Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

“What’s his name?”

“Matthew Powell.”

I hung my head back and stared at the ceiling. “You’re kidding.”

“No, should I be?” She shoved the folder in front of me, on top of the computer keyboard.

I glanced at the page of notes Ace and Bitsy had both made, as well as the information Matt Powell had provided. “He had a pretty good memory,” I said, pointing at the screen. “He must have taken the design and had it done somewhere else.”

Bitsy’s eyes grew wide. “That’s him? That’s the guy?”

I nodded. “He’s the guy I found at Versailles. When did he come in for the tat?”

“It was a couple days ago.”

It could explain how Chip had seen it, but when I thought about it further, why would Matt have shown his devotion ink to his boss when he was messing around with his boss’s fiancée?

Maybe Chip had seen the ink and killed him. That would explain the blood on his shirt. But I was still stymied as to how he could’ve gotten the tattoo needles. They’re just not something that’s in everyone’s medicine chest or utility closet. Sure, you could order them off the Internet, but that took some thought, and it would take at least a day or two to get them.

I needed Elise. She held the key to all of this, since she was where it all started. But where was she? Had that actually been her blood in the trunk of Kelly Masters’s rental car? And if so, was she dead somewhere or had she escaped?

I was going at this all wrong. I kept focusing on the results of Elise’s actions, not on what made her run in the first place. That could tell me everything. And it just might stop these bodies from popping up.

I had half a mind to call Tim, but he’d just tell me again to mind my own business and stay out of his. Problem was, when I’m the last person to admit seeing a missing woman and I encounter a dead person who is somehow linked to that same missing woman, it becomes more of a personal quest to find out exactly what’s going on.

“Joel’s still not here,” Bitsy announced, her words interrupting my inner monologue. “What do I do with his client?”

I pushed back my chair and got up. “I’ll take him. But keep trying Joel’s cell. I don’t know what happened to him.”

Every time the phone rang, I jumped. Which wasn’t exactly comforting to the guy who was under my needle. He’d conceded to my replacing Joel, but there was that tinge of uncertainty, confirmed whenever I turned off the machine to see if I could hear whether it was Joel on the phone.

Bitsy wasn’t as concerned, but two hours later it was clear that Joel was most definitely missing.

“What is it about this place?” Ace muttered. “Are we all going to end up going missing? Is it going to be some weird thing, like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something?”

“If it was Invasion of the Body Snatchers , there would be two of each of us,” Bitsy said matter-of-factly, as if this were a definite possibility. “There would be pods all over the place.”

“Listen, guys, I know I haven’t been around much the last couple of days, but I think I know where I can at least find out where Joel might be,” I said, planning to take a trip over to Murder Ink. I’d run into Sylvia over there before; why not tonight?

“He’s a big boy, Brett,” Ace said. “Don’t you think he can take care of himself?”

No, I didn’t. And the look on my face must have said it all, because they both nodded.

“Call us when you find him,” Bitsy made me promise as I went out the door.

A long line of tourists waited for a gondola ride just across the canal from the shop. St. Mark’s Square was bustling more than usual tonight. I heard some opera singers in the distance; a musician playing a mandolin stepped into my path. I moved around him, eager to get on my way.

I smelled food, a mix of Chinese, beef, and chocolate that was not entirely unpleasant, and for the first time since my huge lunch I felt hungry. The thought of lunch made me think again about Simon Chase. He said he hadn’t seen Elise, but I had seen him talking to Kelly’s brother, Matthew.

Bruce Manning had said I was banned from Versailles, but he didn’t say I couldn’t call over there.

I punched the numbers for information and got Versailles’s main line. I asked for Simon Chase, expecting to hear his secretary Penny’s voice on the other end when it picked up.

“Yes?”

It was him. Chase. Answering his own phone.

“Oh, hello,” I said as casually as I could.

“Yes? May I help you?”

He hadn’t recognized my voice. A slight disappointment rushed through me, but then I admonished myself. Why would he recognize my voice? After only one dead body and a lunch?

“It’s Brett.”

Silence, then, “Oh, yes.”

“Manning kicked me out. Said I couldn’t see you, either.”

“Oh, yes,” he repeated. “I’m sorry about that.” There was something funny about his voice, something not normal. Sort of like my Madonna accent.

“I forgot to ask you something at lunch.”

“I’ll have to get back to you.”

Because I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, I got it. “Is Manning there with you?”

“That’s right. I’ll call you back.” And the phone went dead.

Rejection in any form is never easy, and I told myself I shouldn’t take this personally. I stuck my phone back in my bag and walked into the parking garage. I stiffened when I saw movement to my right, but it was only a family of four heading back to their car. My Mustang was just to the left.

I unlocked the door and slid onto the seat, sticking the key in the ignition. But before I turned her over, a flap of paper stuck under my windshield distracted me. I hated those flyers for local businesses, especially in a mall parking garage. I leaned around out the window and snagged it, ready to crumple it up and throw it on the floor.

But the image on it made me stop.

It was my drawing of the devotion tat. But instead of “Elise” or “Matthew,” it now said “Brett.”

Someone was playing games with me. At first, I thought it was Bitsy or even Joel, but in light of the discovery of Matt Powell’s ink, this was more than a sick joke. Elise was missing and Matt was dead. What did that mean for me? Who was sending me a message? And, more important, why?

Springsteen’s “Jungleland“ blared from my bag, startling me. After a second, I realized what it was and pulled out my cell phone.

It wasn’t a call, but a text message.

Meet me in my office. 15 min. Simon.

He must have seen my cell number on his caller ID.

I eased the Mustang out of the parking spot and wondered how I could go up to Chase’s office without Manning seeing me. I pulled into another spot and texted back: Banned how will I get there brett .

Within minutes, Springsteen belted out “Jungleland” again and I read, Minnie mickey .

That old song and dance? Really? I tossed the phone into the seat next to me and peeled out of the garage. A small part of me-a very small part, but a part just the same-was tingly with the thought of seeing Simon Chase again. So I wasn’t sure if he was a murderer, and I knew he was a playboy, but he looked mighty fine.

No Dodge Dakotas followed me as I made my way to Versailles, and once I got there, I saw a small sign for self-parking, so I veered to the right before the valets caught sight of me. The parking garage was surrounded by those hedge animals, and I kept close to the edge, just in case Bruce Manning happened to look out a window and see me coming.

The lobby was more difficult.Those mirrors showed hundreds of me, and if circumstances were different, I might be making sure my hair and makeup looked good. As it was, I ducked behind one of those big flower arrangements when I saw Chip Manning emerge from the hallway where the elevators were tucked away.