nothing.”

“What about that tattoo on Matt Powell?” Tim asked. “Any idea who might have done that?”

“No.” I almost told him I’d seen Jeff Coleman, too, but decided to keep that out of this conversation. “Elise looked scared tonight. I don’t know where she is, but she’s definitely alive. Have you found any other connection between her and Kelly Masters other than that they both dated Simon Chase?”

Tim pursed his lips in a way that told me he very well might have found something. And that he certainly wasn’t going to tell me.

But I can be a pit bull when I want to be.

“Come on, Tim. I’ve got people following me around. Maybe knowing what the connection is might help me figure out why.”

He was wavering.

“If you tell me, I might have some information about Jeff Coleman.”

That got his attention.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not at the moment,” I said. That was true. I didn’t know when or where Jeff might actually show up, either, so I’d be useless on that front as well.

“What do you know?” He could be a pit bull, too. It was in the genes.

“If I tell you, you’ll tell me what you’ve got, too, right?”

Tim sighed. “Okay, fine, but you have to promise to stay out of it.”

“As much as I can,” I said, crossing my fingers underneath the table so he wouldn’t see.

“You first,” he instructed.

I didn’t think I had a choice. I told him how Jeff showed up at Circus Circus, how I saw him tonight at Versailles, how he was as baffled as I was, that I believed he didn’t kill Matt Powell or Kelly Masters.

Tim snorted when I got to that last part.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Your friend Jeff Coleman, who tells you he’s so innocent? That he hadn’t seen his ex-wife in years?” He paused.

“We did a DNA test. Kelly Masters’s baby was Jeff Coleman’s baby.”

Chapter 45

After a second of being stunned by this news, I thought of something else. “How do you have Jeff’s DNA?”

“He was a suspect a few years back in a sexual assault case. We took his DNA. He didn’t do it. Seems the woman had a grudge against him. He didn’t want to marry her.”

“But you’re sure that this baby is his? He and Kelly couldn’t get pregnant; it split them up.”

Tim was surprised to hear this. “Really?”

“That’s the story I got.”

“Well, someone’s lying.”

And we both knew who that was. Jeff must have seen Kelly in the last few months, otherwise she wouldn’t be pregnant with his baby. But that still didn’t explain what was up with Elise Lyon and why she was using Kelly’s name.

I was really disappointed in Jeff Coleman. While we hadn’t ever been on very good terms—all that “Kavanaugh” stuff, and him constantly making references to me thinking I was better than he was just because I didn’t have a street shop or flash—I had begun to believe and trust in him on this. He’d seemed genuinely sincere, and genuinely surprised about Kelly being dead.

“Next time you see him, you have to let me know. Keep him wherever you are and call me so we can come get him.”

“You really did find his fingerprints on a gun in her car?” I asked. Tim nodded. “So he really is a suspect?” I thought a moment. “Why would Jeff kill her if she was pregnant with his baby?”

Tim sighed. There were way too many questions and not enough answers. “I have no idea,” he said. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“So then what’s the link between Kelly and Elise? You promised,” I said.

“Do you promise to let me know if Coleman contacts you again?”

I nodded. “Okay, sure. No more stalling—what’s up?”

“Kelly Masters called Elise Lyon in Philadelphia the day before Elise disappeared.”

“Really? What for?”

Tim shrugged, getting up and clearing away our dishes. “We don’t know. But something made Elise run, and that’s the only thing out of the ordinary that happened in her last few days there. Other than that, it was wedding business as usual.”

I helped Tim load the dishwasher, pondering why Kelly would call Elise.The presumption was that they didn’t know each other before they met up in Vegas. Or did they?

“Had they met at all?” I asked Tim.

He shook his head. “No clue. We can’t find anything else, except Simon Chase, and he swears that they never overlapped in his life.”

Tim wiped down the counter, then started for his bedroom. He paused at the hallway. “Remember, any word from Coleman …” His voice trailed off.

I nodded. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you,” I said as I went into my own bedroom and changed into my cotton pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I tossed the white trousers in the hamper, but they seemed to be a lost cause. Too bad. They’d grown on me.

In the middle of brushing my teeth, I heard my cell phone blasting Springsteen. I didn’t want it to bother Tim, so I bounded across the bedroom, toothpaste in my mouth, and took the phone out of my bag, flipping up the cover, not recognizing the number.

“Yes?”

“Kavanaugh?”

Jeff Coleman.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” I started.

“No time. But I think I know what’s going on.”

“I really need to talk to you,” I insisted.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. We have to meet. It has to do with your friend Simon Chase.”

I couldn’t help myself. “What about him?”

“Listen, I know you’ve got the hots for the guy, Kavanaugh, but he’s not what he seems.”

I paused. “And what’s that?”

“He’s more than a rich casino manager.”

“So what is he?”

Jeff chuckled. “He’s the one who made the appointment.” “What appointment?”

“For the tat. The guy at Versailles. The one I asked you to cover.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve got his cell phone.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got his cell phone?”

“I lifted it at Viva Las Vegas tonight.”

He lifted it? “You mean you stole it?”

“For a cause, Kavanaugh. For a cause. I checked his call history. He made that call to me. It’s the same number, the same time. Don’t trust him. He set me up. And by extension, he set you up, too.”

“But how did he get that tat done? How did he get the needles and gloves?”

“Gotta go. Tomorrow, Kavanaugh.”

And the call ended.

Chapter 46

I tossed and turned all night. I could’ve blamed the heat, but the air-conditioning was doing a fine job keeping the house cool. When I did drift off, images of Simon Chase and Jeff Coleman and, oddly, Willis floated through my dreams. At one point I was giving Elise a tat in the shape of a guillotine.

It was a relief when I woke and saw the sun streaming through the miniblinds.

Tim was already gone. I’d promised to tell him when I’d heard from Jeff again, but he wasn’t making it easy for me. Sure, I could’ve told him last night, right after Jeff called me, but everything was running around in my head and I wanted to let it settle a bit first. I toasted a bagel and made some coffee, thinking about Simon Chase’s cell phone. I’d had suspicions about him all along, but deep down I’d hoped I was wrong, that it was all a mistake. But if he really did make that appointment for Jeff, he was definitely guilty of something.

I took a shower and threw on my usual uniform of a print cotton skirt and a navy tank top. I debated Sylvia’s offer to ink my other arm. But what would I get? I paid homage to the Impressionists on one arm; what about my neoclassicists this time? But I couldn’t exactly see
The Oath of the Horatii
or the
Death of Socrates
as appropriate, but David’s
Bonaparte Crossing the Alps at the St. Bernard Pass
could be pretty cool, with Napoleon on the horse going up the mountain. I would have to make the stencil myself, though. I didn’t really trust Sylvia, who worked with flash only, to design something.

I didn’t hit any traffic on the way to the Venetian and ended up being the first one there. That was unusual, but Bitsy probably had a late night last night at Viva Las Vegas.

I lifted the gate and let myself in through the glass doors. I walked by the front desk, stopping when I saw that the purple orchids on the desk had fallen over, the flowers out of the pot, like they’d been pulled out. What was this? I glanced around, but nothing appeared out of place. Nevertheless, I was cautious as I went to the back of the shop and opened the door to the staff room.

It was a shambles.

File folders, papers, and stencils were strewn on the floor, the file cabinet drawers yawning wide; boxes of baby wipes were tossed here and there, with wipes loose and wet clinging to the floor and the light table. Packages of disposable razors, needles, and latex gloves were scattered over every surface. The refrigerator door was open—the contents of some Chinese takeout from a couple days ago spilled across the shelves, and soda cans had been opened and upturned to create a sticky brown mess that seeped to the floor. Toilet paper had been unrolled in the bathroom, covering much of the tiny floor space.

I dropped my head into my hands and fought back a sob.

This wasn’t supposed to happen here. Not at the Venetian. Not with the security, not with the way these shops were locked up every night. How could this have happened?

Panic rose in my chest. I waded through the mess and stooped down to look under the light table, where we kept a small safe that held all our cash until Bitsy could get to the bank. It was gone. Granted, Bitsy had gone to the bank yesterday, so there wasn’t much in there, but it was still a crime.

I couldn’t breathe.