by Mary Burton
Her headlights went dark and the engine died. Seconds later, she slid out of her car, grabbing two plastic bags of groceries as well as a gym bag. She locked the car with her key fob and started up the sidewalk. He watched from the passenger-side mirror of the white van. Seconds before she neared his door, he opened it. It swung wide, blocking her path, as it should. He got out, dropping a pack of cigarettes, fumbling for it and then a lighter that he also dropped close to her feet.
She stopped, tried to sidestep as he rose, and held out a hand. “I’m so sorry.” He grinned, knowing when he smiled he could catch a woman’s eye. “I didn’t see you coming.”
Her smile was tight and nervous. Her natural inborn fear receptors were telling her to run. Danger! You don’t know this stranger! But like most women, she overruled any natural fight-or-flight alarms because she didn’t want to appear rude. He’d seen it so many times. Like most women, she was too polite to give in to the natural impulse. “That’s okay.”
“I scared you, didn’t I?” He leaned a little closer, studying her wide brown eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m clumsy, and I’ve startled you.”
“No, no, it’s okay.”
He smiled, careful not to hold eye contact too long. “You are too nice. Here, let me get my stuff and be out of your way.” He fumbled for the lighter. “So sorry.”
“It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting you.”
He started to step aside. Her smile brightened. “Have a good night,” she said.
“You, too.” As she moved, he pressed the remote entry to the van’s side door, and it opened. The noise startled her rattled nerves, and she looked toward him a second time, likely to get his reassurance.
Instead, he pulled a stun gun from his pocket and jabbed it in her side. Her head jerked back, and her knees buckled. He caught her a split second before she hit the ground and easily laid her in the bed of the van. He scooped up her bags and set them beside her as he got inside. A click of the button and the door closed. They were alone in the dark.
“Please,” she muttered. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Straddling her and pinning her hands flat with his knees, he stroked her hair back with one hand as he pulled a loaded syringe from his pocket. “I’m not going to hurt you. I love you.”
Her body still trembled from the electric shock force. “Please. Let me go. I won’t tell. I won’t say a word. Just let me go.”
Tears filled her eyes as she stared up at him through the streak of moonlight beaming through the windshield into the back. With tenderness, he brushed the tear from her cheek. “Shh, I don’t want you to be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to transform you into the most perfect woman. A living doll.”
She shook her head. The fear in her eyes was heartbreaking, and he didn’t like seeing it. Dolls weren’t supposed to be afraid. They were a source of comfort.
She drew in a deep breath, but he drove his knee into her belly and forced the air from her lungs before she could scream. God, but he hated hurting her.
“Be quiet. Be a good girl, and I won’t hurt you again. I don’t like hurting you.”
She shook her head from side to side. “No, no, no.”
He held up the syringe and flicked the sides and squeezed the plunger a fraction, sending serum and bubbles out the tip. He drove the needle into her thigh. She struggled, but it was easy enough to hold her in place as he pushed the drug into her system.
Slowly her muffled cries quieted, and her body stilled. When she was asleep, he straightened, his heart racing. He smoothed his hand again over her face, then captured a lock of hair between his fingers, savoring the silky feel. Pity he’d be cutting off all her hair. But as lovely as it was, it didn’t fit his vision of who she was about to become.
The transformation would take weeks. And though it was painstaking work, the sacrifice of his time would be worth it. Harmony deserved it. He’d made a critical mistake with Destiny. He’d been in too much of a rush for the total stillness of death, which in the end had robbed him of more time with her.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. There were other ways to mimic the stillness, and though it wasn’t as perfect as death, it meant he could keep her much, much longer. He wanted to play with his doll for a while. Savor her. Taste her. Perhaps even find her a friend who would keep her company.
Drawn now by her calming stillness, he traced his hand over her soft hair and her full bright lips. So pretty. A doll. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, unable to resist a kiss. His hand slid to the swell of her breast, and he gently squeezed. He grew hard imagining what it would feel like to be in his new doll, Harmony.
Outside, a car’s headlights drove past the van, its lights sweeping inside the empty front cab. He pressed his body against her, holding his breath as the car’s brake lights turned the shadows bloodred. Finally, the car sped up and left.
Her eyes grew glassy and her stare fixed as the drugs took hold.
“It’s going to be okay, Harmony. I’m going to get you safely out of here and transform you. You’ll be my perfect doll by the time you and I are finished.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday, October 7, 8:00 a.m.
Sharp had been at his desk nearly two hours when he received Terrance Dillon’s financial statement. He was surprised to see the kid had two new credit cards.
According to the records, the kid had filed an application for the cards four weeks ago and received the new cards last week. He surveyed the purchases, and immediately red flags popped out at him. The kid had been buying items during the school day. Beer, wine, steaks. A tattoo parlor.
The principal said the kid didn’t miss school, so there’d have been no way he could have made these purchases thirty minutes from his school without someone noticing. He’d also have needed a fake ID to buy the booze.
He’d bet money Jimmy, freshly out of prison with no job, had stolen his son’s identity to get the credit cards. “Piece of work.”
His phone rang; it was Dr. Kincaid. “Doc, tell me you have news.”
“I don’t know if the news is good, but I have information. Blood work came back positive for high levels of barbiturates in your tattooed Jane Doe. There are also traces of propofol. She overdosed.”
His chair squeaked as he leaned back and processed the information. “Overdose.” The word always reminded him of Kara. And then he asked the question plaguing Roger, his mother, and him since his sister was found dead. “Propofol is administered by IV, so she couldn’t have given it to herself, correct?”
“That is right. There were no pills in her stomach, so the drugs had to have been delivered via an IV bag, thus the mark on her arm. I’m calling it a homicide, because even if it were some kind of game, whoever administered the drugs to her was the one responsible for her death.” Homicide literally meant the death of a human by another human’s hand. The ruling didn’t speak to premeditation or intent. The woman had died at another’s hands, but the homicide still could have been accidental.
“You said there might be a serial number on her breast implant.”
“There was, and I just got off the phone with the plastic surgeon’s office. Your Jane Doe has a name. Diane Richardson. According to her doctor, she had breast augmentation two years ago. He listed her address in the city’s Fan District on Monument Avenue.” She rattled off the house number.
Sharp pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and wrote down the address. “Doc, that’s great. Now that I have a name, I have a prayer of figuring this out. What about Julia Vargas? Have you notified her?”
“I have. She’ll be calling you to set up a meet today at the victim’s home.”
A critical piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. “Doc, you’re the best.”
“So I keep telling my staff, but no one seems to believe me.”
When he ended the call, he quickly rang Vargas, and the two agreed to meet at the Monument Avenue address as soon as he arranged for a s
earch warrant. By ten he had a judge willing to review his case.
Knowing the review process could take a couple of hours, he decided to visit the tattoo shop where someone had bought a tattoo in Terrance’s name last week.
Less than a half hour later, Sharp entered the tattoo salon Ink Plus, located on Broad Street, a thoroughfare in the center of the urban campus of Virginia Commonwealth University. The school took up most of this section of Richmond and added to the hip vibe of the area.
The windows of the salon were covered with a collection of pictures showcasing the artists standing beside their customers sporting new ink.
Sharp had gotten four tattoos while in the marines. None of them were fancy or ornate like these. One was a simple saying, I WIN WHERE I FIGHT. The second read DUTY. HONOR. COURAGE. And the third, MY TIME IS AT HAND. And the last was a list of the five good men he’d lost in battle.
He moved through the front door. Bells overhead jingled. Jazz music played softly.
“Can I help you?”
The question came from a young woman behind the front counter. Thick dark hair skimmed her shoulders. She wore a gray tank top that left exposed sinewy arms and an ornate tattooed cuff ringing her right bicep.
“I hope so,” he said.
She eyed him, already had him figured for a cop. But her smile was genuine. “What can I do for you?”
He pulled out his badge and introduced himself. “And your name?”
If he hadn’t been paying attention, he’d have missed the micro hesitation and the wave of tension rippling through her. “Shay Profit. I’m the girl Friday here. If I’m not tattooing, I’m answering phones or working the front desk.”
“How long have you worked here?” he asked.
“About two months.”
He wasn’t interested in whatever she might be hiding. “I’m trying to track a guy who might have been through here about a month ago.”
Relief chased away the unease. “That’s a long time.”
“I have a credit card receipt if that will help.”
“Sure.” He showed her Terrance’s and Jimmy’s pictures as well as the printout of the credit card purchase. He didn’t say more, wanting her to fill in the gaps.
She took both pictures and studied them. She turned Terrance’s picture around. “That’s the kid who was killed. I saw his picture on the news this morning.”
“Good memory.”
Black nails tapped the edge of the photo. “I have a memory for faces.”
“What about the other guy?”
“He does look familiar. I want to say he got a tiger tattoo.” She keyed the date on the credit card receipt into her computer. “Yeah, he was here just as you said, but he got a tattoo of a lion on his right shoulder blade. I didn’t do the work, but Reggie did.”
“So the kid didn’t get the tattoo?”
“The kid was never here. Just the older guy.” She studied the pictures of the two. “They look like father and son.”
“They are. Can I talk to Reggie?”
“Sure.” She raised a section of the counter and nodded for him to follow her into the back. They moved between burgundy curtains and along a long hallway with three doors on each side.
Shay knocked on the first. “Reggie, can we come in? Five-oh is here to ask a couple of questions.”
After a moment’s hesitation, a gruff voice fired back, “Sure, come on in.”
They found Reggie, a tall muscled man with ink covering his arms and chest. He was leaning over a woman’s exposed back with a tattoo gun gripped in large gloved hands and filling in the red shading of a rose. Half glasses perched on his nose.
Sharp introduced himself, prompting the woman on the table to turn her head and study him with open curiosity. “Reggie, do you mind stepping into the hall?”
“Sure.” The big man set aside the tattoo gun and stripped off his latex gloves. He patted the woman on the arm. “Be right back, doll. Just chill.”
The woman nodded. “Sure, Reggie, but remember, I got to be out of here in an hour. I’ve got a new business presentation this afternoon.”
“I got you covered.” In the hallway, Reggie closed the door. “So what do you need?”
Sharp pulled out Terrance’s and Jimmy’s pictures. “I’m trying to piece together the last days of this kid’s life. He was last seen with his father, who was here a month ago getting ink. I think the kid’s old man used his son’s identity to get a credit card.”
Reggie studied the pictures and nodded. “I remember the guy. He was covered in ink, and judging by the quality, it was done in prison. Did a lion’s face on his back shoulder. Took me about six hours. After I did the work, I had him wait in the back room like I do for all my clients so I could make sure he wasn’t having a reaction to the ink. After that he left, and we haven’t seen him since.”
“What did the guy talk about for six hours?”
“Damn, man, I don’t know. Some folks lie on the table and don’t say much. Others talk like I’m their therapist. I tune them all out and focus on the work. I do remember he had a high tolerance for pain. The needle didn’t bother him at all.”
Shay snapped her fingers. “Didn’t he mention his kid? Said he’d wanted to take the boy out for ice cream when he saw him last month but when he did, he realized his kid was all grown up. Seeing the kid reminded the guy of how long he’d been in prison.”
Reggie nodded. “That’s right. Went on and on about how he and the kid were going to start fresh. He saw them as a team.” He shook his head. “That’s when I really tuned him out.”
“When the guy was in the back room, he was chatting with another customer while he was waiting,” Shay said. “When I looked in to check on them, they were in deep conversation. That guy paid cash. I haven’t seen him before.”
Sharp scrolled through the images on his phone until he reached the face of the newly identified Diane Richardson. “Mind if I ask one more question?”
Shay glanced back at the clock. “Sure, my next appointment won’t be here for another five or ten minutes.”
“Make it quick,” Reggie said. “Molly hates to be kept waiting.”
Sharp glanced at the victim’s face. “We came across this woman, and it’s clear she had quite a bit of specialty ink done to her face.”
Shay looked at the picture and enlarged it with a swipe of her fingers. “The detail is amazing. Some of the best work I’ve ever seen.” She handed the phone to Reggie.
Reggie adjusted his glasses, and the instant he saw the picture, his annoyance vanished. “Damn.”
“Any idea whose work this might be?” Sharp asked.
“I’m good, but Shay’s better,” Reggie said. “She’s the only one in the shop who could come close.”
“I worked in a beauty salon doing permanent makeup for a while.” As she traced the imprint of the victim’s right eye, her brow furrowed. “I’ve not seen this much facial detailing before.” She pulled dark-rimmed glasses from her pocket and slid them on before raising the image closer. “You’re right about the attention to detail. It’s hard to get this kind of facial coverage and still make it look natural.”
“Natural?” Sharp challenged. “What’s natural about it?”
“I’m referring to the subtlety of the colors. Easy to cover the skin in a heavy patch of white, but it’s not so easy to stipple in other softer colors to create a more realistic—for lack of a better word—look. Her face looks like porcelain. That’s not easy to do. I’ve only done two facial tattoos. They were simple tribal markings. I’ve had no requests for this fine a detail. This guy is a true artisan.”
“How long would a job like that take?” Sharp asked.
“Days,” Shay said. “And she’d either have to have a high tolerance for pain or be taking sedatives, but you have to be careful with those. Some drugs cause excess bleeding. It’s critical she not move at all while the work is being done.” She returned the phone to Sharp. “Why are you asking about
her? Did she know the kid?”
Sharp tucked the phone back in his pocket. “No. She was found dead in a park recently.”
“Who is she?” Shay asked. “Some kind of performance artist?”
“I’m not really sure.” He wasn’t ready to share case details at this point.
Reggie shrugged. “We make no judgments here. Art has different meanings to each individual. Look, if you have more questions, send Shay in to get me, but I’m on the clock and have to get this job done.”
Sharp nodded to Reggie. “Sure, thanks. You’ve been a big help.”
Sharp followed Shay to the front. “What about the other guy hanging out with Jimmy in the back room. Does he have a name?”
“I can look up the name in the appointment book,” Shay said.
She pulled up the day Jimmy Dillon had visited the salon. “There were three guys in here about then. But I think the one you’re looking for was named David. Like I said, he paid in cash. Most of our customers pay cash. Reggie charges 20 percent more for credit cards.”
“What kind of tattoo did David get?”
“I do remember that. It was a woman’s face.”
“Did he happen to mention who the woman was?”
“Said it was his girlfriend. People get their significant other inked on their skin all the time. Half the time they’re back a year later getting it covered or removed.”
“And the other two men?”
She pulled up their names and read them off to Sharp. One got his baby’s name inked on his arm, and the other client had SHE’S WITH STUPID stenciled on his left breast.
He noted the first client’s information. “You stared at the picture of the woman on my phone long and hard. Did you see any detail you didn’t want to mention in front of Reggie?”
She hesitated. “Like I said, the work is just incredibly detailed. I doubt there are more than a handful of artists in the region able to create such fine work.”
“You have any names?”
She met his gaze briefly but couldn’t hold it. “Not off the top of my head, but I can ask around.”