Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

Tim sighed. “I see what you mean, and maybe this can work to our advantage.”

I didn’t like the way he said that. “What do you mean?”

“You can talk to him, get him to talk to you. He obviously feels like he can trust you.”

Slowly, his words penetrated, and I had a sinking feeling in my gut.

“You want me to get him to admit to something.”

“Do you think you can?”

“Maybe. He’s told me some stuff, but nothing incriminating against him. I mean, he told me someone took the gun from his shop. His mother left the door unlocked.” As I said it, again I was struck by how silly that sounded. How guilty it could sound.

“Just get him to talk,” Tim said. “Once he starts, it’s possible he’ll spill everything.”

I nodded. “Okay, fine, but how will you know? He’s been pulling these disappearing acts, one minute there, the next minute gone.”

Tim was quiet for a second, then, “We’ll wire you.”

“I offer up Jeff Coleman and suddenly you turn me into Sammy the Bull?”

“It’s the only way we can get him on tape to incriminate himself. And the only way I’ll let you go.”

“You’re not my mother.”

He cracked a smile at that. “I’ll tell Mom if you don’t play nice. And you know I’m her favorite.”

He meant it, too. He’d tell her and I’d catch crap about how I should help my brother, because he was doing the right thing, he should be admired for his public service. Blah, blah, blah.

I had no choice. “Does the tape come off without hurting?” I asked.

Tim laughed out loud. “You stick needles into your skin and you’re worried about a little tape?”

Touché.

“So how does this work?”

“When does he want to meet?”

“Two o’clock.”

Tim glanced at his watch and panic crossed his face. “Have to move fast.” He disappeared into the staff room, where the forensics guys and the uniforms were still doing their thing. When he came out again, he nodded. “I’ll be back in an hour. Be here; be ready.”

And then he was gone.

The other cops left shortly thereafter, and Bitsy and I stared at the destruction, not quite sure where to start cleaning up. We’d called Joel, who was calling Ace’s girlfriend, and he was heading to the hospital. Bitsy had already called our clients who were scheduled for the day and canceled them before locking the doors so no one would see what had happened.

Bitsy sifted through the papers on the floor in the staff room and then began picking up the baby wipes and throwing them into a large trash bag she’d rummaged out of the cabinet. I collected the file folders, putting the scattered papers in piles and then their proper folders. After three-quarters of an hour, it was still a mess, but we were making progress.

“I hate to leave you with this,” I said. “But Tim’s going to be back soon.”

Bitsy shrugged. “It’s okay. Just find out why he did this, okay?”

It was the only reason I’d agreed to Tim’s plan.

“Did you have fun last night?” I asked, trying to lift our moods a little.

Bitsy smiled for the first time since she’d come in. “You missed a great night.” But then both of us realized that because we’d been out playing, Ace had encountered our intruder.

We didn’t have time to contemplate it further, though, because Tim was knocking at the door. I let him in, along with another guy wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap. Tim introduced him as Nate. He held a case that looked remarkably like my tattoo case. Which reminded me…

“Am I getting my tattoo machine back anytime soon?” I asked as Nate unraveled some wires.

Tim led me to the sofa in the back of the shop, out of sight of anyone passing by the glass doors. “I’ll check on that,” he said absently. He was concentrating on the wires now. “You have to take off your shirt.”

My eyes grew wide and I cocked my head at Nate. “What about him?” I didn’t have much of an issue with my brother doing this, but a stranger?

Tim chuckled. “He doesn’t care.”

But as I slipped my tank top off to reveal my lacy white bra, I could’ve sworn I saw a leer.

The tats didn’t seem to faze him, though. He just started taping the wire to my torso.

“She’s going to need a looser shirt,” he said to Tim, as if I were just some mannequin that didn’t have ears.

“I don’t have one,” I said. “Not here.”

He muttered something I really didn’t hear this time.

Bitsy appeared around the corner. “I’ll go pick up something for her,” she volunteered, and Tim nodded.

“Thanks.”

While Bitsy was gone, Tim and Nate tested the equipment. They had some sort of recorder in the case, and they stood at different places throughout the shop, and I had to say something every few seconds so they could make sure everything worked right.

“Where are you going to be?” I asked, still in my bra, but it had been long enough that I wasn’t self-conscious about it anymore. Sister Mary Eucharista would’ve demanded that I cover myself, but she had never had to wear a wire. God forbid.

“Don’t worry about us,” Tim said.

Nate closed up the case just as Bitsy came back, wielding another Ann Taylor bag. I was going to have to buy stock.

I pulled the blue blouse over my head. It was one of those loose sixties-style shirts with a square neck, and it billowed down to my hips. It had puffy short sleeves that grabbed my biceps with elastic. It totally did not go with the skirt, but Tim and Nate didn’t seem to care. They liked that it covered the wire, and even when I leaned over, it didn’t show anything but a little cleavage. And the dragon.

“Good to go,” Tim said, starting to leave with Nate on his heels.

But at the door, he stopped and turned.

“Remember, get him to tell you as much as possible about that gun and his ex-wife. It was his kid, so he was lying about when he saw her last. Get him to tell you what the real story is.”

I nodded and saluted. “Yes, sir,” I said, but immediately pulled my arm down. The movement had tugged on the tape holding the wire, and it hurt.

“And one more thing,” Tim said. “Ask him what he and Matt Powell were talking about when he met him at Versailles the day before he asked you to go over there for him.”

I froze. “He was with Matt Powell? How do you know that?”

Tim smiled in a way that told me he wasn’t about to tell me anything. “Just ask him, Brett, okay?”

“He’s going to wonder how I know that…” My voice trailed off as the door closed behind them and they were gone.

So the cops didn’t just want Jeff Coleman in Kelly’s murder, but also for Matt Powell’s. Suspicion crept into my head again. He’d sent me over to Versailles. Matt Powell had been inked by a tattooist who knew what he was doing. Did Jeff set me up? Had he been playing me all along, and I fell for his sympathy cry?

Bitsy noticed the shirt didn’t go with the skirt.

“You might want to get a pair of jeans or something.”

I’d spent enough money on clothes the last week. “No, I’m all right.” Although a glance in the full-length mirror showed that I needed a little help from those What Not to Wear people. Even the dragon looked a little embarrassed. I shrugged, as if to say, It’s not my fault; I’m on a mission , and left the shop.

Paris was just down the Strip, and I decided to walk to clear my head, get myself into game mode. I was wearing Tevas, which were good to walk in, although sadly did not add to my appearance.

Most of the people moving down the sidewalk, however, didn’t exactly look like they’d just walked off the set of Sex and the City , either. It was too hot to do anything but melt anyway; everyone just hurried to get to their next air-conditioned space. I stopped a couple of times to hover in the doorways of casinos, letting the cool air wash over me so I could make it the next few feet without passing out. I should’ve brought water.