Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

“Did you make sure it’s not ticking?” Jeff asked; his tone was ominous, as if it might really be ticking.

DellaRocco’s eyes widened, and he pushed back in his chair, away from the desk. “Didn’t even think to. You think it might have something to do with his murder?”

I was the only one who knew what was in the package, and I knew that it didn’t, but I shrugged, as if it could be the bomb Jeff suggested.

Jeff was leaning down, his ear now close to the box. He shook his head. “Don’t hear anything. You’re lucky,” he said to DellaRocco. “You know, you should tell the cops about this.” He cocked his head at me. “Her brother’s a detective. Why don’t we take this and she can give it to him?”

DellaRocco’s eyes narrowed. “A detective?”

“He’s with the Las Vegas police department,” I offered. “I’m sure he’d appreciate getting the package. It might be a clue to his murder. You might actually be responsible for solving it.” The last bit was a bit much, but he was nodding as though I was telling the truth.

“I see what you mean.” He paused. “They wouldn’t be upset if I didn’t call them myself?”

Jeff chuckled. “She’s practically a detective herself.”

He didn’t see the dirty look I threw him.

“And even if it’s not ticking,” Jeff added, “remember the anthrax that went through the mail and killed that woman in Connecticut after 9/11?”

That did it. DellaRocco pushed the parcel over to Jeff. “Okay, fine. Get it out of here.”

Jeff picked it up and swung it under his arm. He threw his other arm around my waist and started steering me out. “Thanks, Tony,” he said.

“Thank you ,” DellaRocco said.

Jeff was pushing me so quickly out the door that I tripped over my feet. “What’s the hurry?” I said. “Do you really think there’s a bomb in that package?”

“Maybe I want to get my fiancée home,” he said with a leer.

I squirmed to get out of his grasp, but he was too strong.

“A few more minutes, Kavanaugh, and you’ll be a free woman again.”

“I’m already a free woman.”

Jeff chuckled. “Why is it so easy to get to you?” His words were light, but there was something underneath his tone that made me take pause.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He pulled me over to the Pontiac.

“I’ve got the Jeep,” I said.

“Just get in, okay?”

We’d barely gotten into the car before Jeff started opening the package.

“Why are you opening it?” I asked.

“Because I’ve done business with Tattoo Inc. And this isn’t their logo, even though it’s got their name on it.” As he spoke, he ripped the cardboard box open.

I peered over the top to see what was inside.

It was the biggest gun I’d ever seen.

“Smith and Wesson.45,”Jeff said,picking it up out of its packing material and studying it.

“Put it back,” I said, leaning far enough away so my back was plastered against the door behind me. “You don’t know if it’s loaded.”

“It’s not loaded.”

I gave him a look, and he rolled his eyes at me. “I know a little bit about guns, and it’s not loaded. Okay?”

That’s right. Jeff had done a stint in the Marines.

I’d always had guns in the house, since my dad and brother both were cops. But I’d always kept my distance, not wanting to get too close to one. They made me uncomfortable. All those accidental shootings you read about in the paper. I didn’t want to be a statistic.

“What would Ray Lucci want with a gun?” I said, more to myself than to Jeff.

But Jeff answered. “He was an ex-con,” he said, as if that explained everything, and he put the gun back in the box and folded over the top flaps.

I studied the logo. It was the one on the Web site. But this certainly wasn’t tattoo machine parts.

“You’ve ordered from Tattoo Inc.?” I asked.

Jeff nodded. “They’ve got great prices.”

“But this isn’t their logo?”

“Uh-uh.”

I reached over my shoulder and pulled my messenger bag into my lap. Rummaging around, my fingers finally landed on the Tattoo Inc. receipt. I took it out and waved it at Jeff. “Something’s going on,” I said.

Jeff plucked the receipt out of my hand and studied it before looking up at me, his eyes quizzical. “How did you get this?”

I’d forgotten that Sylvia came to me privately this morning. I had to think fast. “I can’t tell you.” So lame.

A smile tugged at his mouth. “You can’t tell me?”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter how I got it. All that matters is, something’s up with this order. It says tattoo-machine parts, but it’s a gun. And they’re using Tattoo Inc.’s name. That’s fraud.”

I had no idea what I was babbling about. I couldn’t tell Jeff that Sylvia gave it to me. Because then he’d ask why and I’d be stuck. It wasn’t my place to tell him about Ray Lucci.

Why hadn’t Sylvia told him yet?

“Do you think this order has anything to do with Lucci’s murder?” I asked, grasping at straws, trying to make sure Jeff was distracted enough to keep from asking me questions. “Do you think he thought he was in danger and needed the gun?”

“If so, it came too late,” Jeff said, handing me back the receipt. “You didn’t seem surprised to see the package on his desk.”

“I wasn’t. I used the account number off this receipt and tracked it. I knew it came in yesterday.”

“So that’s why you showed up here?” Jeff grinned.

“He also ordered a clip cord,” I said, ignoring him. “He got that a couple weeks ago.”

“But if the tattoo-machine parts weren’t actually tattoo-machine parts, and they were really a gun, who’s to say the clip cord was really a clip cord?”

He had a point.

We sat for a few minutes pondering that until Jeff broke the silence by saying, “Do you have time to follow me to my shop?”

I glanced at my watch. “Guess so. What are you going to do?”

He gently picked up the box and leaned over, putting it on the floor behind the passenger seat. “I’ll meet you there,” he said, indicating I should get out. So I did.

The whole way to Murder Ink, I wondered how that box of tattoo-machine parts became a gun. I also wondered how long it would take Sylvia to tell Jeff about Ray Lucci.

Jeff parked in the alley behind the strip mall where his shop was, but I preferred the Bright Lights Motel lot across the way. He met me at the front door, opening it for me and leading me back to his office.

He’d put the box with the gun in it on his desk, next to another one about the same size. That one had a logo for Tattoo Inc. that did look different, but not so much so that it was noticeable at first glance.

He pointed to it. “See?”

I nodded, not that he paid attention. He sat behind the desk and moved his laptop around in front of him. I came around the desk so I could look over his shoulder.

Jeff clicked on a bookmark named Tattoo Inc. A Web site popped up, and it looked like the one I’d seen. “That’s it,” I said.

“Give me the receipt.”

I took it out of my bag and handed it to him. Jeff typed in the account number. We waited a couple of minutes, and finally, a box popped up saying it wasn’t a valid account number.

Jeff picked up the receipt again and studied it. After a second, he leaned back and grinned at me. “Did you Google Tattoo Inc. or type in this URL on this receipt?” He waved the receipt at me.

“I typed in the URL,” I said.

“That’s what’s wrong,” he said, stabbing his finger at the screen where the URL for the real Tattoo Inc. was.