Karen Olson: The Missing Ink

Tim and I had been living together for two years now. He’d left our childhood home in northern New Jersey and moved to Vegas ten years ago, getting a job as a blackjack dealer. A year of that was enough, and he ended up at the police academy, training to be a cop like our father. It’s in the DNA.

He bought the house in Henderson three years ago, when he and his ex-girlfriend, Shawna, had toyed with the idea of getting married. Well, he’d been toying with the idea, but she was dead serious. After a year, when she finally realized there was no diamond in her future, she moved out and he was stuck with the mortgage, so he got on the phone, trying to convince me that living in the desert would be heaven compared to scraping ice off my windshield in Jersey.

No kidding.

He also had a friend, Flip, who was selling his business. I had some money saved up, and Mickey said it was time for me to move on. I’d worked at the Ink Spot for eight years, starting as a trainee right out of college. Mickey taught me everything he could, and I was getting too comfortable. I needed a challenge. Buying Flip’s shop seemed like a plan.

So here I was, a woman who owned her own business, and I was about to start whining like a kid on the playground because my brother wouldn’t share information with me.

Contradictions are what make people interesting.

“Can’t you give me a little hint? Did she do something? Is she hiding? Is she like that crazy runaway bride?” The moment I said it, I wondered if that was it. She’d been wearing that huge rock, she wanted devotion ink, but she never came back. Trouble in paradise.

From the flush that crawled up Tim’s neck, I knew I was right. He could be as stoic as the next cop among his own and with real criminals, but with his sister, he caved every time.

I grinned. “That’s it, isn’t it? She was supposed to get married, but she took off. Couldn’t handle it or something, right?”

Tim put his glass in the sink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which he then wiped on his sweats. “You can think what you like,” he said. “I’m going to bed. I have to get up early.” He brushed past me, his eyes on the floor.

He paused before turning toward his room. “Oh, Willis asked a lot of questions about you.”

Willis? “That cop?” I asked. “You’re kidding, right?”

Tim chuckled. “He couldn’t understand why you would do what you do.”

“Did you enlighten him?”

“Not my place.”

I thought a second. “I never mentioned that you were my brother.”

“Brett, you’re almost as tall as I am, you’ve got red hair like me, and our faces look almost exactly the same except I shave and you don’t have my freckles. When he heard your last name, he put it together. Good night.” He disappeared into his bedroom.

Willis wasn’t the first to express curiosity about my career choice. My mother still grabbed for the smelling salts when someone put the word “tattoo” in front of “artist” to describe me.

Granted, I’d started out as a painter, but I liked to eat, earn money. Tattoos were profitable. Profitable enough to buy a business.

People should just mind their own business.

I rummaged through the fridge and found some leftover fried rice and a small bottle of Pellegrino. Taking them over to the long brown leather couch in the living room, I picked up the remote and turned on the fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV that hung on the far wall-Tim had done some serious electronics shopping after Shawna left; besides the TV, a surround-sound audio system had been wired throughout the house. I dropped a few grains of rice on the leather and wiped them up with my finger before starting to channel surf.

I couldn’t decide what I wanted to watch, so I ended up on CNN. The volume was low, so I wouldn’t bother Tim, and Lou Dobbs was going on about illegal immigration for the umpteenth time. It was white noise while I ate.

I was about to bring my empty dish to the sink when the top news stories of the day flashed on the screen.

One of them caught my eye.

Missing woman traced to Las Vegas.

I put my plate back on the coffee table and turned the sound up as the two anchors began their reports. I had to wait until after a story about a tornado somewhere in Arkansas and another about the housing crisis.

Finally: “A woman reported missing three days ago by her fiancé was spotted in a Las Vegas casino. Elise Lyon of Philadelphia had an airline ticket to Los Angeles on Tuesday, but she never boarded the plane. Her car was found in long-term parking at Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C.”

Somehow she’d gotten to Las Vegas, and if she flew any sort of commercial airline it was likely she used the same name she’d given me-Kelly Masters-rather than her own; otherwise they would’ve tracked her down by now.

It was hard these days to get through airport security, however. They checked photo IDs against boarding passes. I wondered about fake IDs. With technology available today to anyone, it wouldn’t be hard to produce something passable.

Or maybe she chartered a flight. Or took the train. Or a bus. Scratch that. The chartered flight, maybe, but totally not a bus. She didn’t have that look about her.

Tim’s call to the department about her name obviously wasn’t on the media’s radar yet.

“The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow in Philadelphia at her parents’ estate, but it looks as if the bride will leave the groom at the altar.”

That was harsh. I felt for Matthew-I could only be on a first-name basis with him, because that was all I knew of him.

“Elise Lyon’s parents are not speaking to the media, but we have her future father-in-law, developer Bruce Manning, via satellite.”

Bruce Manning? Wow. Now that was a household name. He made Donald Trump look like a bag person. Manning owned properties all over the country, and he’d just opened a swanky new resort and casino on the Strip. He called it Versailles, and having been to the real one, I could vouch for how authentic it looked. It was that Vegas illusion again.

“What do you think happened to your future daughter-in-law, Mr. Manning?”

“We just want to make sure she’s safe.” Manning’s bright white hair was perfectly coiffed, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked directly at the camera as he spoke, his words measured and firm.

I leaned forward in my seat as if I’d miss something if I didn’t.

“My son has been devastated by Elise’s disappearance. None of us believes she would leave of her own accord.”

“Do you believe foul play is involved?”

“You have to talk to the police about that.”

“But you believe she was taken to Las Vegas against her will?”

This was better than the soaps. Although my encounter with Kelly, or Elise, or whatever she was calling herself today, didn’t indicate she was someone who’d been kidnapped. She’d been a little nervous, but no one else was hovering around. She was alone. And if someone had kidnapped her, why would she be allowed to go to a tattoo parlor for devotion ink? She’d said it was a surprise for her fiancé.

Maybe she just took a quick trip here before the wedding to unwind, get the tat, go home, and get hitched. She could easily turn up tomorrow in Philadelphia in her white dress and pearls.

I wondered why her parents weren’t going public. Did they think that having Bruce Manning on the air would be enough to generate interest and, thus, lead police to their daughter? And what about the groom? Where was he?

I’d been so engrossed in my own thoughts that I didn’t hear the rest of the interview with Bruce Manning. But I was paying attention when the two anchors grimly discussed the report afterward: