Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

Simon Chase took a deep breath. “When your client left yesterday, Chip moved in here. He usually stays in this suite when he’s in town, but his visit this time was, well, unexpected.”

Because he was supposed to be on his honeymoon with Elise.

“You’re the woman on the telly, aren’t you?” Simon had finally made the connection.

“That’s right.”

“You saw Elise.”

“Yes.” I didn’t quite know what else to say. If he’d seen the bit on TV, then he already knew what I knew.

Fortunately, the conversation had to stop at that point, because the elevator doors opened and the footman led two detectives, a couple of crime scene forensics guys like the ones you see on TV, and two paramedics and a gurney into the room.

Simon Chase became all business. He showed them where the body was. One of the detectives tossed a glance back at me, and I recognized him as one of Tim’s buddies. Great.

“She found the body,” I heard Simon saying from the other room.

I felt my stomach drop with those words, and when I saw the detective-what was his name?-come out to talk to me, it got worse.

“What happened here, Brett?”

He was on a first-name basis with me, but I was in the dark about his.

“I was supposed to see someone else, a client, and when I got here, I saw this guy instead.” That was it in a nutshell.

He wanted more than that.

“So someone commissioned you to, well…” His voice trailed off as he tried to figure out just what it was I was supposed to do.

“It was a house call,” I filled in for him. “Someone who wanted a tat. But that client wasn’t here. The guy in the bathroom was.”

“Who was the client?”

I told him, and his eyebrows shot up, a grin dancing across his face. “Really?”

“But he wasn’t here,” I repeated. “So I went downstairs, and Mr. Chase came back up with me.”

The elevator doors opened again, and a big, white-haired man bounded into the room.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded, looking straight at Simon Chase.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me his name. He was Simon Chase’s boss, Bruce Manning. I’d seen him enough on TV myself to know that.

“I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” I heard Simon murmur, taking Manning’s elbow much like he did mine earlier and steering him toward the window, next to the piano, away from the activity.

Why is it that an English accent will make anything sound civilized-even death?

“We’re going to need to take your fingerprints,” the detective was saying to me.

Brian. That was it. That was his name.

“Sure, I guess so, but I didn’t touch anything. I used my elbow to push the elevator button.” I paused. “Does this mean he was murdered? He didn’t just keel over in the tub?”

Brian didn’t look too happy with me. “We’re going to need to take them, just in case.”

I knew what that meant: just in case I was lying about why I was here, who I was supposed to see. Just in case I happened to have killed that guy in there.

And as I was thinking that, Brian pointed to my case, which Simon had put on the floor next to the plush sofa.

“I need to check that out.”

I pulled it out and unlatched it, opening it to reveal my inks and needles wrapped nicely in their one-time-use packages and the tattoo machine. Brian poked around, lifting up the latex gloves, also in packages. The state of Nevada wouldn’t find any health violations with me or my shop.

Without saying anything, Brian took the latex gloves and needle packages and went into the other room. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of that, especially since I wasn’t sure what he was up to.

Bruce Manning’s voice filtered into my head.

“I want to know what that driver was doing in here.”

“Does it matter now?” Simon’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“He shouldn’t be in here without Chip.”

“Where is Chip?”

Good question. I tried not to be obvious, watching them out of the corner of my eye as they huddled in the far corner of the room.

“Why is that woman with the tattoos here?” Bruce Manning obviously didn’t feel compelled to answer Simon’s question; either that, or he didn’t know where Chip was. Maybe both.

“She says she was supposed to see the previous guest.” The whisper was a little louder now, and while Manning’s back was to me, Simon was looking in my direction-straight at me, actually. And he winked.

It was a tiny wink, but a wink all the same, and I got warm all over again, suppressing a smile.

“That’s ridiculous,” Manning said, swinging around now and spotting me hovering near the sofa. In three strides he was next to me, and I had no choice but to stand tall.

I was at least two inches taller than he was.

But what he lacked in height, he made up for in stature.

“Young lady, you had no business in this room.”

“On the contrary, sir, I did.”

His head swiveled to look at Simon Chase. “Is she telling the truth?”

Simon cocked his head at me, studying my face, and then said, “I believe so.”

“Well, then, you’ve got a security issue here, Chase, and I demand you take care of it. She should never have been allowed up here, regardless, without you knowing about it.”

“I’ll look into it, Mr. Manning,” Simon said, his voice measured.

“Is there a reason you’re still here?” Manning bellowed at me.

“There is.” Brian the detective was standing behind me, still holding the gloves, but now they were out of the package. I had a bad feeling about this.

“Did you put a pair of these gloves on earlier?” he asked.

All eyes were on me, and I shifted slightly.

“No. Why would I? I hadn’t even seen my client.”

Brian’s face was stonelike. I couldn’t read it. His words, though, came through loud and clear.

“A pair of gloves like this was in the tub. And a package exactly like the one you have in your case is in the trash can.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” was the first thing out of my mouth, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say.

“What are you implying?” Simon Chase’s voice surprised me, as he approached Brian.

Brian looked from me to Chase and back again. “Perhaps we need to take this downtown,” he said.

“You should take her into custody now,” Manning demanded.

I glared at him. “Can I at least get a phone call?” I heard something in my voice that was not conducive to speaking to police officers.

“We’ll call your brother for you,” Brian offered, but it wasn’t more than an official gesture.

“I think I’d rather call him,” I said, reaching for my messenger bag, which was still slung around my shoulder.

I don’t know if it was my sudden movement-maybe he thought I was going for some sort of weapon-but Brian body-slammed me and I fell back over the top of the sofa and did a sort of backward somersault. Before I landed between the sofa and the massive coffee table, however, I felt a strong arm around my shoulders, helping me up.

Simon Chase asked, “Are you all right?”

I nodded, adjusting my skirt and shirt and messenger bag, combing my fingers through my hair. “Thanks,” I murmured, glancing at his profile, which was really quite striking. So he was chivalrous, to boot. Not like Brian the detective, who just stood there, staring.

“I think you owe Miss Kavanaugh an apology,” Simon Chase demanded of Brian.

I was liking him more and more.

Instead of saying he was sorry, Brian shoved a cell phone at me. “Call your brother.”

I took it before he changed his mind and went across the room, in front of the magnificent marble fireplace that dominated the far wall. I hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but as I heard Tim’s cell ringing, I studied the painting above the mantel. It was a splash of colors in the Impressionist style. But it was merely an imitation, and not a very good one at that.