Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

Did Jeff Coleman know his wife was the Tattooist to the Stars? He certainly hadn’t indicated that, and neither had Sylvia. Kelly Masters had truly moved on, but it didn’t answer my original question: What was she doing in Las Vegas with Elise Lyon?

I stared at the Google search bar for a few seconds.

I couldn’t put it off any longer.

Googling Simon Chase brought up a slew of hits. Lots of news stories about Versailles, how Chase had been working for Manning in his Atlantic City casino before coming to Vegas.

I read through as much as I could, piecing together Chase’s history.

He’d grown up outside London, but not too much information was available about his life until he came to the United States, where he got his master’s in business administration from Harvard, hooking up with Bruce Manning early in his professional career. Not a bad star to hitch a ride on if you were ambitious.

And he was as ambitious in his off hours as he was on the job. He was a playboy, always with a different beautiful woman on his arm. I clicked on “Images” and saw him with celebrities, actresses and musicians and pop artists.

I picked one at random, clicking on the picture to make it larger.

The picture was taken on a beach, with palm trees and white sand. Chase was wearing a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts and a flowing cotton button-down shirt that was unbuttoned, revealing the physique I’d suspected when I met him. He had his arm slung over the shoulder of a woman wearing the scantiest of bikinis, her long dark hair pulled up and off her face, her features stunning and pink with sunburn.

Her body was turned to his, her neck swiveled in such a way that I could see it.

Eagle wings spread across her neck.

It was Kelly Masters.

My breath caught in my throat and my fingers froze above the keyboard.

Did he know Kelly Masters was dead? She was in Vegas; so was he. Had they hooked up here? Jeff said he’d heard she was getting married. Could it have been to Simon Chase?

Now I was even more embarrassed that I’d been taken in by his English charm. That his good looks had clouded any objectivity I would normally have had. But he had been suave and sophisticated and smart and funny, and, well, I’d been totally attracted to him.

The police were questioning him in Matt Powell’s murder. What about Kelly’s? Did the police even know Chase had a history with Kelly?

I wanted to know more. I hadn’t found enough. I hit the arrow to go back and found myself again among links for Simon Chase. I hit the “next page” button three or four more times before a link caught my eye.

The New York Times . An engagement announcement. But it wasn’t Simon Chase and Kelly Masters.

It was Simon Chase and Elise Lyon.

The date told me the announcement had been published two years ago. Chase was working in Atlantic City at the time; Philadelphia wasn’t too far away. Maybe he and Elise had met there. At the time of the engagement, Elise was twenty-four and Chase was thirty-six. He was older than I’d thought, but some men aged better than women. It wasn’t fair.

I wondered what had happened to break them up.

Elise seemed to have a habit of falling in love and getting engaged. First Simon, then Chip, then Matthew. She was a busy girl. And Chip’s statement about her affair a few months ago indicated she obviously had some commitment issues. Maybe she was one of those girls who just liked the idea of falling in love and getting married but couldn’t follow through.

I’d been accused of that, but my story was more complicated. Paul and I met in a Manhattan club during the run of his first off-Broadway show. He played the Claus von Bulow part in a stage production of Reversal of Fortune . Let’s just say he was typecast. At first, I found him charming and clever and attentive. However, over the next three years, Paul managed to snag some prime parts, feeding his ego and eccentricities. His needs had to come first; his art was more important than mine. I ignored that for a long time, thinking I could live in the shadow of his success, until I realized I couldn’t. Tim was the only one I’d confided in; when he split with Shawna, he gave me the out I needed.

I pushed my memories aside. This wasn’t about me. I focused again on my computer.

I hadn’t seen the engagement announcement for Chase and Elise when I Googled her before, but I’d stopped searching for anything after I saw the one for her and Chip.

And then it struck me.

The connection I’d been looking for between Kelly and Elise was Simon Chase. I wondered if the police knew about that. Maybe they didn’t before, but since they were now “questioning” Chase, maybe they had found out.

If they had, however, why were they still looking for Jeff Coleman? Oh, right. The gun with Jeff’s fingerprints on it had killed Kelly. And I’d told Tim that Jeff was supposed to be in that suite at Versailles.

If Chase were guilty, then it would’ve been easy to set Jeff up there. Chase knew who would be staying in that suite and when, and if Jeff hadn’t talked to that high-profile client too many times it would be easy to disguise his English accent and pretend to set up a job.

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

I couldn’t believe I had flirted with a murderer.

I shut my laptop and realized I’d missed the rest of the 20/20 program.

I finished my wine and ate a couple more crackers before lying back on the couch and closing my eyes. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but when I awoke to the sound of the front door opening, I jumped up.

Tim looked like he hadn’t slept for a week.

“What time is it?” I asked, the TV still flickering behind me.

“Two a.m. What are you still doing up?”

“I was watching 20/20 and fell asleep.”

He spotted the laptop on the coffee table. “Checking e-mail?”

I nodded, uncertain whether I should tell him what I’d learned. I’d start out with baby steps. “The TV said you were questioning Simon Chase.”

He pulled off his tie, which had been hanging rather slackly around his neck. “Yeah.”

“Why?” I tried to keep from sounding too anxious.

“The press are a bunch of idiots,” Tim said. “We asked Chase to come downtown to answer some questions formally for us about that suite, who was staying there, what the situation was with the victim. He wasn’t a person of interest, but the reporters jumped to conclusions.” He ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “By the way, you’re off the hook. We didn’t find your fingerprints in that room, and the videos showed you definitely arriving when you said you did.”

“You didn’t really think I had anything to do with it?”

“Of course not. But I was surprised that since you were there, we didn’t find a print anywhere.”

“I hit the elevator button with my elbow. I know better than to touch anything at a crime scene.” I said it like I was at crime scenes all the time, like I wasn’t just picking that up from CSI . “What about Chip Manning? Did you get his fingerprints? Did you find out anything about the blood on his shirt?”

“His fingerprints are all over that suite, but it’s not a surprise, since he was staying there.” Tim paused. “We got the shirt. We’re testing the stains. Thanks for the tip.”

I was about to tell him what I’d learned on the Internet about Chase and Kelly and Elise, but his expression changed slightly, and I knew something was on his mind.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Time of death. Matt Powell wasn’t killed today.”

“You’re kidding. When was he killed?”