by Lyn Horner
Examining a photo of one victim, she suddenly sat up straight, a zing of excitement shooting through her. She recognized the tattoo of a small blue butterfly on the woman’s shoulder. She’d seen a copy of it at Nate’s shop, hanging on the wall with other design examples. Her thoughts started firing in double time.
Afraid of what she might find, she sorted through the other victims’ photos. To her dismay, she spotted an intricate design of lovebirds on the hip of one woman that she thought she’d seen at Nate’s. On the other woman’s upper breast, she noticed a bleeding rose, partially obscured by actual blood. That, too, looked uncomfortably familiar.
“Damn!” she whispered. Was all this just a macabre coincidence? Or did the murders somehow connect back to Nate? She didn’t want to think he had anything to do with them but couldn’t help wondering.
Should she show him the three photos and ask if he knew the women? No, not before sharing her findings with Detective Lovett, she decided. He was in charge of the investigation. She was only here to assist.
Circling the three tats with a red pen, she laid the photos on Lovett’s desk where he’d see them first thing in the morning, along with a note saying she knew the man who had created them. Then she slipped on her jacket and headed back to her hotel. After a quick shower, she donned her new nightshirt and sat cross-legged on the bed, jotting a few thoughts about the string of murders in a purse-size leather notebook she carried everywhere for this purpose.
A few minutes later, she lay in the dark mulling over the day’s events and the meaning of Nate’s tattoos on the dead women. Considering his unexplained but obviously important relationship with Dev Medina’s friend Michaela, she sincerely hoped he wasn’t implicated in the brutal killings. Much as she hated to admit it, she also liked the man.
Be honest, she scoffed. You more than like him. Alright, she was attracted to him, to his rugged masculinity, his confident manner and sexy smile. But nothing could come of that. Once she helped solve the murder spree here in Tampa, as she hoped to do, she’d be on her way to D.C. Soon, Nate Maguire would be no more than an intriguing, distant memory.
Pushing him to the back of her mind, she curled on her side and forced herself to breathe deeply, a method she often used to relax and sleep. It worked well, but tonight she was plagued by nightmares of being chased down a dark corridor by a shadowy, knife-wielding figure. She jolted awake more than once, only to be caught in the same terrifying dream after falling asleep again.
When her alarm went off, she felt as though she hadn’t slept at all. Another shower and two cups of coffee from the mini brewing machine in her room cleared the fog from her brain. She dressed in the blue blouse she’d purchased yesterday and her tired black suit, and pinned up her hair. Downstairs, she indulged her sweet tooth with a fresh, hot waffle topped with butter and maple syrup.
Feeling decadent but deliciously full, she trotted out to catch a bus back to the police station. When she entered the squad room, Detective Lovett sat studying the photos she’d placed on his desk. He looked up at the sound of her heels tapping the floor.
“I’ve been waiting for you to get here,” he said without preamble. He tapped the photos. “This is quite a coincidence, maybe too much of one. So, who’s the guy who did these tattoos and how do you know him?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Good morning to you, too, Detective Lovett.”
“Sorry. Morning.” He looked abashed, but not for long. “Now, would you please answer my question?”
Nodding, she said, “His name is Nathan Maguire. He owns Nate’s Tattoos on 7th Avenue in Ybor City. I met him through a friend.”
“Humph.” He eyed her as if wanting to question her further, but then he gathered up the photos. “Let’s pay Mr. Maguire a visit.”
They arrived at Nate’s shortly after 9:30, long before the shop was due to open. Lovett pounded on the barred door until the disheveled owner finally appeared. Dressed only in jeans, he unlocked and opened the door. Raking a hand through his matted hair, he glowered at Lovett and cocked a questioning brow at Talia.
“Kind of early to come calling,” he said in a sleep-roughened voice. Scratching the dark hair dusting his bare chest, he drew her attention to that lean-muscled expanse, decorated with only one tattoo, a single white rose over his heart. “Who’s your friend?” He jabbed his thumb at Lovett.
“This isn’t a social call,” the detective said before she could answer. He held up his badge. “We’re here on police business. You want to let us in?”
Nate stared hard at Talia, letting her know he didn’t like her showing up with a cop at her side, but he backed up and motioned them inside with a tilt of his head. “What kind of police business?” he asked.
“We need to ask you about some tattoos on the recent murder victims. Agent Werner recognized them as your work.”
Nate darted another hard glance at her. “Is that so?”
She nodded, feeling inexplicably like a traitor. “I remembered seeing them on your wall.”
“I need you to confirm the fact by looking at some photos.” Lovett withdrew the eight-by-tens from a manila envelope and handed one to Nate.
“Jesus!” he burst out, staring at the ghastly image of a mutilated woman. His mouth thinned into a tight white line.
“Is the circled tattoo one of yours?”
Nate swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah, it’s mine.”
“What about this one?” Lovett thrust another photo into his hands.
Sucking in a harsh breath, Nate nodded. His face had gone pale, Talia noticed, testifying to his genuine shock. At least in her opinion.
Lovett showed no mercy. “And this one?”
One glance and Nate nodded again, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He handed the ugly photos back to his interrogator. “You don’t think those tats implicate me in the murders, do you?”
“I don’t know. Do they?”
“No!” Color returned to Nate’s face and a muscle jumped along his clenched jaw. “I’ve done time in the past, as I’m sure you’ll find out. But I’m no psycho like the freak who hacked up those women.” He swung his gaze to Talia, umber eyes blazing.
She flinched, seeing how offended he was, and looked away.
Lovett studied him, slowly running a knuckle across his lips. Then he sighed and shook his head. “No, I don’t think you are, but I have to wonder if those tattoos somehow tie the three victims together.”
“Nate, it might help if you can tell us who did some of the other tattoos,” Talia said. “We brought more photos. Are you willing to look through all of them?”
He scowled, still angry. “I will, but no tattoo artist I know of would rip a woman apart like that bastard does.”
“I’m not accusing anyone, but they might know something about the victims that could point to their killer.”
He didn’t reply. Pointing to the reception desk, he asked Lovett to spread out the gruesome pictures. Nate looked through them, voice thick with revulsion as he pointed out tats by other artists he knew, plus several others he had done.
“Do you recognize the dead women?” Lovett asked, arms crossed above his protruding belly.
“Yeah. Two of them were in here more than once, explaining why they both have … had three or four of my tats. The girl with the bleeding rose was only in once, but I remember her because she flirted her ass off with me. I told her not to come back.”
“Humph.” The detective glanced from Talia to Nate. “Look, I have other leads to follow up. How about if you and Agent Werner visit the tattooists whose work you recognize and see what if anything they know? You okay with that?”
Talia looked at Nate inquiringly but he didn’t even glance her way. Rubbing his neck as if it hurt, he muttered in agreement.
“Good.” Turning to Talia, Lovett said, “Report any findings to me later, alright?”
“Of course.” She wondered if this was his way of getting her out of his hair for a while, but it
wouldn’t matter if she and Nate came up with something important.
Once Lovett left, Nate called Misty and asked her to come in as soon as she could. Then he faced Talia. “I need to shower and dress. You want to wait down here?” he asked in a chilly tone.
“Sure. I’ll be right here.” She indicated the waiting area.
“Fine.” With that one word, he walked away.
She admired the fluid movement of muscles along his back and his long-legged stride as he strode to the back entrance. After he let himself out, she took a seat and once again paged through dog-eared magazines, not paying much attention to what she saw. Minutes later, she heard the back door being unlocked.
Thinking Nate had really rushed his shower, she laid aside her reading material and rose. She stiffened when she saw Misty strolling toward her. The girl froze and stared at her in surprise.
“Hi, Misty. Thanks for coming in,” Talia said with a smile, hoping to foster a more friendly exchange between them than the previous day.
“I’m not here for you,” the girl sneered, quashing that hope. She stomped to the reception desk and stuffed her floppy patchwork bag onto a shelf underneath it.
“Of course. I understand.” Talia slipped her hands into the pockets of her suit jacket, trying not to let the sassy remark get to her.
“Do you? I doubt it.” Glaring, the heavily made-up, jealous witch perched on her stool by the desk. She produced a nail file and began to shape her black-painted fingernails to sharper points.
Enough was enough, Talia decided. “Oh, I think I do, but you needn’t worry. I’m a federal agent here on business, police business. I have no romantic designs on Nate.”
Misty’s eyes widened. Dropping her file, she started to say something but clamped her mouth shut when Nate walked in. He strode up front, giving Talia a sour look but smiling at his young apprentice. “Hey, Misty. Thanks for making it here so fast.” He patted her shoulder. “Do you think you can handle things for the afternoon?”
“Sure, Nate, I’ll take care of business.” The girl positively glowed in adoration of him, of which he seemed totally oblivious.
“That’s my girl. I should be back before you get too busy.” Shooting Talia a sharp glance, he said, “We’ll take my car. Let’s go.” Not waiting for a response, he pivoted and marched toward the back entrance. He waited for her to catch up and, showing a spark of courtesy, held the door open for her.
His car was an older beige compact with several nicks and small dents in the body. Once they were buckled in and underway, Talia looked at her taciturn companion. He stared ahead at the traffic, a frown on his lips, not sparing her even a quick glance.
Fine! Let him ignore you, she silently grumbled. However, his silent treatment soon wore on her nerves.
“I know you’re angry with me for bringing Detective Lovett to your shop and seeming to accuse you of involvement in the murders. But that’s not what I intended.”
He arrowed a cutting glance at her. “No? Then why didn’t you just ask me about those tats? You didn’t need to involve the cops.”
“I’m a federal agent. I was ordered by my boss to assist the Tampa Police with the homicides. Detective Lovett is in charge of the case. It was my duty to tell him what I found in the photos.”
He snorted. “And you always do your duty.”
“Yes, I do,” she shot back, but his sarcastic comment made her think. She hadn’t done her duty when she lied to Dave, her boss, about her reason for coming to Tampa, and staying longer. “Or I should,” she said to herself.
Catching her muttered words, Nate glanced at her, seeing her turn her head to stare out the side window. With her hair pinned up as usual, her slender neck looked tense and vulnerable. His anger dissipated. He wanted to caress that delicate column of flesh and reassure her. Resisting the urge, he pulled in at the curb outside a tattoo parlor twice the size of his shop.
“The owner of this place is a friend of mine,” he said in a friendlier tone. “If he knows anything about the dead women, he’ll tell us.”
Talia raised her eyebrows and gave a small nod, plainly surprised by his change of manner. As they entered the shop a moment later, he lightly rested his hand at the small of her back. She looked up, eyes wide, and he quirked his lips, showing he’d gotten over his mad.
“Well, look who’s here,” his friend Paul O’Neal called, stepping out of an alcove to the right. It was one of several tattooing rooms. “Long time no see, boyo,” he said, showing his Irish roots, something they had in common, although Nate’s ancestors had immigrated generations back.
Nate grinned. “Morning, Paulie.”
“And who’s this lovely colleen you’ve brought to visit me?” The hefty, red-bearded Irishman winked at Talia, drawing musical laughter from her lips.
Nate enjoyed the sweet sound. “Talia Werner, meet my rascally competitor, Paul O’Neal.”
She grinned and offered her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. O’Neal.”
“Ah, milady, ’tis indeed a pleasure.” Blue eyes twinkling, he wrapped his big paw around her fine-boned hand, bent and kissed her fingers.
Seeing Talia blush prettily, Nate coughed. “Be careful, Paulie. Talia is down here from D.C. She’s a fed.”
The Irishman straightened and released her hand. “Indeed? Then I’ll make sure to be on me best behavior.” He grinned, not a bit intimidated.
“We’re here to ask your help with stopping the string of women’s murders in Ybor City,” Talia said, now all business.
“Oh aye?” Paul’s bushy red eyebrows shot up. “I’ll gladly do anything I can, though I’ve no idea what that may be.”
Talia explained the situation and showed him the photos. Reacting with shock the same as Nate, his friend cursed in Irish, hands shaking as he looked at one horrendous image after another. He confirmed that he’d done a few of the women’s tattoos and recalled the girl who’d flirted with Nate because she’d also flirted openly with him.
Beyond that basic information, Paul had nothing new to offer. Talia thanked him and Nate shook hands with his friend, promising to see him soon. They moved on to another tattoo parlor, and to another and another, all with the same results. The artists they showed the photos to, both men and women, were deeply shocked, one getting physically sick at the sight. A few remembered one or another of the victims but didn’t know much about any of them.
It was mid afternoon by the time they finished making the rounds. Nate hadn’t eaten a thing all day. His stomach growled like a hungry wolf as they climbed back into his car, prompting him to ask, “Do you want to grab some lunch?”
Buckling her seatbelt, she glanced at him. “I should report to Lovett.”
“Hey, you’ve got to eat sometime.” He shrugged. “Why not now before you head back to the station?”
After a moment’s thought, she nodded. “Alright. Is there a decent seafood restaurant near here?”
He grinned. “Better than decent. It’s not fancy but the food’s great.”
A short while later, she hummed in enjoyment as she chewed a bite of red snapper. “This is delicious. You were right about this place. It’s great.” She waved her fork at the homey interior of the small seafood house.
“Glad you approve.” He dug into his blackened catfish with gusto, saying little at first. Once his stomach stopped demanding his full attention, he asked, “Have you heard back from Dev yet?”
Talia shook her head. “No, not yet.” Setting her fork down, she said, “If I eat another bite, I won’t be fit for anything but a nice long nap.”
“You can flop at my place if you want to.” He cocked a teasing eyebrow.
“You’re a bit of a devil, sir.” Lips twitching, she tipped her head to one side. “I’m curious. How did you become a tattoo artist?”
His mood went flat. “It’s not a pretty story,” he said, pushing aside his empty plate and crossing his arms on the table.
“I have a strong stomach. Tell me.”
“That’s understandable. You were just a boy.”
He shifted in his chair. “Yeah, well, I grew rebellious, started hanging out with a rough crowd. My father bailed me out of one scrape with the law after another until he finally had enough. I got caught helping an older boy steal drugs from a pharmacy. My pal Frankie shot the pharmacist, didn’t kill him, thank God. Frankie went to the state pen. I spent fifteen months in juvie and graduated to prison when I turned eighteen.”
Seeing Talia frown, he avoided her eyes. “I served six years’ hard time. Those years made me grow up.” He smiled wryly. “And I learned the basics of tattooing from other convicts. After getting out, I landed a job at a tattoo parlor on Chicago’s south side, a few miles and a world away from where I grew up. The dude who owned the place was an ex-con, too. He took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew about tattooing and body piercing.”
“You were lucky he gave you a job,” Talia remarked.
“Yeah, luckier than a lot of cons. I worked there over ten years, saving up money. When I figured it was enough, I moved down here to the sunshine state and opened up my own place. I’ve been here ever since.”
“You wanted to get away from the winters up north, I suppose.”
He shrugged. “And to put more distance between myself and certain people.”
“Your family?” At his nod, she asked, “By the way, do you have any siblings?”
“I’ve got a younger half-brother. We were never close, but I did make up with my old man before he died four years ago.” He smiled like the devil she’d accused him of being. “But not with his witch of a wife, I’m happy to say.”