Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

“What do you think it means?”

“So do you think Elise Lyon was shot, too?”

His expression told me his patience was wearing thin, but nothing more.

“Why are you here, then?” I asked. “Why aren’t you out looking for Jeff Coleman?”

He ran his hand through his short hair, exasperated. “I thought maybe you might know where he hangs out.”

“Oh, because he’s in my crowd? Because we’re both tattooists, we must hang out together? Tim, I hate to tell you this, but it’s not a club . We’re just business owners. Yeah, we run into each other from time to time, but I can’t stand the guy.” All of this was true, so I didn’t have to feel guilty about any of it.

Tim sank down onto the chair next to the light table, wringing his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that there’s a lot of pressure on this one. You know, with the media, Bruce Manning, we’re under the gun.” Considering the situation, that might not be the best phrasing, but I opted not to mention that.

I pulled Bitsy’s stool over and sat next to him. “I don’t mean to get on your case. I’m sorry, too. But I don’t really know how I can help you. I don’t know where Jeff is.”

“We’ve got a warrant.”

“I know.”

The words were out before I could take them back. Tim frowned.

“How do you know that?”

I tried to be nonchalant. “Word gets around, you know.”

“No, Brett, it doesn’t. Unless you have friends in high places, and as far as I know, I’m as high up as your friends go. Who did you hear it from?”

I couldn’t keep this going. I just didn’t like Jeff enough. “He called me.”

“When?”

“A little while ago. He said he was in trouble, asked me to take a client of his he couldn’t cancel. I said okay.” And the more I thought about it, the more I felt like I’d made a deal with the devil. But I couldn’t turn down the cash. Or the client. I mean, any woman would want the job.

“Where was he?”

“I don’t know, and before you ask, his number was listed as restricted on the caller ID.”

Tim had gone all rigid, ready to pounce out of his chair toward the phone at the front desk. He relaxed slightly, but he was still on alert. Like the way a cat is when the bird flies away, but maybe, just maybe, it’ll be back.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting here asking you about this and you talked to him but you won’t tell me until I trip you up. You’re not hiding anything, are you?” His face was dark, and I recognized his expression. The last time he’d looked like this was when Mary Ellen Judson had messed around with his best friend, Aidan, but pretended nothing had happened even when he asked her about it, even after Aidan had told him about it.

Sister Mary Eucharista knew the power of guilt. It was kicking my butt.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, not making eye contact.

“If he calls again, I need to know. You need to get some information out of him.”

So now I was a narc. Sort of. “Sure.” I got up. “I’ve got to finish that tat out there.”

Tim and my guilt followed me out of the staff room.

“Oh, and don’t talk to any media again. That Leigh Holmes snippet made it onto the cable networks.”

Bitsy was on the phone, jotting down an appointment, but as Tim spoke, she glanced up at me. I knew what she was thinking, and I had to tell Tim.

“Uh, Tim, you’re a little late with that,” I said.

He took a deep breath. “Why don’t you just tell me everything, Brett? Why do you make me pull it out of you?”

“That thing for 20/20 , remember? I told you they were coming. They were already here. Not a couple of hours ago. They’re doing a piece tonight on Elise Lyon’s disappearance.”

He looked like he’d just gotten off a ship after a two-week cruise and couldn’t get his balance. “What?”

“20/20-”

“I heard you. What sorts of questions did they ask?”

“It really wasn’t a big deal,” I said quickly. “It was some reporter named Alison Cho. She just asked about Elise’s visit here.”

“But she showed the drawing,” Bitsy piped up. Lucky for me, she’d just gotten off the phone. Right.

“What drawing?” Tim looked at Bitsy, knowing she’d give him the straight answers he’d been looking for from me.

“The devotion tat Brett was going to do.” Bitsy’s eyes skipped from Tim to me and back again.

“What is it?” he asked, and I shook my head behind him, trying to tell her to stop right there.

Bitsy has a problem with keeping secrets. She can’t. So no one usually tells her anything they don’t want spread around. That’s why when she said, “You know, how it said Matthew and not Chip,” I wasn’t totally surprised.

Tim whipped around to face me again. “That’s going to be on TV? Why didn’t you just tell her it was the wrong one?”

“I said no comment.” I cocked my head at Bitsy. “But Ms. Truth Teller here couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

Tim looked like he was about to explode. “If anyone here,” he said loudly, “talks to the media or anyone else besides me about Elise Lyon again, I swear I will find a way to arrest you.”

And then he walked out.

“What’s up his butt?” Joel called out from his room.

“Nothing,” I said, and headed back to Castle Girl.

Because of Tim’s visit, I barely finished the ink in time before I had to go to Versailles to cover for Jeff. I grabbed the case that Bitsy had put together for me.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Yeah, just what is this mysterious job you’ve got?” Joel had sneaked up behind me, as much as a three-hundred-pound man can sneak up on anyone.

I’d been busting at the seams to tell someone, and I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. This was too good not to share.

“Jeff Coleman asked if I could fill in for him with a client who doesn’t want to go to his shop.”

“Why can’t he do it?” Joel asked.

“Because he’s on the lam,” Bitsy said, then immediately put her hand over her mouth.

“You were eavesdropping,” I accused her.

“Wouldn’t you?” Bitsy asked through her hand.

She had me there.

“Okay.” I sighed, and I told them who the client was.

Joel’s body rocked slightly, as if he were about to swoon. Exactly how I’d felt when Jeff told me, and I had no idea how I’d react once I actually had the man’s bare butt under my fingertips. I hoped the sweat from my hands wouldn’t seep through my gloves and cause the machine to slip. That was all I needed, to make a mistake on the guy’s ass. Granted, it wasn’t exactly in a spot where he’d notice.

“I have to go now,” I said, pushing my way past Ace and out into the mall.

In the parking garage elevator, I was sandwiched between an elderly woman in a bright pink velour sweat suit-didn’t anyone tell her it was a hundred degrees outside?-and a guy who looked like he was on his way to a Young Republicans meeting, complete with a three-piece navy pin-striped suit, red tie, and buzz cut. And they looked at me like I was the freak.

When I stepped out of the elevator, though, I started to freak. Quietly. To myself. Because the big, bald, tattooed guy in the sleeveless jean jacket was leaning against a concrete pillar about halfway to my car.

The pink sweat suit and the Young Republican slipped past me, going in the opposite direction. I didn’t want to face this guy in a parking garage by myself. I didn’t want to seem afraid, either, even though he could probably smell my fear, mixed with exhaust, from here.

I could just pretend I forgot something and get back in the elevator. I could use the case as a weapon. I wondered whether Bitsy had packed it in such a way so that if I had to swing it at him, my stuff would be okay.