Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

Tim was surprised to hear this. “Really?”

“That’s the story I got.”

“Well, someone’s lying.”

And we both knew who that was. Jeff must have seen Kelly in the last few months, otherwise she wouldn’t be pregnant with his baby. But that still didn’t explain what was up with Elise Lyon and why she was using Kelly’s name.

I was really disappointed in Jeff Coleman. While we hadn’t ever been on very good terms-all that “Kavanaugh” stuff, and him constantly making references to me thinking I was better than he was just because I didn’t have a street shop or flash-I had begun to believe and trust in him on this. He’d seemed genuinely sincere, and genuinely surprised about Kelly being dead.

“Next time you see him, you have to let me know. Keep him wherever you are and call me so we can come get him.”

“You really did find his fingerprints on a gun in her car?” I asked. Tim nodded. “So he really is a suspect?” I thought a moment. “Why would Jeff kill her if she was pregnant with his baby?”

Tim sighed. There were way too many questions and not enough answers. “I have no idea,” he said. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“So then what’s the link between Kelly and Elise? You promised,” I said.

“Do you promise to let me know if Coleman contacts you again?”

I nodded. “Okay, sure. No more stalling-what’s up?”

“Kelly Masters called Elise Lyon in Philadelphia the day before Elise disappeared.”

“Really? What for?”

Tim shrugged, getting up and clearing away our dishes. “We don’t know. But something made Elise run, and that’s the only thing out of the ordinary that happened in her last few days there. Other than that, it was wedding business as usual.”

I helped Tim load the dishwasher, pondering why Kelly would call Elise.The presumption was that they didn’t know each other before they met up in Vegas. Or did they?

“Had they met at all?” I asked Tim.

He shook his head. “No clue. We can’t find anything else, except Simon Chase, and he swears that they never overlapped in his life.”

Tim wiped down the counter, then started for his bedroom. He paused at the hallway. “Remember, any word from Coleman…” His voice trailed off.

I nodded. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you,” I said as I went into my own bedroom and changed into my cotton pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I tossed the white trousers in the hamper, but they seemed to be a lost cause. Too bad. They’d grown on me.

In the middle of brushing my teeth, I heard my cell phone blasting Springsteen. I didn’t want it to bother Tim, so I bounded across the bedroom, toothpaste in my mouth, and took the phone out of my bag, flipping up the cover, not recognizing the number.

“Yes?”

“Kavanaugh?”

Jeff Coleman.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” I started.

“No time. But I think I know what’s going on.”

“I really need to talk to you,” I insisted.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. We have to meet. It has to do with your friend Simon Chase.”

I couldn’t help myself. “What about him?”

“Listen, I know you’ve got the hots for the guy, Kavanaugh, but he’s not what he seems.”

I paused. “And what’s that?”

“He’s more than a rich casino manager.”

“So what is he?”

Jeff chuckled. “He’s the one who made the appointment.” “What appointment?”

“For the tat. The guy at Versailles. The one I asked you to cover.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve got his cell phone.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got his cell phone?”

“I lifted it at Viva Las Vegas tonight.”

He lifted it? “You mean you stole it?”

“For a cause, Kavanaugh. For a cause. I checked his call history. He made that call to me. It’s the same number, the same time. Don’t trust him. He set me up. And by extension, he set you up, too.”

“But how did he get that tat done? How did he get the needles and gloves?”

“Gotta go. Tomorrow, Kavanaugh.”

And the call ended.

I tossed and turned all night. I could’ve blamed the heat, but the air-conditioning was doing a fine job keeping the house cool. When I did drift off, images of Simon Chase and Jeff Coleman and, oddly, Willis floated through my dreams. At one point I was giving Elise a tat in the shape of a guillotine.

It was a relief when I woke and saw the sun streaming through the miniblinds.

Tim was already gone. I’d promised to tell him when I’d heard from Jeff again, but he wasn’t making it easy for me. Sure, I could’ve told him last night, right after Jeff called me, but everything was running around in my head and I wanted to let it settle a bit first. I toasted a bagel and made some coffee, thinking about Simon Chase’s cell phone. I’d had suspicions about him all along, but deep down I’d hoped I was wrong, that it was all a mistake. But if he really did make that appointment for Jeff, he was definitely guilty of something.

I took a shower and threw on my usual uniform of a print cotton skirt and a navy tank top. I debated Sylvia’s offer to ink my other arm. But what would I get? I paid homage to the Impressionists on one arm; what about my neoclassicists this time? But I couldn’t exactly see The Oath of the Horatii or the Death of Socrates as appropriate, but David’s Bonaparte Crossing the Alps at the St. Bernard Pass could be pretty cool, with Napoleon on the horse going up the mountain. I would have to make the stencil myself, though. I didn’t really trust Sylvia, who worked with flash only, to design something.

I didn’t hit any traffic on the way to the Venetian and ended up being the first one there. That was unusual, but Bitsy probably had a late night last night at Viva Las Vegas.

I lifted the gate and let myself in through the glass doors. I walked by the front desk, stopping when I saw that the purple orchids on the desk had fallen over, the flowers out of the pot, like they’d been pulled out. What was this? I glanced around, but nothing appeared out of place. Nevertheless, I was cautious as I went to the back of the shop and opened the door to the staff room.

It was a shambles.

File folders, papers, and stencils were strewn on the floor, the file cabinet drawers yawning wide; boxes of baby wipes were tossed here and there, with wipes loose and wet clinging to the floor and the light table. Packages of disposable razors, needles, and latex gloves were scattered over every surface. The refrigerator door was open-the contents of some Chinese takeout from a couple days ago spilled across the shelves, and soda cans had been opened and upturned to create a sticky brown mess that seeped to the floor. Toilet paper had been unrolled in the bathroom, covering much of the tiny floor space.

I dropped my head into my hands and fought back a sob.

This wasn’t supposed to happen here. Not at the Venetian. Not with the security, not with the way these shops were locked up every night. How could this have happened?

Panic rose in my chest. I waded through the mess and stooped down to look under the light table, where we kept a small safe that held all our cash until Bitsy could get to the bank. It was gone. Granted, Bitsy had gone to the bank yesterday, so there wasn’t much in there, but it was still a crime.

I couldn’t breathe.

I stepped back out into the hall, noticing now that the doors to all the rooms were shut. One by one, I opened them, revealing the same sort of chaos that had been inflicted on the staff room, only this time, ink was smeared everywhere.

By the time I reached my room, I was numb. As I absently began picking up the ink pots, I heard a small sound.