Age fuffery looking for something real. Valentine's probing books and debunking tours helped me winnow through the crap to get to the occasional nugget of gold.
And so-"I have all your books," I blurted. Like a schoolgirl. How embarrassing.
But the Mysterious Mirabilus looked at me with sharp new interest. "How interesting," he said, sitting in the client's chair opposite me as I sat down at my desk. "That strikes me as very unusual. Given your profession."
I grinned. "And why can't a tattoo artist read Christopher Valentine?"
"I meant, as a professed magician," Valentine said, all serious, dark pointy eyebrows beetling into a serious look of concern. He was much more interesting in person: on camera he looked all pale and WASPy, but with him sitting in my client's chair I could see a slight Middle Eastern slant to his features and a subtle, swarthy tint to his skin that would have made it a wonderful canvas to ink on. "After all, I have spent the last few years of my life-"
"-exposing all the junk in the so-called 'magickal' world," I replied, "freeing the rest of us practitioners to focus on the good stuff?"
Valentine and Nicholson looked at each other.
At this point I really noticed his colleague, Alex Nicholson: young, not too tall, tanned, with firm angular features that hinted at little or no body fat beneath his trim suit and turtleneck. Subtle, colored streaks wove through his wavy blond hair and the trimmed tuft on his chin. A single blue captive-bead ring hung in one ear. Like a slightly edgy Ken doll. Yummy.
"A skeptical witch," Valentine said at last. "How about that."
"Technically I'm not a witch or warlock," I said. "I don't have a magical bloodline-I do technical magic, with potions and tools and leylines, which makes me a magician-"
"I thought I was the magician," Valentine said.
"A practitioner would call you a illusionist.," I replied, "though I prefer the term wizard. As in Mister Wizard? Because what a stage magician can do with science is far more than conjuring. But… I somehow don't get the feeling you came here to quiz me about what I call you, because it might be different when you're not around. How can I help you?"
"Well, then," Valentine said, rubbing his hands together. "I hoped you might help me with, as you put it, 'helping people focus on the good stuff.' I've heard you claim to be able to create 'magic' tattoos-"
"I 'claim' nothing. My work speaks for itself," I responded, shrugging my shoulders so the vines and snakes rippled down my bare arms. Nicholson was trying not to look, but it wasn't working; I was trying not to smile, which wasn't working either. "I am an expert artist, and if you have a tat in mind, I can ink it, whether the design be mundane, magical, even spiritual."
"Weeell, then," Valentine said. "Perhaps you could help us. I and my lovely assistant-"
"He is that," I said. Nicholson suddenly looked down, embarrassed, which made him doubly cute, and Valentine blinked a couple of times before continuing.
"Ahem. I and my assistant would like you to participate in a little test. We would like you to draw a magical tattoo-and then I, who happen to be trained in the tattoo arts myself, will attempt to replicate it, to our mutual satisfaction."
"Are you issuing me the Valentine Challenge?" I said, now openly grinning.
Valentine bowed. "That I am."
I leaned back in my chair. Fuck the Vectrix-this was a brand new Prius, with a house and garage to put it in. "A million bucks. Mmmm. I do so hate to take your money. BUT-I don't ink as a performance, or for tricks. Tattooing is an invasive procedure that violates the body. It needs a sterile environment-and an encircled one, if magic is involved. And it's a permanent mark on the human body; I don't ink as a stunt-"
Valentine had listened with mild interest, then with a triumphant smile. "So you won't do it?" he asked, grinning at Nicholson.
"I didn't say that," I said, looking straight at Nicholson. "Does your lovely assistant actually want me to make a permanent mark on his body?"
Nicholson looked up, caught my gaze, and looked away again, embarrassed. It was so cute! "Actually, yes," he said, flushing, looking up at me at last, his eyes catching on mine with a bit of electric desire. "On my wrist."
He held up his left hand, pushing his watch down to expose his wrist. "A hider," I said, reaching for the Big Blue Binder. "I have a good selection of magical flash for the wrist-"
"Actually," Valentine said, smiling, "we had a specific design in mind."
"Oh… kay," I said. "But if you want a magical tattoo-"
Nicholson pulled out an envelope, "I hoped you could do this."
Oh…kay. This was a bad scene. I took the envelope gingerly, while Valentine and Nicholson looked on-Valentine gleefully, Nicholson bashfully, a bit skeptically. I opened it up and unfolded a bad photocopy of an ornate bit of flash, a Victorian-inspired design with constellations and Roman numerals and circular filigree that was the magical equivalent of gears. It took me a moment to realize what it was-a clock.
"I'm not going to do this," I said, tossing the paper down.
"I knew it," Valentine said, slapping Nicholson's shoulder. "You owe me-"
Nicholson batted him away. "Why not?" he said, almost hurt.
"It's a watch," I said. "This is a permanent mark and you want me to do a watch?"
"Why not?" Valentine said, grinning even more broadly. I was starting to dislike the man, and this after such a good start. "Won't it keep time-"
"Obviously not," I said, pointing at the zodiacal marks. "It's calibrated to the stars, to a sidereal day, not a solar day, so it will lose time-a whole day, as the Earth goes around the sun. Didn't you take astronomy in school? And what if he moved? It would be off by however many time zones were involved!"
Valentine's jaw remained open. Nicholson remained undeterred.
"It has 'knobs' so you can reset it," he said, pointing.
I stared at the design for a moment. "It… does," I said. The more I looked, the more masterful the design appeared. "That's… good. To use the knobs, I'll need to tattoo contact points on the fingers of… oh. That's these associated disc designs here?"
Nicholson leaned forward. "Uh, yes. So they are."
"Who did this?" I looked back and forth at Nicholson and Valentine, who looked back and forth at each other. "This is expert work, but I certainly didn't do it, nor did anyone I know of in the Southeast. Where did you get it?"
"I have my sources," Valentine said, leaning back in his chair.
"Weeeell," I said, miming his earlier intonation. "I can't just ink this as is-"
"I told you so-sorry, am I jumping the gun?"
"Don't be a dick, old man," I snapped. "I take my profession as seriously as you do, and I am not going to put a permanent magical mark on the human body without two things: first, you have to get me some virgin flash-meaning unfolded, without lines that obscure the design. And no low-quality photocopies, either. I need something as close to the original as possible or a high-resolution digital image, TIFF preferred."
"A… 'tiff?" asked Valentine, looking at Nicholson.
"It's a… graphics format," Nicholson said. "Like a JPEG. Not a problem."
Valentine shrugged, nodded. "Sounds fair," he said. "We can do that."
"Second, I need to get it vetted by a local witch," I raised my hand before Valentine could say anything. "I'm not weaseling. I can ink a known design, but for something this complicated… I need a second eye, someone trained in graphomancy. Normally that would cost some coin, but I can get a witch to do it for free. If-and only if-she approves, I'll do your tattoo, and I guarantee it will do what she'll say it will do. But I make no guarantees about what Mister Valentine can pull off, no matter how skilled a tattooist he is. And if he can replicate my work-" I cracked my neck, then cracked a smile. "Hey, more power to him."
After that, I fixed my smile and stared straight at Valentine. He stared back at me for a moment, then looked at Nicholson. "Sounds fair, Alex?"
"Sounds fair," Nicholson said. "Can yo
u get her some better flash?"
"Today, preferably," I said. "I have an appointment with my witch this afternoon-"
Valentine jiggled in his pocket and pulled out an USB drive on his keychain. He scowled at it for a moment, then seemed to think better of it. "I have a picture on here, but it's really no better than the photocopy. Can I email you when I get back to my hotel?"
"Sure-it' s just dakota at rogue unicorn dot net, no dash."
"Will that take large files?"
"Yes, it just goes to my gmail account," I said.
"A skeptical witch with a gmail account who wants TIFF files," Valentine said, jamming his hands back into his pockets. "What is the world coming to?"
"I'm not a witch," I replied. "I'm just a tattoo artist."
Valentine was as good as his word-I had the file before my break. I printed out a copy of his "watch" and Wulf s suspected Nazi flash on the 11x17 printer to speed things up, and dumped his files and my scans on a USB key to meet Jinx. I'm nothing if not prepared.
A distant noise of a leaf blower greeted me as I stepped back to our reception area, and I grinned at Kring/L, a big, beefy bald man with a walrus moustache, going over flash with a young couple over the distant noise of the leaf blower. Unlike me, he did jinxes-lover's names-so he got work I generally didn't; but he still felt the same way I did about them, and was trying to sell the kids on matching designs rather than something they'd regret in six weeks.
"You think all the leaves would have fallen by now," he said, looking up at me, cocking his head back at the muted whine from the parking lot. He was a great artist, and yet didn't sport a single tattoo. "I thought they did this on Wednesdays."
"That's the beauty of global warming for you," I said. "Blow the leaves around enough with a gas mower, and you get to watch them fall later every year."
He cocked his head at the two kids-they were actually pretty cleancut, kind of preppy, and had stiffened at my crack. I took the hint and shut up. I slipped out the door, then stomped in my big old boots back to the balcony at the end of the stairs. I was willing to bet I'd see a huge-ass SUV in the parking lot-no, two. Why should I expect that they'd ridden together?
My jaw dropped. A black helicopter sat in the back parking lot of the Rogue Unicorn, its blades spinning down slowly from a light whine to near-complete silence.
The leafblower had wings.
8. Secret Agent Man
In shock, I descended the stairs, watching the set of counterrotating, oddly spaced blades slowly come to a stop. The helicopter was simultaneously sweeping and angular, landing gear curving back from its nose in a horseshoe, tail swooping up like a fin, making it look like a giant metal Shamu carved from matte black panels that ate up all the light.
Then I noticed the same Fed logo I'd seen at City Hall, black on black, embossed on the helicopter's side in a slightly shiny effect similar to what you get if you push the levels too far on Photoshop. .. and leaning against the 'copter, next to the logo, was the same dark-suited Fed.
"Miss Frost?" the Fed said, detaching himself from the 'copter. People in movies duck when stepping under a chopper's blades, but he just strolled forward, letting the wind tousle his wavy brown hair. "Special Agent Philip Davidson. We met at Atlanta Homicide, but didn't really get a chance to speak. I was told you would be expecting me?"
He extended his hand, and I stared down at it, not sure what I was seeing was real. His suit was tailored from a fabric whose sheen somehow matched the 'copter's hide, and his well-trimmed goatee still reminded me of Johnny Depp or maybe Spock's evil twin. His sunglasses were straight out of the Matrix, and I swear if he'd had a tie with a horizontal tie tack I'd have started calling him "Agent Smith." But he exuded a gentle sincerity, staring up at me with an easy directness I rarely saw in shorter men. His surprisingly delicate hands were warm, his handshake firm.
"In not so many words, but yes," I said. "Rand said something about it."
"I would have made an appointment," he said, in a voice as warm and firm as his hands, "but since we were in the neighborhood I thought I'd drop by and hope you were on your break."
Abruptly the twin sets of counter-rotating blades whined and folded up, closing like two Chinese fans and tucking themselves back over the body of the craft until it was narrow and compact enough to fit in the width of a single parking space.
"You decided to drop by in that?" I asked. "Really?"
"Budget cuts," he said, spreading his hands-as if budget cuts explained anything. "Ever since we lost one in Iraq it's been harder and harder to justify spending money on Shadowhawks, so the brass took them public and is playing up their silent-running so we can market them to local law enforcement. One of its features is the ability to land quietly in a restricted space-so I told the pilot to land here, kill two birds with one stone."
Suddenly I could see an APD officer inside the copter talking to the pilot-no one I knew through Rand, but clearly high ranking and highly interested.
I laughed out loud. "Secret-agent-man, now copter-salesman- man-"
"It wasn't my idea," he said, mouth quirking up in an embarrassed smile that made him seem even less 'agent' and even more 'human'. "They're fun, but personally, I drive a Prius."
"Riiight," I said. "Well, as it so happens I've made an appointment for my break, but I don't want you to have wasted all the gas on this trip. What can I do for you?"
"Based on your comments last night, I believe you can help our investigation into the murder. I had hoped to ask you a whole series of questions," he said, calmly staring up at me, radiating disapproval without dropping into an accusatory tone. "Is this appointment of yours something that can't wait?"
"Yes, it's urgent, and a friend is doing me a favor," I said. Suddenly, inspiration struck me. "Hang on. You don't happen to have a picture of the victim's tattoo on you?"
"Why?" I expected him to say 'yes' or 'no' or play neutral, but he had a cheerful directness that was hard not to like, and when he pursed his lips thoughtfully I felt like I could stare at his lips all day. Then they moved. "It is evidence, you know."
"I'm seeing a graphomancer," I said. "Maybe she could shed some light on it-more information about what the mark does, or who did the design."
He leaned back, thinking, and, damnit, I started to think the smile was just from looking at me. "I thought you said Sumner did it?"
"Sumner didn't do his own designs," I said. "He used graphomancers. Even I use graphomancers-"
"So you're better than Sumner?"
My face flushed. "I'm not saying that, it's just… my training is-"
"That's all right," he said, smiling. "Look. I didn't mean to hold you up. I'll get straight to why I'm here. I want your client list." He must have seen my jaw tighten, so he raised his hand. "Now, don't get antsy. I won't force you to turn it over-"
"You're right about that," I snapped. "In Georgia tattooing is practically a medical procedure-that list is private, and sensitive. I could lose my license if I gave it to you without a warrant, and I really doubt you can get a warrant."
"Really?" Philip said, raising an eyebrow. "You don't think I could get a warrant?"
"Maybe," I said, "if you were investigating a crime, and not trying to prevent one. Unless I or one of my clients were suspects in the prior killings. Are we suspects?"
"Well, no, but given the circumstances there are other legal avenues I could-" Philip began, then stopped. "Look, I'm not trying to be a dick here. I know how the Edgeworld works-I don't want to come down heavy and scare off the very people I want to protect. But I would like to talk to you about setting up a procedure to warn your client base. They could be targets… if you are as good as you look."
His eyes were drifting over the tattoos on my arms, but his mouth quirked up a bit as he said it, and I gaped. I could swear the cheeky little gnome was hitting on me! OK, perhaps "gnome" was too strong: that was just an automatic reaction to an advance from anyone in a suit. Strip him out of the suit, on the other
hand… he'd be buffer than Alex Nicholson. Oh my. Either way, I was too dumbfounded to speak, so he continued.
"Think it over," he said, all serious. "I know you think I'm spooky-black-helicopter man, but I'm really a nice guy who doesn't want to see you or any of your clients hurt. Please think about how we might warn them-perhaps you could contact them, let us know who's willing to talk to us?" He held up his hands. "No innuendo here-seriously. Twelve people have been killed. I don't want to see that number hit thirteen. You should think about it."
"I'll… ask. No promises."
"Okay. For now. And about the tat we showed you," he said, "we don't normally let evidence into the wild. You never know what may tip off a suspect, or spawn a copycat. Perhaps your witch would come to the offices and view the piece there?"
"No," I said. "For this witch, you bring things to her-she's got an elaborate computer setup to analyze images. Makes her fees high, but it's worth it." I stared at him. "Twelve people murdered? You should think about it."
"I'll ask," he said. "No promises."
"Fair enough," I said, turning to my Vespa to ferret out the Sumner book from my saddlebags. "And now I have a present for you, Special Agent Davidson."
"Oh, you shouldn't have," he said, throwing up his hands in mock astonishment. Then he saw the book's title and the few bookmarks I'd put in it, and his face went solemn. "Scratch that- you should have."
I told him about my theories-the potential victims in the book, the good chance that someone else might have the tat, the likelihood that a graphomancer had inked it sometime around the turn of the millennium, and even my fears about Sumner's death itself.
"So much fucking time lost," he said, staring at the book in his hand. "We should have been looking for graphomancers from the very beginning-"
"You didn't have a name until yesterday," I said, hoping it would reassure him.
"We had hints," he snapped. "We're supposed to be the ones that follow up on them. We're the ones who're supposed to catch the bad guys based on a torn receipt and a funny smell. At the first clue the tattoos were magical we should have been talking to magical inkers and graphomancers and the whole lot." He was silent for a moment, glaring off into the distance. "We-they-those dolts at the Bureau-treated it like a normal serial killer case for two years. Two whole years! And when they finally get wise, we have to pick up the crap-"
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