He looked uncannily like Dean Martin.
I didn’t have time to ponder that further, because I could also see the side of his neck, below his ear.
He had a tattoo of a spiderweb.
I told Tim, who made a sort of mmm sound. I knew what he was thinking: Spiderweb tattoos were popular in prison. And from the looks of this ink, it could’ve been a prison tat: a sort of blue-black with rough edges that bled into the skin.
And what was that? I leaned in even farther, my finger precariously close to pulling back the white shirt collar.
Tim was warning me not to touch anything.
I yanked my hand back.
“No kidding,” I said, eager not to give myself away. “Although I did open the trunk, so my fingerprints are on that.”
“I should be there shortly,” he said, then added, “The forensics team and a cruiser are on their way. Stay where you are and wait for them.”
Where I was, was in the driveway. I was just back from Red Rock. I wanted to change out of my grubby jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and hiking boots, and, most of all, I wanted something to eat. I’d had some toast before I left at seven, but that was four hours ago. I also needed to get to the shop by noon, because I had a client scheduled.
“Do I have time for a shower?” I asked hopefully.
“No.” Tim hung up.
Without thinking, I leaned against the back of the car. Immediately I felt it bounce a little—not that I’m that heavy; I’m actually pretty skinny—and Mr. That’s Amore shifted slightly with the movement. I jumped away from the Mustang as I stared at the body, which rocked for a second and then rested again.
There it was. Poking out slightly through the collar of the shirt.
I couldn’t help myself. I reached in and moved the fabric so I could see it better.
It was the end of a cord.
A clip cord.
I’d recognize it anywhere.
A clip cord is used to attach a tattoo machine to its power source.
Chapter 2
My eyes strayed from the cord back to the spiderweb, noticing now a dark line running across the base of Mr. That’s Amore’s neck. A dark line that had nothing to do with tattoos but probably everything to do with that cord.
A clip cord can be six feet long. The part that attaches to the tattoo machine has L-shaped ends that clip onto the binding posts, and the other end sticks into the power source, which looks sort of like an amplifier because it’s got dials with numbers on them that show how high the power can go. Although it doesn’t go up to eleven.
There’s another cord that goes from the power source to the foot pedal. A tattoo machine runs like a sewing machine, in that I put pressure on the pedal with my foot, sending power to the source, which sends power to the machine, causing the needles to puncture the skin and push the ink into the skin’s second layer, where it stays forever.
It’s a pretty simple process and one that hasn’t needed to be improved upon much since the late 1800s, when it was first invented.
The tattoo machine can’t run without the clip cord.
I hadn’t really been aware that I was holding my breath until I let it out.
A look around told me the police were not considering my situation an emergency.
I kept my eye on the end of the cord as I punched a few numbers into my phone and heard Bitsy’s voice.
“Hey, there,” I said to my shop manager. “I’m going to be a little late.”
“What? Did you fall off some mountain or cliff or something?” Bitsy didn’t understand why anyone would want to go hiking. She’s a city girl. Her idea of wilderness is the buffet bar at Caesars.
“No, I’m waiting for the police to arrive—”
“What did you do now?”
“Why do you assume that I did something?”
“You’re always getting into trouble.”
Okay, so maybe my reputation has preceded me.
“There’s a body in my car trunk,” I said, explaining about Mr. That’s Amore and the clip cord.
Bitsy made a sort of snorting sound.
“That Sylvia Coleman’s a whackjob.”
“Why does everyone think that?”
“Because she is. Do you think she killed him?”
For a split second, I wondered whether she had. I wouldn’t put it past Sylvia. If this guy had crossed her in some way, who knew what she’d do to him. I pushed the thought out of my head.
“Just because the body’s from the place where she and Bernie got married, it doesn’t mean she killed him,” I said.
“But she does have access to clip cords.”
“So do you.”
“You tell me how I’d get a guy in someone’s trunk.” Bitsy’s tone was matter-of-fact, and she was right. Bitsy is a little person. Unless the body was only four feet tall, it would be pretty tough for her to hoist it into a car trunk. “So who do you think put him there?” she asked.
“Maybe he climbed in there himself,” I suggested.
Bitsy snorted. “Like a cat who knows it’s going to die, so it crawls into some dark corner somewhere? Give me a break.”
Okay, she had a point.
I told her I’d give her a call as soon as I could get on the road. She mumbled something about rescheduling my first client before she hung up.
I stuck the phone in my jeans pocket and again leaned into the trunk. I wanted to take another look at that cord and the guy’s neck.
My hand was hovering over him when the cruiser careened into my driveway. I pulled back faster than you could say “That’s Amore” and straightened up some, slamming the back of my head into the lid of the trunk.
Sister Mary Eucharista, my teacher at Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy School, would have said I deserved that.
The uniformed cop who stepped out of the cruiser looked like a fireplug. I recognized him immediately. His name was Willis, and I’d had a couple of brief encounters with him a few months earlier when he was looking for a missing woman.
Let’s just say that we hadn’t gotten off on the right foot.
And from the way his mouth was set in a grim line, I figured I could easily bet that hadn’t changed.
In Vegas, sure things are hard to come by.
Willis took a couple steps toward me, but before either of us could say anything, another car swung into the street behind the cruiser. Tim. And then a big black SUV pulled up to the curb. Two burly guys got out from either side. One held a big case, the other, a camera.
If I’d known they were going to take pictures, I would have washed my car on the way back from Red Rock.
A third car, one that looked identical to Tim’s Impala, drove up and parked behind the SUV. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair cropped close and wearing a charcoal pin-striped suit climbed out.
It was like a party. Mr. That’s Amore was even dressed for the occasion.
Me, on the other hand, well, I was sweating bullets in my long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. Not because it was hot outside. It was December in Vegas, when the temperatures actually meant a sweater or even a jacket at night.
The nattily dressed man walked around his car and met up with Tim. They both stopped a second to greet Willis before coming over to my car. Willis forced a smile, but it didn’t extend to his eyes. The two guys with the equipment gave curt nods to everyone.
“Brett, this is Detective Flanigan,” Tim said, introducing me to his companion. “Kevin, this is my sister, Brett.”
Even though I sensed he must be another detective, he didn’t dress like any of the cops I knew. He was too neat, and that suit must have set him back about five hundred bucks, if not more. But I’m not a fashionista—preferring jeans and cotton skirts and T-shirts—so I don’t know much about men’s suits.
I held out my hand and said, “Nice to meet you,” because it’s what my mother would’ve expected from me.
Detective Flanigan didn’t care about introductions. He stared past me at my Mustang
Bullitt, its trunk gaping open. I stepped aside so he’d have a better view.
“So here he is,” I said, waving my hand over the trunk like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. Too bad Mr. That’s Amore didn’t win the washer and dryer.
Flanigan was already pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Willis was standing sentry, scowling at me. Tim had his hands on his hips as Flanigan started poking around inside the trunk. I stepped closer to Tim and asked in a low voice, “You’re not going to check it out?”
“Brett, this is my driveway. You’re my sister. Kevin’s in charge.”
As if on cue, Flanigan turned to me, taking only a second to indicate the two burly guys should start documenting the scene. One of them pulled out a little flashlight like they’ve got on those TV shows so he could see farther into the back of the dark trunk.
“Miss Kavanaugh? When did you discover the body?”
I took a deep breath and told my story: getting home from Red Rock, feeling something thump in the trunk, opening it to find Mr. That’s Amore. Flanigan opened his mouth at that point, and I knew what he was going to say, so I launched into the story about Sylvia and Bernie and That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel, and how I’d lent them my car and they’d returned it a few hours later, before leaving for the Grand Canyon.
“So you don’t know this gentleman at all?” Flanigan asked, his eyes boring into mine. Even though he was younger than my dad, the way he looked at me made me wonder if he had teenage daughters who were into tattoos.
“I have no idea who he is,” I said.
He studied my face for a second before apparently deciding I was telling the truth, because he said, “Is there any way I can get in touch with this Sylvia Coleman and Bernie Applebaum?”
I was impressed. He had a little notebook out, but he hadn’t scribbled much of anything. Maybe he had some sort of weird mnemonic thing that helped him remember names so well.
“I’m not sure where they’re staying, but they’re at the Grand Canyon. I think there’s only a couple of hotels there, so they should be easy to find. I can give you Sylvia’s son’s phone number, and maybe he can tell you,” I said, rattling off Jeff’s name and number. Flanigan did write those down.
“So do you think he was strangled with the clip cord?” I asked, glancing over at the car, where Tim was chatting up one of the forensics guys.
“With what?” Detective Flanigan had been flipping through his notes, and now his head snapped up with surprise.
I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but it was too late now.
“It looks like a clip cord around his neck.” I explained how the cord attaches to the tattoo machine on one end and the power source on the other, providing the electromagnetic charge that causes the machine to run.
It was too much information.
I knew that the minute I started, but for some reason I couldn’t stop. As though I was trying to impress him or something.
Right.
I was trying not to give him the opportunity to ask how I came to ascertain that there actually was a clip cord around his neck. Because I wouldn’t have seen it or the bruise without peeking under his collar.
I didn’t tell him that the one around Mr. That’s Amore’s neck was pretty basic. It could’ve been from anywhere. Someone could’ve bought it off the Internet. You can get a custom cord made, just as you can get custom coils for the machines. Joel’s machine’s coils have skulls on them. Mine are plain. And all the cords at my shop are standard, nothing special.
Like this one.
“Miss Kavanaugh, did you touch the body?” His voice brought me out of my thoughts.
Flanigan had my number like Sister Mary Eucharista used to. It was a little disconcerting.
I shrugged and gave him a little smile. “Well, I may have moved his collar a little, you know, because I thought it was a clip cord, but I couldn’t be exactly sure without checking.”
“And you felt compelled to check?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I’m a detective. It’s my job.”
And I’m a tattooist who should just shut up already. Okay, I got it.
“Kevin?”
I’d forgotten about Tim. I could only hope he hadn’t heard our exchange, although he was the only person I knew who could hear those whistles that only dogs are supposed to hear. At least that was what he told me when we were kids.
Tim was gesturing now, indicating that there was something enthralling going on in my trunk. As if we didn’t know that already.
Flanigan joined him over at my car. Not wanting to be left out, I sidled up next to them and hoped they wouldn’t notice.
But when I peered over Tim’s shoulder, I let out a loud gasp. I couldn’t help it.
Mr. That’s Amore’s wasn’t the only body in my trunk.
Chapter 3
They had rolled Mr. That’s Amore over, and apparently the rat had been squished underneath his body. The guy with the camera was busy shooting pictures from all angles, obviously terribly excited that there was something new to the composition.
The rat had been dead longer than the man. The bits of fur that still clung to the carcass were matted with dried blood.
Needless to say, it was a bit gross.
I stepped back a little. Tim and Flanigan were mumbling to each other. I picked up a couple of words, but nothing useful.
Finally, Tim turned to me.
“Brett, we’re going to have to take your car.”
“What?”
“It’s evidence in a crime. You can use my Jeep.” He looked sorry. Although it was probably more because I was going to drive his beloved Jeep for an indeterminate period of time than that my car was being confiscated.
I looked from Tim to Flanigan, who was staring at me as if daring me to oppose this turn of events. It was the good cop-bad cop thing.
The coroner’s van eased against the curb next to the driveway. Maybe I should’ve made hors d’oeuvres.
“How much longer is this going to take?” I asked. All I wanted to do was take a shower and go to work.
Tim was surprised, probably because he thought I’d argue the car issue. But honestly, now that they’d found the rat, the whole thing was giving me the willies. I didn’t know why a dead guy was less creepy than a dead rat, but it was. So there.
“You can go in and get changed if you want,” Tim said.
I smiled my thanks and started toward the door, but Flanigan’s voice stopped me.
“We’re going to need your clothes.”
Not again. I’d had to give up my clothes once before after finding a dead body. If this was going to be a habit, I’d have to keep two separate wardrobes.
“I’ll put them in a plastic bag,” I promised.
But that wasn’t good enough. Flanigan told Tim to go in the house with me. I glared at him. As if I’d substitute this outfit for another one. As if I’d have some sort of crime evidence on me.
And now the forensics guys were looking at me the same way Sarah Palin looks at a moose in the woods.
I went into the house, Tim on my heels. Once inside, I turned to my brother.
“Can I go to work after this?”
He took a deep breath. “Flanigan’s in charge.”
“Does he think I had something to do with this guy and the rat?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.” But his tone wasn’t exactly reassuring. He started to say something else, then stopped himself.
“What?” I asked.
Tim shrugged. “Wondering about that clip cord.”
I frowned. “Wondering how?”
“Wondering whose it is.”
“It’s not mine. I don’t keep my equipment in the car.”
“But he wasn’t killed in the car,” Tim said softly.
“How do you know that?”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Brett, do you really think that the guy crawled into the trunk on his own, and then someone decided, Hey, why don’t I str
angle him with a clip cord while he’s in there?”
“Maybe he did it himself.”
“Did what himself?”
“Strangled himself with the cord. You know, all that autoerotic-stimulation stuff. Aren’t some guys into that? You start to strangle yourself while you’re—um—well—servicing yourself so it feels even better? Maybe he did that, and he couldn’t stop. Maybe he strangled himself by mistake.” As I spoke, I began to wonder whether that wasn’t what had happened.
“With a dead rat?”
Okay, so I’d forgotten that tiny detail.
Tim started scratching his chin in that way he does when he’s deep in thought. “Although it’s an interesting theory.”
I left him with that as I went into the bedroom, plastic garbage bag in hand for my clothes. I filled the bag and stuck it in the hall, shutting my door before heading to the shower.
It felt really good standing under the stream of water, the heat soaking into the Celtic cross across my upper back, the dragon that curved around my torso from my breast to my hip, Monet’s garden on one arm and a Japanese koi on the other, and the tiger lily stretching along my side. Not to mention Napoleon on my calf.
I knew I wasn’t done yet, though. Getting tattooed, I mean. Every time a client came in, I wondered what my next one would be. The last was the koi, designed and inked by Jeff Coleman himself.
As I pulled my tank top on over my favorite denim skirt, I heard Bruce Springsteen singing “Born to Run.” My phone had fallen off the bed when I was getting changed. I picked it up and heard, “Kavanaugh?”
Speak of the devil. Jeff Coleman was the only person who ever called me by my last name and only my last name. I couldn’t remember him ever calling me Brett.
“Yeah?”
“The cops called.”
“I gave them your number. I didn’t know where Sylvia and Bernie were staying.”
“Why do you think they’re involved with this?”
Driven to Ink Page 2