‘We here?’
‘This is it,’ says Doyle.
‘This is what, exactly?’
Doyle doesn’t answer. He just opens his door and steps out of the car.
‘Just asking,’ LeBlanc mutters. He climbs out of the car and circles it to join Doyle, who is preparing to dodge through the dense traffic. As if deciding that anyone foolhardy enough to challenge its ferocity without so much as a hat is in need of a good dousing, the rain seems to choose at that moment to step up its intensity a notch or two. By the time the two cops have fought their way to the other side of the street, they are already drenched.
‘Damn this rain,’ says LeBlanc. It’s been his experience that the weather is often a good way to start a conversation. Doesn’t work with Doyle. The man just picks up the pace. When LeBlanc does the same to keep up, he ends up stepping in a puddle so deep it comes over the top of his shoes.
‘Shit!’
When Doyle stops suddenly, LeBlanc almost crashes into him. He turns to see what has attracted Doyle’s attention.
He sees dragons. He sees tigers. He sees naked women and snakes and movie stars and sharks and hearts and flowers and crosses. All here on display in the window. And above them all, in dark Gothic lettering, the name of the place: Skinterest.
Doyle doesn’t budge for what seems like ages. Doesn’t seem to notice that the rain isn’t willing to wait with him. We’re standing here like idiots, thinks LeBlanc, just getting wetter and wetter.
And then Doyle moves. He opens the door to the shop and steps inside. LeBlanc hurries in after him, even though his haste seems pointless now. He closes the door firmly behind him and savors the instant warmth. He’d like to get a good look at the interior, but his glasses have fogged up. He has to dig into his pocket for a tissue to dry them off. The tissue comes out somewhat moist, but it’s all he’s got.
The place is eerily quiet after the white noise of the rain outside. LeBlanc puts his glasses back on and looks around. He sees a small waiting area with a black sofa and a glass coffee table holding a stack of magazines. Farther ahead is an adjustable chair of the type one might find in a dentist’s, complete with an attached overhead spotlight. Next to that is a typist’s chair on casters. Black curtains on rails allow that area to be screened off for when the tattooist is working on more private areas of the body. On the walls are mirrors and framed close-up photographs of tattooed body parts. The air is thick with chemical smells. Disinfectant and ink.
Beyond a counter at the far end of the room, a door opens and a man steps out. ‘Hey, guys,’ he calls, then steps around the counter and comes closer. When he gets as far as the dentist’s chair he stops. His welcoming attitude suddenly withers and his smile droops. He lowers his hands to his sides and says no more.
The man is tall and scrawny. Late twenties, probably. His dark hair is shorn at the sides but long on top, and he has a small goatee. Large black studs in both ears. He wears a blood-red T-shirt that carries a picture of some kind of screaming demon with pointed teeth and vertical slits for eyes.
LeBlanc waits to take his cue from Doyle, since he doesn’t even know what they’re doing here. But Doyle just stands where he is and stays mute. All that can be heard is the steady dripping of water from the clothes of the detectives onto the tiled floor. It’s like the prelude to a gunfight in an old cowboy movie.
‘Hello, Stan,’ Doyle says finally.
‘Detective Doyle,’ says the man, and it is clear to LeBlanc that there is no joy in that recognition.
LeBlanc shuffles up next to Doyle. Just in case he’s forgotten he has company.
‘You two know each other?’
Doyle nods. ‘We know each other. This here is Stanley Proust, tattoo artist extraordinaire. Ain’t that right, Stan?’
Proust doesn’t answer. He just blinks, as if in fear.
Doyle takes a few steps toward Proust, and LeBlanc trails after him. His shoes squelch as he walks. Proust backs away, putting the chair between himself and Doyle.
‘How’s business, Stan? A lot of pain happening here lately?’
Proust’s mouth twitches, as if he is trying to smile but can’t quite manage it.
‘I do okay.’
Doyle inclines his head toward LeBlanc, but keeps his eyes fixed on Proust.
‘This guy’s good, ya know? A real artist. You ever feel the need to get a tat done, Stan here’s your guy. Stan the man. No hatchet jobs here. Huh, Stan? I’m saying you don’t do hatchet jobs. You don’t hack away at someone like they’re a piece of meat. You’re careful. You know how to do things right. Sure, there’s pain. But what’s a little pain? It’s the end result that counts, am I right?’
Proust gives a minimal shrug. ‘I guess.’ His voice is only just above a whisper.
‘Show him,’ says Doyle. ‘Go ahead, show him your work.’
Proust looks at the detectives with uncertainty. Doesn’t move.
‘Go on,’ urges Doyle. ‘Show him.’
Proust turns slightly and reaches a tentative hand out to the counter behind him. ‘Well, I got some books here . . .’
‘No, no,’ says Doyle. ‘Not the books. Photos don’t do it justice. We need the real thing. In the flesh. Show him yours. You know . . .’ Doyle taps himself on the chest.
Proust looks at Doyle, then to LeBlanc, then back to Doyle. He shakes his head, and again the movement is infinitesimal. Like he’s trying to conserve energy.
‘No, man, I don’t—’
‘Come on. Don’t be shy. Show him.’
Doyle starts to move around the chair. Proust puts his palms up in front of him.
‘Please. I . . . I don’t want to . . .’
Doyle’s voice hardens. ‘Show him, Stan. My partner would like to see how good you are at your job.’
‘No, I—’
‘Show him!’Doyle grabs hold of Proust by his shirt. He starts to pull at it. ‘Come on, Stan. You should be proud. Your work is great. It’s a masterpiece.’
‘Please,’ says Stan. A pathetic whimper.
LeBlanc has no idea what’s going down here. If this is scripted, then a heads-up before they entered the place would have been nice. But it doesn’t look like it’s being done for show. It looks like Doyle has lost his senses.
‘Cal,’ says LeBlanc. ‘It’s okay.’
‘No,’ Doyle snaps. ‘It’s not okay. He needs to show you.’
And then LeBlanc can’t believe what he sees. Because Doyle is ripping at the man’s T-shirt. Tearing it apart at the seams while Proust cowers and whines.
This isn’t right, thinks LeBlanc. He’s terrorizing the guy.
He calls out: ‘Cal!’
But Doyle doesn’t stop. Proust bounces around while Doyle puts all of his strength into ripping that shirt right down the middle. And when he is done, his face looks to be burning with the effort and the heat of his anger.
‘There,’ says Doyle, gesturing toward the man he has just attacked. ‘What do you think of that? Pretty cool, huh?’ Proust himself is a sad spectacle. His frame is slumped in defeat and humiliation. His shirt is in tatters, with a hoop of material remaining like a slack noose around his sinewy neck. His panting chest is hairless and concave, and his ribs are clearly visible beneath the thin skin.
But that’s not what LeBlanc focuses on. It’s not what anyone would focus on right now.
Not when there’s an image like that to look at.
It makes it look as though Proust’s chest has been torn open. A pair of hands pulls aside the ragged flesh, and a head pushes out through the bloody opening. It has Proust’s own face, but it is contorted in pain. Its mouth is open in a scream, and the eyes have rolled back into their sockets. And it’s all so lifelike. It looks three-dimensional, like there really is a copy of Proust desperately trying to escape from inside his own body.
For a moment, LeBlanc forgets what events have just caused that picture to be put on display.
‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘That’s . . . that
’s awesome.’
‘Told you,’ says Doyle. ‘This man is a genius. He did this all by himself. Can you believe it? He can tattoo anything you like, wherever you want it. So tell me, Stan. What other examples of artistic brilliance could you share with us? What are you most proud of out of the stuff you did recently? Why don’t you show me? Are they in these books of yours?’
He reaches out and grips the back of Proust’s neck, then forces his head down to look at the books on the counter.
‘Show me, Stanley. Tell me what’s good in these books.’
Doyle opens a book at random, flicks through its pages of photographs.
‘What about this? Do you like this one?’
He tosses the book aside. It slides off the counter and crashes to the floor. He pulls another book across.
‘How about this book? Would you say these are better than the other ones? I’d say so. Look at that picture of Marilyn Monroe there. That’s terrific, it really is. And this one of a Corvette. That’s a peach. But you know what I don’t see here, Stan? I don’t see any angels. Where are the angels? Are they in one of these other books here? Could you show me, please, Stan? Because I like angels. They’re my favorite. And I’m sure you could do a real good angel if you tried. What do you say, Stan?’
Proust suddenly slaps Doyle’s arm away and takes several steps backward, out of arm’s reach. Doyle closes the gap again.
‘Get off me, man! Leave me alone! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you here?’
‘You know why I’m here, Stan. I’m here about an angel. The one you did recently.’
‘What angel? I haven’t done an angel for months. What is this?’
‘You did one a few days ago. On a girl. And now she’s dead.’
Proust shows his palms again. ‘Now wait a minute, Detective. Don’t do this to me again, man. I know you don’t like me, and I don’t know why. But I’m not a killer. I’m an artist. I do tattoos. That’s all, man.’
‘Oh, I like you, Stan. I like you for the murder of Megan Hamlyn. Sixteen. That’s how old she was. Just sixteen years old.’
Proust looks across to LeBlanc, as if hoping for a more receptive ear.
‘Ah, well, there you go. She couldn’t have been a client of mine. You have to be eighteen to get a tattoo in this state, and I always insist on ID. No way would I have—’
The slap he receives from Doyle resounds around the room.
Proust brings his hand to his cheek. Tears well in his eyes.
‘Don’t fuck with me, Stan,’ says Doyle.
LeBlanc feels he has to cut in. He says, ‘Cal, don’t you think—’
And then suddenly he’s the target of a finger aimed in his direction, behind which is the face of a man who looks like he could pull the trigger if it were a real gun.
‘Stay out of this, Tommy,’ says Doyle. He turns back to Proust. ‘Where were you last night, Stan?’
‘Last night? I was here, man. I’m always here. I live back there, behind the shop. I don’t go out much.’
‘What about Saturday night?’
‘Saturday? Here. I’m always here.’
‘Can you prove it? Anyone who can vouch for you?’
‘N–no. I live alone.’
‘Tell me what you did last night.’
‘I . . . I watched TV.’
‘What did you watch?’
‘Well, actually it was a DVD. The Transformers movie.’
‘Transformers? Exactly how old are you, Stan?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Uh-huh,’ says Doyle, as though that makes his point. LeBlanc feels faintly embarrassed. He enjoyed the Transformers movie himself. What’s so wrong with that?
‘You didn’t go out at all?’ Doyle asks.
‘No, man. I told you.’
‘So if we ask around, nobody would’ve seen you out on the streets last night?’
‘No. How could they?’
‘What about the rest of the time between Saturday and now? Did you go anywhere?’
‘I guess.’
‘You guess what? You did or you didn’t?’
‘I went out. Sunday night. I got a pizza at Oscar’s on the next block, and then I called in at the liquor store.’
‘And that’s it? You didn’t go anywhere else in that time? Not even for your lunch?’
‘No. I make my lunch here. A sandwich and fruit. Every day.’
‘So we’re not gonna find anyone else who says different? Nobody who saw you in the subway or taking a cab, or in a different part of town? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Yeah, man. Like I said.’
‘Jesus, you’re a real hermit, aren’t you, Stan? You don’t go out. You don’t see anyone . . .’
Proust shrugs. ‘It’s how I am. I’m not good with people.’
‘What about girls? Are you good with them?’
Proust hesitates before he answers. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Sure you do. A young guy like yourself. You got all these girls coming in here, getting undressed, asking you to put pretty pictures on parts of their bodies they wouldn’t let any other stranger see. Must be pretty tempting, Stan. Must be quite a turn-on.’
‘It’s my job. It’s like being a doctor. I don’t look at them in that way. All’s I see is a canvas for my art.’
Doyle nods without conviction. ‘You got a girlfriend, Stan?’
‘No. Not at the moment.’
‘Had any girlfriends since the last time we met?’
‘I . . . I don’t have the time.’
‘So that would be a no. Any particular reason for that? I mean, where’s your outlet? All that sexual tension building up in you over these young semi-naked girls, and you don’t have an outlet? Christ, that must be really frustrating.’
‘I told you, man, it’s not like that.’ He turns to LeBlanc again. ‘Can he do this? Can he ask me these personal questions? I haven’t done anything. I swear. Please.’
LeBlanc finds himself wanting to come to this guy’s aid. He wants to say something in his favor. It’s not that he’s never seen a cop come down heavy on a perp or a skell before. He’s often had to get in people’s faces himself. The worst thing you can do in the street is show weakness, because one thing the scum out there excel at is spotting the vulnerable and pouncing on them without mercy.
But this is different. This is a one-on-one in the guy’s own place of business. Actually, it doesn’t even feel like a one-on-one, given the differences in size, strength and ability. It seems more like an army-on-one. And even that can be okay in the right circumstances. For some perps, it’s the only approach that gets through to them.
All that LeBlanc can do now is trust his partner. But he tells himself that Doyle better have a damn good explanation for this. The train of thought better be a lot more convincing than ‘Victim has tattoo; I know a tattoo artist.’
For now, discomforting though it is, all he does is give Proust a helpless look.
Says Doyle, ‘Don’t ask him, Stan. This is between us. And I want you to know that this is just the beginning. You know what you did, and I know it too. So I’m coming back. I’m gonna come back again and again until you admit what you did. From now on, you’re mine, Stan. Every spare minute I have is gonna be spent watching you. You’re mine. Do you understand that?’
‘Man, that’s not right. I’m clean. I didn’t do nothing. I just do tattoos.’
Doyle grabs him by what’s left of his shirt and shakes him. LeBlanc finds himself taking a step forward.
‘I said, Do you understand, you piece of shit?’
Proust’s mouth curls down as if he’s about to cry. ‘Okay. Yeah. I understand.’
Doyle pushes him away. ‘I’m coming back, Stan. While I’m gone, I want you to write down everything you did since Saturday morning. I want places and times, to the exact minute. That includes details of any customers you had here. Because, believe me, I am gonna check them out. And if I fi
nd one anomaly, just one . . . well, you know what would happen then, don’t you, Stanley?’
Doyle doesn’t wait for an answer. He just turns on his heel and heads for the door. When he brushes past LeBlanc, it’s as if he doesn’t see him. His face is a perfect match for the thunderous weather outside.
LeBlanc takes a last look at the pathetic figure of Proust, busy trying to pull the fragments of shirt together around his skinny frame as if it’s somehow possible to reassemble it. Again he feels he should say something, but doesn’t. Instead, he leaves the shop and runs to catch up with Doyle.
In the car, LeBlanc puts the obvious question. The one that will clear all this up and put his mind at rest. The one that will lend logic to Doyle’s actions and attitude.
‘You want to fill me in? Tell me what all that was about?’
Doyle’s answer is in his scowl and in the way he puts his whole body into twisting the ignition key and in how he slams forward the transmission lever. Words are hardly necessary, but he supplies one anyway.
‘No.’
And that’s it. That’s the best LeBlanc’s going to get. A single syllable infused with venom. And as Doyle whips the car out into the traffic and pounds his horn at the first driver who dares to object, LeBlanc starts to wonder whether the stories are true after all. He starts to imagine that this big guy in the leather jacket and with the bent nose could easily fit into the role of a criminal. Maybe even a killer.
Sitting next to this man about whom he really knows nothing, LeBlanc feels incredibly uneasy.
If not a little afraid.
SIX
She is no longer sure what to do with her time.
When there was hope, she could stare for hours out of the window and picture Megan walking back to the house. She could tell herself that it was an episode with an end. One of those crazy things that hormone-filled teenagers go through in attempting to understand themselves and their place in the world. Megan would return.
Now that has gone. The window holds no interest for Nicole. The world beyond this house holds no interest. It is dark and it is filled with evil and it destroys. The chair remains where the detective put it, back in its rightful place. A tiny attempt to restore order in a home where normality has been ripped to shreds.
Marked (Callum Doyle 3) Page 5