Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

I shrugged, smoothing out my trousers, which now had streaks of dirt on them, and my hands were speckled with whatever was on the floor, tacky against the material. I wanted to go wash up, but I had a feeling that wasn’t in his plan.

“I didn’t. I’m here for the karaoke,” I said more defiantly than I felt at the moment.

I did see a smile then, trying to come out, tugging at the corners of his mouth, but he kept it at bay. “You don’t seem the karaoke type.”

No kidding, but I had to keep this up now. “My friends and I, well, we’re all signed up.”

Simon took my arm and began to lead me back down the hall toward the music, which got louder and louder as we approached.

“I’d like to see how you do,” he said, not looking at me, which was a good thing because I was in full panic mode.

I hadn’t sung since I was forced to be in the choir in high school. And then I’d been kicked out by Sister Mary Eucharista, who proclaimed I had a “tin ear” and I was “ruining the joyful noise.”

I was going to be ruining more than that if I got up onstage.

“I have to talk to Elise,” I said. “Didn’t you see her?”

Simon stopped short, and I bumped into him.

“No. And you didn’t, either.” His eyes were dark, but instead of scary dark, they were searching mine, seemingly trying to tell me something telepathically.

Sadly, my telepathic powers were lacking. Much like my musical talent.

“What’s going on with her? Why is she running?” I asked.

He just shook his head and jerked on my arm, pulling me forward again.

I couldn’t tell if Simon Chase was a bad guy or a good guy. Was he helping Elise? Was that why she called him? Or was she calling him to confront him about what was going on?

We stepped back out into the bar, and I glanced over at the stage. Bitsy was singing her heart out, blue suede shoes and all that, accompanied by an Elvis who had to be at least six-four.

“Your friend is good,” Simon said thoughtfully.

A thought slammed into my brain. How did he know Bitsy was my friend? He’d met Joel, but not Bitsy. She’d been dissed by the TV people, so he couldn’t have seen her during the 20/20 segment. Where else would he have seen her?

I looked around for Joel. Second time in twenty-four hours that a three-hundred-pound man had disappeared. Made me wonder if David Copperfield wasn’t in town.

The Elvis with the clipboard was checking with everyone to see if they wanted to sing. He took one look at me and started to pass, but Simon stopped him.

“She wants to sing,” he said, his face daring me to contradict him.

The Elvis nodded. “They always come around in the end. How about next?”

One glance at the clipboard told me no one was drunk enough to sign up yet, except for Bitsy. Lucky me.

Simon handed me over, and I didn’t even toss a look back at him. I’d have to just get this over with.

“What will you sing?” the Elvis asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“What song do you know?”

I thought a little, and the only Elvis song title I could think of was “Jailhouse Rock,” but who knew what it sounded like? I told him the song, and he grinned.

“Great choice.”

Bitsy was startled when she stepped off the stage and saw me being escorted up. I shrugged at her. I couldn’t think of any way to get out of this.

The Elvis handed me a microphone and showed me the screen where I’d read the words to sing, “just in case you forget them.” Just in case.

The music started, and I had no idea where to jump in, so I just started singing, if that’s what you could call it. My heart was pounding, and I needed a Xanax in the worst way. Fortunately the lights prevented me from seeing the audience, which started to boo about two lines into the song. I wanted it to be like The Gong Show , and someone would hook me around the waist and drag me offstage. But that didn’t happen. I got through the whole song, the booing and hissing aside, and when I stopped, applause broke out.

Probably because it was over.

I rushed offstage, tripping over my own feet as I went down the steps, scanning the room for Simon Chase, but he was gone. Great. He made me suffer my worst humiliation and took off on me.

As my eyes adjusted back to the light in the bar, I saw one person who hadn’t taken off yet.

Elise was at the end of the bar.

But she wasn’t alone.

Matthew, Kelly Masters’s brother, was behind her, his hands on her shoulders as they went toward the black curtain.

When I’d first heard his name, I had wondered if Matthew was Elise’s Matthew, but he seemed like too much of a square peg for that round hole. Matt Powell was much of more likely, especially since he was close to Chip and, by extension, Elise, and then, of course, there was the little fact that he had that tat on his chest.

But maybe, just maybe, that ink had been done after he’d already been dead. How else to explain the gloves and needle in the bathroom?

I had multiple Matthews, although the Elvises still outnumbered them.

Elise saw me.

She twisted around, her eyes wide with fear. Matthew’s head swiveled up toward me, and a grimace crossed his face. He turned his attention back to Elise, pushing her now.

I remembered what Bruce Manning said on CNN when Elise first went missing: He suspected she didn’t leave of her own accord, that there might have been another party involved.

This backed up that theory.

I shoved my way through the Elvises and some other ordinarily dressed people who’d come in since we’d arrived for a little karaoke. Behind me, the music started, and another singer-and I use the term loosely-began warbling “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Something about the voice made me pause. I stopped to see if I was right.

It was Joel, belting out the song as best he could. Which wasn’t saying much. Although I certainly wasn’t one to judge.

Our little excursion had brought out the inner Elvis in my staff. Who knew?

I didn’t have time to ponder this, however, since Elise and Matthew were already a few minutes ahead of me. I bounded through the black curtain, momentarily distracted by the darkness, but the door opened, letting in a streak of light, and I followed it, like you’re supposed to.

The motorcycles still filled most of the parking lot, and one was speeding out toward the main road. Two people. A man and a woman. No helmets. Who had told me Matthew was a biker? They were too far away for me to say for sure whether it was Matthew and Elise.

I saw my Mustang in the lot and considered my options. If I left Joel here with Bitsy, there was no way he’d fit into that little MINI Cooper of hers. He’d give me a lot of crap over that.

As I debated, the motorcycle was getting smaller and smaller, farther and farther away.

There was no way I could catch up to it.

I heard Springsteen.

It took a second for me to realize it was my cell phone in the bottom of my bag. I swung it around and dug around inside until I found the phone, checking the name on the front and flipping the top up.

“Hey, there,” I said to my brother.

“You never got back to me.”

“About what?”

A heavy sigh. “About the tattoo. Did you get the pictures in your e-mail?”

Oh, yeah, right. “Sorry. I’ve been a little busy.”

“So?”

“Listen, there’s something you should know.” I paused. How to approach this? Straight out would be a good idea. “Elise Lyon is alive. I just saw her.”

“Where?” I could practically feel his blood pressure go up over the phone.

“Viva Las Vegas. You know the place?”

“You’re there? Why on earth would you go there?”