Skydive

by Susan O’Brien

  The men started to tussle, and others stepped in to pull them back. Unable to run through the crowd, I lifted my cell phone and fired off as many photos as I could, hoping to catch a shot of the woman. Finally, I pushed my way through the melee, grabbing Kenna’s hand and yelling “Thank you!” to Hero Guy, who looked unkempt but uninjured.

  “Can I get your number?” Drunk Guy stupidly called to Kenna while the band played on.

  By the time we got to the door, no one was there or on the street.

  “Look for Kat,” I said. “You go that way for a few blocks, and I’ll go the other.”

  We dashed off, Kenna in heels and me in flats, both clacking down the street to no avail. Every side street and alley was Kat-free. I texted Kenna to turn around, and we watched each other head back to the bar.

  “What happened?” Kenna asked when we were close enough to talk.

  “I might have seen Kat. I don’t know. It was probably just my imagination. I only saw the back of someone who looked like her. I’m so sorry about what happened to you in there.”

  “Thanks. I should go back in and thank that guy who defended me.”

  “Definitely, but hold on.”

  I scrolled through my photos to show Kenna the woman I’d seen. The expressions on patrons’ faces were amusing as they watched the brawl and wondered why I was taking photos in the opposite direction. Most of the pictures were blurry, and only one had a semi-clear image of the woman at the door.

  It was of her back, with her white-blond hair pulled high into a ponytail, her pale skin showing through a rust-colored shirt that revealed part of her back and shoulders. It included only the faintest hint of her profile, not enough for us to identify her or even the eyebrow piercing we’d seen in Kat’s pictures online.

  “It does kind of look like her. Can you enlarge it?” Kenna asked.

  I used my fingertips, more awkwardly than usual with my new French manicure, to expand the woman’s image.

  “Look at her shoulder,” I said. I’d been searching for the birthmark Corey had mentioned, but something else stood out.

  “That’s a tattoo,” Kenna said. “I can’t make it out. Can you?”

  I held the phone closer and focused as well as I could. “We need to take this home and look at it on the computer, but first we should take it inside and show it to Joey.”

  “And I want to thank that guy in the tie,” Kenna said.

  “And slug the other guy?”

  “Right.”

  Joey had finished his set when we walked back in, and the drunkard was nowhere in sight.

  Kenna approached the man who had helped her and made sure he was okay.

  “I’m fine,” he said, as if it was nothing. His cheek was red where he must have taken a hit, and his hair was bed-head style. “That jerk had one too many.”

  “I know,” she said. “Thank you for stepping in. Do you know where he went?”

  “The manager tossed him out the back,” he said. “Everything’s on video, including what he did to you and me, so I don’t think he’ll come back.”

  Kenna and I looked at each other. Video. Could it have captured Kat on camera? Or what kind of car she’d left in, if any at all?

  “Great,” Kenna said with more enthusiasm than he probably expected. “Thank you again.”

  Twelve

  “You wanna talk to the lead singer?” the manager asked when we approached him, rolling his eyes.

  We’re not cougars, I thought, but I opted for, “He’s a family friend. We just want to congratulate him.”

  “All right. They’re packing up their stuff out back. Just go through that door.” He pointed to a door with an EMPLOYEES ONLY plaque. Funny how simple signs like that usually do the trick. But as a PI, I’d learned to ignore them when necessary.

  “Speaking of out back,” Kenna said, “I’m the one that drunk guy got touchy with.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that. We threw him out. He won’t be back. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. But if you have video of it, I’d love to see it. I’m not going to press charges or anything. I just want to get a better look at him so I can avoid him in the future. I mean, I still want to hang out here, you know?”

  The manager looked reluctant, but he shrugged.

  “Do what you gotta do out back, and I’ll set it up. Once you go through that door, you’ll see an office. That’s where I’ll be.”

  “I appreciate it,” Kenna said.

  So did I.

  Out back was a cracked trash-scented lot where Joey was loading a van and chatting with bandmates.

  “Hey,” he said when he saw us. “You came to this?” He looked flattered.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Nice job.”

  “You guys rocked,” Kenna said. “You have quite a voice.” The guys around him smiled.

  “So listen,” I said. “We don’t want to keep you, but can I show you a picture? I want to see if you recognize this person.”

  “Sure.”

  I held out my phone and enlarged the photo.

  “Is that Kat?” he said. “Her hair’s lighter. And holy shit, did she get a tattoo?” He looked at us like we might be upset by his language. We weren’t. This was not a career for the easily offended.

  “What makes you think it’s her?” I asked, watching his reaction closely.

  “It looks like her. And like I said, she believes in me. She would have been stoked about this gig. You took that tonight, right?”

  “Yeah. Just a little while ago. You don’t recognize that tattoo?”

  “No way. That’s new.”

  “Does she have other tattoos that you know of?”

  “Nope. She’s always wanted one, but she didn’t have the money for it.”

  “What kind did she want?”

  “No idea. I don’t think she knew either.”

  “By the way, did Kat play any sports or work out anywhere?” I asked.

  “She liked to walk,” he said. “We’d go on long walks, but that’s it.”

  “Okay, that’s helpful,” I said. His friends were waiting by the van, and his shifting feet told me he wanted to go. “If you think of anything else, please call us anytime,” I said. I handed him another card. If he was anything like me as a teen, he might have lost the first one.

  “How long did she stay tonight?” he asked, sounding wistful. Maybe he had more feelings for her than he wanted to admit.

  “I’m not sure. I only saw her leaving.”

  “You know, she probably didn’t want to see them,” he said quietly, tilting his head slightly toward his friends. “Because of that history I told you about.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I get it. Keep in touch about anything, especially if you hear from her.”

  “I will,” he said. “See ya.”

  Five minutes later, we were seeing Joey again on the manager’s security video, which had views of the bar, the door, and the stage. For better or worse, my photo was clearer than the video, although seeing someone in 2D provided a different perspective. I wished we’d had Joey come and look at it, but he’d driven away.

  “There’s that jerk putting his arm around you,” the manager said to Kenna.

  I was still keeping my eye on the door. As the crowd around Kenna backed away from the fight, Kat had walked in. There was no sound on the video, but I knew the argument had briefly carried over the music. Kat appeared to have been surprised by it, and after glancing at the stage, she’d left. Through the front windows, I could see she’d taken a right, but that’s all I could make out.

  “You don’t know his name?” Kenna asked the manager.

  “Never seen him before,” the manager said. “He left with a few friends. I’ll keep an eye out for them. You don’t need to worry.”

  “Can you replay it
one more time?” she asked.

  He hit a few buttons, and I watched Kat enter, trying to note everything about her appearance.

  “I think I know her,” I said to the manager. “That girl who came through the door.” I pointed at Kat. “Do you know her by chance?”

  “No. And I’m not supposed to play this video for you, so don’t spread it around. We’re only supposed to use it with the owner—and law enforcement if necessary.”

  “We won’t mention it to anyone,” Kenna said. She looked at me. “You ready to go?”

  I thought for a moment and looked at the manager.

  “Weird question,” I said. “But do you know if there are any tattoo parlors around here?”

  “Are you kidding?” he said.

  “No. Why?”

  “Do you know how many people go from here to get tattoos on weekends? A frickin’ lot. Get some drinks in people, they get a tattoo.” He lifted his shirtsleeve to show he’d been one of them. Cupid was shooting an arrow that said “Ashley” on his bicep. “Got this for my ex-wife.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I’m sorry your tattoo lasted longer than your marriage? I guess you’ll name your first kid Ashley? I hope your mom’s name is Ashley too?

  “Awww,” Kenna said. “You’re sweet. What if I want to get one for my husband? Where should I go?”

  “Atlas Art,” he said. “It’s the best around. Two blocks east. Take a left on Randolph Street and you’re there. Have fun, ladies.”

  Knowing Kenna, she would.

  I’d been many places as a PI, but a tattoo parlor wasn’t one of them. I was fascinated by everything in it, including the artists, all of whom were tattooed themselves.

  The shop was open until one a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays, according to a sign on the door, and two clients were getting work done. The walls were lined with tattoo possibilities, and a variety of painful-sounding piercings were offered. (Both nipples? Septum? Tongue? And what the heck was a Snake Bite?!)

  My muscles tensed, as if anticipating pokes from sharp instruments being used on others.

  “I’ll be right with you,” a bald man with a full beard called from the back.

  “Thanks,” Kenna called back. She looked at me and lowered her voice. “You know, we could get tattoos to honor our friendship.”

  “Or to dishonor our friendship,” I whispered. “I don’t know what we’d pick, and I don’t want a tattoo where it shows. Or where it doesn’t show.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Keep an open mind. We could get something small. Something for our guys. If I got one for Andy, he would die.”

  “Or kill you. Or kill me. He’s already pissed I got you into this PI stuff.”

  “Yeah. But if he loved it, you’d get the credit.”

  “Can I help you?” the bald man interrupted.

  “I hope so,” I said. “Actually, we have a question about a tattoo we saw on someone else.”

  “Okay. You got a photo?”

  I pulled out my phone and enlarged Kat’s picture again. “Sorry. It’s not very good.”

  “The photo or the tattoo?” he said. “Neither one’s great. In fact, that’s not really a tattoo.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I hate to say it, but it’s a brand.”

  “What does that mean?” Kenna asked.

  “Who took this picture?” he asked.

  “I did,” I answered slowly.

  “Do you know the woman with the tattoo?”

  “Why? Do you?” I asked, confused. Why was he asking all the questions?

  “No,” he said. “But I know what’s on her shoulder.”

  “What is it? I’m new to all this.”

  “You know how some animals are branded by their owners?”

  Kenna and I exchanged frowns.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Well, some pimps brand their prostitutes. It’s sick, and we don’t have anything to do with it, obviously. That tattoo wasn’t done by anyone reputable.”

  “That’s horrible. Can you tell whose ‘brand’ it is? Or if it has any particular meaning? We’re really worried about this young woman.”

  He took my phone and inspected the photo.

  “I can’t tell whose it is,” he said. “But it definitely says ‘Property of’ someone. One of my artists, Tracy, might know.”

  “Is she here?” Kenna asked.

  “She’ll be here tomorrow at noon, and you can email her if you want.” He took a business card from a drawer. “Tell her I sent you. She kind of specializes in this stuff.”

  “What do you mean by ‘specializes’?” Kenna asked.

  He took a deep breath. “If someone comes in with something like this, Tracy covers it up for free. She transforms it into something positive. Whatever the girls want. You’d be amazed by how much it means to them. It’s really emotional, and it’s a lot of work. People get referred to her from everywhere.”

  I was touched.

  “That’s amazing.”

  “I love Tracy, and I don’t even know her,” Kenna said. “Does she take walk-ins?”

  “Yeah, but she’s usually booked. Call ahead for an appointment. Anything else I can do for you tonight?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “You’ve been awesome. Thanks.”

  “We’ll be back,” Kenna said. She jabbed a thumb toward me. “I’m gonna talk this one into getting something.”

  “Ha. Maybe we can come up with something custom.”

  “Well, she is one of a kind,” Kenna teased. “It’s true,” she whispered as we left. “You almost cried when he explained what Tracy does. So it’s on now, right? No one gets branded on Nicki Valentine’s watch.”

  It had been “on” for a while. Now it was turbo charged.

  “I’m really nervous about tonight,” I confessed to Kenna at home. We’d emailed Tracy from the car, and we hoped she’d respond quickly. “What if Daddy B or someone else shows up?”

  “Dean will have us wired,” she said. “He’ll be able to hear everything.”

  “That makes me nervous too. What if we get caught wearing a wire? Then what?”

  “Dean has worked on international conflicts, Nicki. I don’t think he’ll mess up a little King County PI work, especially when his lady love is involved.”

  “Right.” I bit my lip.

  The kids were asleep and being monitored by Andy, and Kenna and I were in my living room, waiting for Dean to deliver equipment. If I hadn’t been so worried, I probably would’ve felt cool.

  “I should focus on the positive. I trust Dean. He’s the one person I don’t mind taping wires to me, or doing whatever he has to do. What about you?”

  “I don’t care if he puts wires down my ass crack. You know how I am.”

  I giggled. I sure did. A free spirit. I totally didn’t identify.

  “Thank God for you, Kenna. What if we hadn’t met?”

  “You’d be a prissy wallflower.”

  “And you’d have a criminal record. You never could have been a PI.”

  Apparently we’d saved each other already. I hoped we wouldn’t have to do it again.

  “What are you wearing?” Dean asked a few minutes later when he called.

  “Interesting question. Why do you ask?”

  I had on jeans and a blue sweatshirt. Kenna and I were dressing like guys in case Kat looked out the peephole. My underwear was lacy and pink, but I doubted that was pertinent.

  “Does it have buttons?”

  “No. Why? What’s up?”

  “I want you to wear a button cam. It looks just like a button. Kenna can wear one too. I’ve got a couple.”

  “Okay. So we have to wear something with buttons, and you’ll replace one of them with a camera?”

  “Exactly.
And I’ll replace all the buttons, so they match. I have sets.”

  “Okay. I don’t sew though, so I might not have enough thread. I only have those little hotel kits.”

  Kenna waved me down and pointed at herself, mouthing, “I have thread.”

  “Never mind,” I told Dean. “Kenna’s got it.”

  “Great. I’ll bring what I’ve got, and you guys get some outfits together.”

  The plan was to rent a separate hotel room, hook up to Wi-Fi, and wear battery-operated cameras. Dean could watch a live feed on his phone while we (hopefully) met with Kat. Kenna would stand off to the side while I knocked on the door, since seeing two “guys” might scare Kat off. There were certain laws about where and when you could record, and we’d take those into account.

  We needed to borrow Andy’s clothes, since he was closest to our size, so Kenna dashed home to gather button-down shirts and a few polos. By the time Dean arrived, we had a pile of possibilities.

  “These look good,” Dean said while sifting through the stack and holding up buttons that would mask tiny camera lenses.

  “What if the hotel lights are dim?” I asked. “Will you still be able to see what’s going on?”

  “These are great in low light, and I’ll be able to hear you no matter what. We’ll test them before we go.”

  Forty minutes and many questions later, we had everything buttoned up, literally, and the cameras had tested well. Dean could even record the video and audio through a phone app. My only disappointment was that Tracy hadn’t emailed us back yet. I wished we had her input on the tattoo.

  Other than that, we were ready to go. Or so we thought.

  Thirteen

  We’d come prepared to pay Kat’s full fee, since we knew her pimp would expect money, no matter how she spent her time.