by K. A. Tucker
He’s patient. It’s annoying. But he also seems very interested in this tattoo, which makes it less likely that he’s here to hurt me. I relax my grip on the wrench. “I won’t be. Not here, anyway. Black Rabbit is closed for good, or at least until it opens under new ownership.”
He pauses, his shrewd gaze weighing so heavily on me that I finally have to look away from him. I feel like a sophomore year science class dissection—the unfortunate amphibian donated in the name of education. “That’s a shame.”
Either he’s not from around here or he hasn’t read the news. Or he’s one of those sickos who gets a kick out of crime scenes. “It is.” What’s really a shame is that this guy didn’t come a few weeks ago, because I gladly would have agreed to mark his entire body with my hands then.
On first-glance impression, he actually reminds me of Jesse Welles, the love of my teenage life, though I’d never admit that to anyone. This guy’s eyes are lighter—a cool chocolate rather than near-black—but they have that same intensity; a similar smirk sits atop his full lips. He, too, has dark hair coating his hard, masculine jaw; it’s just sculpted to a perfect short beard. He’s taller and broader than Jesse. Harder looking, not just by a few years of age but as if by life itself. That’s a little concerning, given the kind of life that Jesse Welles has already lived.
But there’s something distinctly different about this guy, too. I can’t quite place it, but I can feel it. Something slightly “off.” Or maybe it’s just this place that’s making everything in my life feel off—after all, my mind is still in a haze over Ned’s death. The last thing I should be thinking about right now is this guy or Jesse or getting laid.
He takes slow, even steps around me, circling the chair, his hands resting in his pockets. “What if I offer to pay you double your rate?”
I frown. I’ve never had anyone offer to pay more. If anything, they’re haggling to lower my hourly charge. Is he an idiot? “Do you know what my rate is?”
His lips twist into a pucker, as if he’s thinking about it. “It can’t be too much.”
I eye him up and down. He’s wearing nondescript black hiking boots, a black T-shirt, and plain blue jeans. Not Wranglers but not custom-made. He looks good in them, but I think that has more to do with his impressive build than choice in fashion. “What if I said it was five hundred an hour?”
“Then I’d say that I heard you were really good at what you do.”
“You mean kick-ass, right?” To some people, I sound arrogant. But in this business, you have to exude confidence. People are allowing you to take a needle filled with permanent ink to their bodies. They’re not going to feel safe with an insecure artist. That’s something Ned taught me. He also said that you have to walk the talk, because you won’t fool a person more than once and this business is all about referral—except for the odd moron who walks into a shop and flashes his skin without ever so much as looking at a portfolio. It’s rare, but it happens.
Thankfully, I can walk the talk. I am that good.
“Who’d you hear that from?” I ask.
“A friend named Mike.”
I’ve traveled all over the world and inked hundreds of people. I’ve worked on at least five Mikes, Michaels, or Micks. Names mean little. “What’d I do for him?”
“A skull,” he answers without missing a beat.
Great. Just as useless. I’ve done at least a dozen skulls. So common.
His upper lip twitches ever so slightly. “Do you normally interrogate potential customers like this?”
“No,” I admit. I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it now. Looking for reasons not to trust this guy, a valid excuse to turn him away, perhaps.
“Then do my reasons for being willing to pay more really matter?” Again, that arrogant little smirk.
In another time, that may have held sway. I’ve always had a weakness for strong but quiet masculinity. “No, they don’t. Because Black Rabbit is closed and I have a ton of cleaning up to do to get the place ready for selling.” I can’t help my voice from cracking with emotion now. I’ve managed to keep down so far. If I can just get through this, maybe it’ll fade without ever truly surfacing.
He nods toward the chair. “What are you doing with that?”
“Throwing it in the Dumpster, if I can ever get this bolt off.”
“Why?”
I’m tired of being questioned about this stupid chair. “Because someone was murdered in it.”
Most normal people would flinch at an answer like that, or press with more specific questions. Not this guy. He simply leans over to reach into the toolbox on the floor for another wrench.
“Don’t bother. I need a torch,” I mutter as he crouches down, the cuffs of his jeans hiking up to show more of his boots.
He ignores me, latching the end onto the bolt. The muscles in his arms and shoulders cord as he works on it, his body rocking back and forth several times until the bolt gives way and begins to rise from the ground, flecks of orange rust dusting the floor.
“That worked?” I exclaim in shock, relief filling my chest. Bobby was wrong. Or he just tricked me into agreeing to finish his ink for him. Either way, I’m going to call the beefy biker on it—who must have at least fifty pounds and three inches on this guy—when he shows up here tomorrow.
“Use a six-point wrench next time. Better grip,” the guy says, standing up smoothly. All of his movements seem fluid. “Do you want help bringing it outside?”
“No. I’ll do it myself.” He’s being too nice to me, and I don’t have the energy to be nice back.
A flash of surprise skitters across his face—a momentary lapse of his carefully guarded expression perhaps. “How?” His eyes drift over my limbs, toned but slender.
I know I’m small. I’ve always been small. When I was young, I was tiny. Thank God for that growth spurt at fourteen or I might have snapped one day and turned homicidal, after a lifetime of people telling me what I can’t do because of my size. My teachers, my friends, their parents. Even my own parents worried about me more than they did my brothers. They still do. It’s a double-edged sword with them, though. Not only am I small, I’m also a girl. Aka fragile.
Weak.
I’ve spent my entire life proving to them—and everyone—that I’m not a weak little girl. That’s probably why I’ve become so independent. If I don’t ask for help, then in my head I’m proving them all wrong. I can’t have people seeing me in that light, especially in this profession.
Granted, as I stand next to this tattoo chair that probably weighs as much as I do and I probably am physically too weak to drag down the hall, I know that I should accept his help. Too bad I’m also stubborn.
“It’s not your problem.” I level his unreadable gaze with one of my own, that I know without seeing a reflection isn’t pleasant. My friend Amber tells me often enough to wipe it off.
It doesn’t seem to faze him. He folds his thick arms over his chest. Waiting for me to ask for help, which I’m not going to do, because then I’d owe him and I hate owing people.
The guy isn’t wavering, and this showdown is becoming more and more uncomfortable as each second passes. Finally I break free of his gaze. “If you don’t mind, now. I’m going to be here all night as it is.”
He tears a sheet of paper towel from the roll and wipes the wrench before setting it back in the box. He wipes his hands next. Again, so graceful. Turning on his heels, he begins walking toward the door, offering a low “You’re welcome.”
“Wait . . .” I heave a sigh, rolling my eyes.
He stops, turns. Settles that stone-cold gaze like he’s expecting something.
Fuck, I already do owe him. I really hate owing people! And somehow I’ve gone from no customers to two in a matter of thirty minutes. Though, as I study his face—a nose that should be too long and narrow but on his angular face not so; a too-perfect dark trim beard, as if he shaped it with a straight razor or something—I decide there could be worse things than o
wing a man who looks like him. “Come by on Thursday and we’ll talk. Maybe I can do your ink then.”
“I’ll think about it.” He turns and strolls out the front door, leaving me staring at his back in wonder. What was that supposed to be? A hissy fit?
“Whatever,” I grumble, locking the dead bolt on the door to avoid any more surprise customers. Holding my breath, I pull the shades down. I dismiss the guy from my thoughts and shift back to my task. This fucking chair that, thanks to the mystery man, can now go into the Dumpster.
I put all of my weight into it as I push.
It doesn’t even budge.
SIX
SEBASTIAN
With my keys in the ignition, I pause once to get another look at the old storefront signage, at the playful eyes staring down at me, and smile. They belong on a puppy or kitten, not on a feral fanged jackrabbit. Kind of like the exotic girl with the razor-sharp attitude inside. Though her eyes aren’t necessarily playful. Soft, yes. Veiled behind a tough act, but I saw the vulnerability there. The need to appear strong when she doesn’t really feel it inside.
She is strong, I’ll give her that. Her uncle was murdered a week ago and she’s not sitting in there, crying about it. She’s set her grief aside to do what needs to be done, and that’s a quality not everyone possesses. She’s doing it on her own, too, I presume, because I don’t see anyone around to help her.
But she’s definitely not unaffected by what’s happened. I could see it in the dark bags under her eyes, as if she hasn’t slept in days. I saw it in the way she reacted to me entering the shop, her tiny fist curled around the wrench, ready to defend herself if she needed to.
I knew about her two-hundred-dollar-an-hour rate before stepping inside, thanks to a quick website search. That, along with an impressive portfolio of work, confirmed to me that I have nothing to worry about if I were forced to have her hold a needle to my flesh. But for now that’s not necessary because I got what I needed.
Information.
She’s going to be busy here for a good few hours, which means her house is waiting for me.
I feel the pull, though, to go back and just drag that chair out for her, despite her attitude. She’s too arrogant or suspicious or plain fucking mule-headed to accept help when she clearly needed it, stretching her tiny body—that I could snap in two in a heartbeat—to her full five-foot-two stature in defiance, even as I towered over her. She clearly wants it out for emotional reasons, to try to unsee whatever she witnessed that led to her uncle’s murder. I want to tell her that it’s pointless. She’ll never be able to shed those memories.
But I’m not here to be her shrink or her confidant.
And if she knows anything about this videotape, then I’m about to become her worst nightmare.
Ingleside hasn’t changed much in the years since I’ve driven through here. The houses are all still small, square, and crammed together, and lining some of the steepest hills in San Francisco with a rainbow of colors—everything from muted gray to Pepto-Bismol pink. Bars cover the first-floor windows of the seedy corner stores and the houses, telling me that the area’s issues with burglary haven’t abated.
I leave my car a full block down from Ned Marshall’s address and walk the rest of the way, keeping my baseball cap pulled down over my face. Of the few people I pass, the majority are Asian. That’s a plus. Most prosecutors consider them unreliable witnesses when it comes to identifying Caucasian suspects. Not that I expect to get caught.
I spot the number up ahead and turn to climb the steep steps like I belong here, at this house on the corner with decorative white grates to protect it from invaders. I prefer window entry, but it would require scaling the walls to the second story here, leaving me exposed. So I’m left with going through the front door.
The gate lock takes me ten seconds to pick, allowing me into the small, secluded entranceway, littered with old running shoes and a can of sand filled with cigarette butts. A flawed and idiotic set up in home design. You’re just giving people like me cover while they spend the extra time to pick your dead bolt and get into your house. Of course, a dead bolt isn’t child’s play. It would cause issues for a local thug looking to lift a TV or cash, but it’s not going to stop a guy like me, who was picking locks for fun long before I had any real reason to.
I’m inside in another thirty seconds, securing the door quietly behind me. I stop to listen for creaks and voices, the cold metal of my Beretta pressed against my leg, ready to be pulled out of my boot if necessary. I’m ninety-five percent certain that no one else is here. The guy who jumped into an airport taxi this morning with a suitcase was clearly leaving, and there were no signs of anyone else here after the girl left for the shop.
Ned Marshall was an avowed bachelor, that much is obvious. A few mismatched chairs are scattered throughout the living room, a four-person glass-and-brass table with tall-backed white kitchen chairs—the ones from the eighties, with the trademark blue, green, and pink patterned cushions—fill the dining room. My parents had those when I was growing up.
The walls are a faded mint green, probably painted by the previous owner, or maybe an ex-wife, and empty save for a few Zeppelin and Willie Nelson posters. In my initial scan, I see nothing of value, other than the fifty-inch flat-screen hanging on the wall and the corner cabinet of liquor bottles.
But there may be something of worth within these walls. Something that will destroy all the good work that Alliance has done if it gets into the wrong hands.
I slip on my gloves and begin my search.
This is what happens when you put a bullet in a guy’s head before you get the fucking information that you need out of him.
I wipe the sheen of sweat off my forehead with my forearm, my frustration settling uncomfortably on my nerves. I’ve searched under every piece of furniture, in and behind every drawer. I even crawled through the narrow attic.
There’s no videotape.
If it’s not in this bedroom, then it’s not in this house.
I check my watch, keenly aware of the time and how long I’ve been here. Hours. It’s six now. I’m guessing that the girl doesn’t often come home to eat, given that a look inside the fridge revealed nothing but soda cans and ketchup. Still, I’ve mapped my escape route. The window in the back bedroom, which lets out above a small shed in the prison-cell-size concrete backyard, will work if I need it.
Strolling over to the unmade mattress that sits on the carpet, I crouch down to lift red lace panties lying haphazardly on top. This is obviously the girl’s room. It feels like it would be her room. Chaotic. Clothes are scattered all over the floor, overflowing from the open suitcase that lies there. That’s probably been sitting there since she landed in San Francisco seven months ago.
With only a two-drawer chest and a small closet for her clothes, she could use the lack of storage space as an excuse. With a recent death in her family, she could use the excuse of being in mourning. But my five-minute read of her today told me she’s the type that just doesn’t give a shit about order on any given day.
I, on the other hand, thrive on order.
I begin searching the usual spots—furniture, mattress, vents—and when that turns up nothing, I move on to the nightstand. Sliding open the drawer, I find no videotape. What I do find is an open box of condoms and a pink vibrator. I’m going to assume that the condoms mean she doesn’t hate men, though today’s encounter would suggest otherwise. Bentley’s report said nothing about a boyfriend, and if there were even a hint of a boyfriend, it would have been in that report. A twenty-five-year-old girl who keeps a box of condoms in her nightstand is definitely responsible and possibly promiscuous. Or at least she isn’t opposed to spontaneous sex. She’s not keeping these in her dresser for when she meets “the right guy.” Women who do that hide their stash in the bottom of their dresser drawer until the guy is actually in the picture.
I reach down and pick up the long, smooth pink vibrator that lies next to the condoms, rolling i
t in my gloved hand. A tube of lubricant is also in the drawer, and it’s half used, telling me that this toy isn’t collecting dust, and that this unfriendly girl likes to get off.
She’s a bit scrawny for my taste. I like my women with some meat on them. Tits that bounce and hips to grab. Still, invading her most private things right now is stirring my blood.
I set the toy back in the drawer and push it shut, quietly chastising myself. I never have trouble focusing on my task. That’s why Bentley trusts me. This must be because my targets have always been middle-aged men with vile reputations.
I move on to a collection of mostly black and purple clothes, rifling first through the mess on the floor and then in the drawers that house her collection of bras and panties. Surprisingly, I find a lot of pink-and-white lace and silk. A feminine contradiction to her edgy exterior.
A well-used sketchbook rests on the floor next to my foot, distracting me from her intimates. I pick it up and begin flipping through. Each page is filled with portraits of various faces, everything from little girls to weathered old men. The detail is impressive, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I already knew she was a talented artist.
I know I won’t find any tapes in this room, and yet I’m not ready to leave. There could be something of use here. Something that helps me understand her and where she might have hidden it. Or where her uncle might have hidden it for her to find.
A bottle of perfume sits on the counter. I wonder if it’s the same intoxicating scent my nose caught in Black Rabbit earlier today. I’ve been trained to rely heavily on all of my senses, so I tend to process my surroundings differently than a civilian would. The way a specific door hinge squeaks or a person’s footfall scrapes against the floor, the scent of a cologne that may help identify a person who was in a room just moments ago, the taste of a smoke in the air—it’s how I’ve survived this long.
Pulling my gloves off so as not to get any of the perfume on the leather, I pick up the bottle and spray a small stream into the air. The girlish mix of almonds and coconut permeates the room, and I close my eyes, reveling in its femininity for a few long moments while I clear my thoughts.