by A. J. Norris
TATTOO KILLER
By A.J. Norris
TATTOO KILLER
Copyright © 2016 by A.J. Norris.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: October 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-816-3
ISBN-10: 1-68058-816-8
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my biggest supporter
May you one day spread your wings and fly.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
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CHAPTER ONE
Mikey
Why is this happening?
The question was the only thing Mikey could think about as the metal door of the Webster City lock-up cell slammed shut and closed him inside. The arrest surprised him. He had a clean record apart from the drunk driving conviction from five years ago. Murder though? Not him. So not him. Sure, he had tattoos, but come on.
He looked around the holding cell. The walls, ceiling, and floor were painted a pale institutional green. A stainless steel toilet and sink combo was mounted to the cinderblock wall out in plain sight. Good thing he didn't need to take a dump. He sat down on the built-in bench and thought about how best to use the phone which was mounted on the wall opposite the toilet. Unfortunately, he couldn’t place a call his parents, not unless the thing had a direct line to heaven.
Lying back on the bench, he ran his hands through his hair, leaving it spiked down the middle. His shoulders and wrists ached from having been cuffed for hours.
A deputy cleared his throat outside his cell. Mikey flipped his eyelids open. Two other officers flanked him. He dropped his legs over the side of the bench and planted his feet on the floor.
“Hardin, ah…Mikey?” the deputy in the middle said.
“Yeah. That's me,” Mikey said. Who else could it be? He was the only one in the cell. He stood and puffed his chest, ready to defend his name. Most people couldn't believe that was his actual first name. And at six foot four, not many had the nerve to question why a grown man would go by a child's nickname. Growing up, he'd been teased, and constantly asked if he liked things. Any things, not only cereal.
“'Kay, you know the drill,” the deputy said.
“Um, what drill?”
“Listen, asshole, stick your hands through the slot in the door, so I can cuff you.”
Mikey couldn't understand why this guy assumed he'd done what he was accused of, and further to the point, clearly he'd not read his non-violent criminal record. He put his hands through the space in the door not much bigger than a mail slot. The deputy cranked the cuffs around his wrists. Mikey winced and stepped backward. The door swung wide with a grating squeal.
“Hands,” the guard barked at him. Mikey thrust his hands toward the deputy who un-cuffed one of Mikey’s hands, spun him around by the arm, and hooked his hands behind his back. The officers led him out of the cell.
“Where are you taking me?” Mikey asked.
“For some reason, Detective Hunter wants a word with you. Let's go.”
“I already made my statement. What's he want?”
“How should I know?” The vocal deputy deposited him in a chair and locked him inside an interrogation room at the end of a hallway.
Mikey looked at his reflection in the two-way mirror and rolled his bloodshot eyes. Was someone lurking on the other side? He tapped his toes on the floor. His shoes had been removed and replaced with orange booties not much thicker than paper. He put his forehead down on the table in front of him. After what felt like hours, the door opened and someone in an ill-fitting suit carrying two cups of coffee and a folder under his arm walked in and stood opposite him.
“Mr. Hardin, I’m detective Hunter,” Cheap Suit said, placing the steaming paper cups on the table. He slapped the thin brown folder down. The man’s hair was grayed at the temples. He took a sip of the coffee on the right. His eyes rose to Mikey’s. “Your record’s clean. Mostly.” The detective smirked on the last word.
“I know. So?” Mikey asked, sitting up straighter.
Hunter narrowed his eyes at Mikey and took a sip of coffee, this time from the cup on the left. “So you indicated that you knew the victim, Felicia Potts, but only went on a few dates. Banged her, once.”
“Yeah, that's right,” Mikey said, looking the detective in the eye. He had a nagging feeling he knew the guy from somewhere.
“Why?” the detective asked, folding his arms over his chest.
“Why what? You mean why did I bang her or why did I only go out with her a few times?”
“Both.” Hunter picked up one of the cups.
“Decided I didn't like her. No
t my type. But that doesn't prove I killed her. Hey listen, if we're going to be here a while, can you at least cuff my hands in front of me? My shoulders are killing me.”
Hunter chuckled without humor. “You’re something else.”
“Do you know me?” When the detective didn't respond Mikey sighed. He rolled a shoulder and muttered, “Shoulders are really killing me.”
“Sorry to hear that.” The detective leaned his hands on the table and grinned.
Mikey breathed deeply. The cuffs clanked against the metal chair. Detective Hunter opened the folder and spread some pictures out on the table. One glance and Mikey averted his eyes.
“Bothers you?”
“Yeah. What the fuck is that?” He turned his head back to look at the detective and immediately regretted it.
Hunter was holding one of the photos up. “That is the victim after we pulled her out of the lake.”
“Jesus. How long had she been in there?” He coughed and swallowed rising bile.
“Three, maybe four days. Some kids on a fishing trip with their ol’ man spotted her floating near the shore of Lake Webster.” Hunter sifted through the photos and picked up another. “This was taken where the body was found and this,” he held up a picture taken with the victim lying on an autopsy table, “is what her parents get to bury.”
Mikey needed to get out of this room. The images nauseated him. His stomach churned. “Can you put those away?” He swallowed hard again. “I can't stand seeing them.”
Hunter looked up at him with an inquisitive brow raised. “Wouldn't've pegged you for a weak stomach.”
“Well, you were wrong. And it's not just the pictures, it's the thought someone would've done that to her. How did she die anyway?” Maybe this was an obvious question. He looked down at the table, focusing on a scratch in the metal.
The detective inhaled and let the breath out slowly. “Hmm.” He sipped his coffee, alternating between the cups.
“What?” Mikey said.
“You don't read the papers? Watch T.V.?”
Mikey shook his head.
“No?”
“Nope. Surprised?” Mikey asked.
The detective put the photos away. “Blow to the back of the head. Likely while she was in the water, considering she had on a swimsuit.”
Mikey wondered why no one had seen anything during the murder but didn’t ask. He wanted to get the hell out of there, not take up residency.
Cheap Suit cleared his throat. “I'll tell you what, you sit tight and—”
Mikey snorted. “Where am I going to go?” He splayed his hands behind his back as much as he could with his wrists shackled.
“Humph. Funny guy.”
* * *
Three hours passed before Mikey was released with neither an apology, nor an explanation as to how they had gotten his name in the first place. Although he knew it had been his ex-wife Cynthia. That crazy woman needed to get a life. He literally had only been on three dates with the murdered girl, hardly knew her.
Mikey called a cab service for a ride home; he'd get his car later. His jaw dropped when he walked inside the house. He was shocked but not surprised his place had been turned over. He'd given permission for the cops to search his place. Probably a bone- headed move without consulting a lawyer first.
He stepped over the living room couch cushions on the way to the kitchen. His place was a small ranch with the kitchen situated in the back of the house. He swore under his breath at the state of the cabinets and their contents, which were spilled all over the table and onto the tiled floor. He picked up one the drawers off the floor. A crack ran along several tiles. The new tile had been laid only last week. He guessed he knew what he would be doing next weekend.
“Sonofabitch.” He groaned on the way to the refrigerator for a soda. It was empty. Where was his food? “Oh, wonderful.” He ran his palms down his face and groaned again. Ice cream had leaked out of the container, down the side of the lower cabinet, and the milk and eggs were piss warm.
Hours later, Mikey finally had his house mostly back in order. After investigating the kitchen, he'd gone straight to his son Brayden's room. It was the least ransacked room of the house, the first area he cleaned, and with the most care. No way would he want one thing of his son's stuff out of place.
At eight o'clock Mikey’s stomach growled. He hopped onto his motorcycle, because his car was still parked out front of his ex’s house, and rode to the twenty-four-hour Hector’s Coney Island restaurant. The sign when he walked in had been flipped to the ‘Seat Yourself’ side. He picked a booth in the back along the front window so he could keep an eye on his bike. Jennifer, the perky blonde waitress with a ponytail and a streak of pink on either side of her head ambled up to his table. He’d thought about asking her out but decided the early-twenty-something was too young. At thirty-two, Mikey wasn’t a kid anymore. What he needed was a mature girlfriend not a fuck-buddy.
“Hey, Jennifer.”
Her neck flushed and she smiled. “Hey yourself. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Pepsi, please. Oh, and a glass of water.” He grinned at her despite his sour mood. He also leaned slightly to the left and checked out her nice ass. His eyes traveled the length of her side down to her feet. A butterfly tattoo adorned her ankle. “When you gonna come by my shop and get inked? By me?”
“Um, when do you want me to stop by?”
“Anytime you want. Treat you really well, give you a discount.” He looked her in the eye and she blushed.
“Oh yeah?”
Mikey dipped his head. “Yep.”
“I might do that.”
“Think about it.” He winked.
Jennifer walked away, smiling demurely over her shoulder.
CHAPTER TWO
Grace
Grace parked her car in her father’s driveway. She leaned her head back on the seat. Her mother’s birthday party was coming up and she dreaded the whole thing. As she got out of her car and approached the side door, Grace went over the speech she’d memorized. This year she wouldn’t be joining her dad in the celebration. Not only was it depressing and slightly morbid, it was unhealthy. Her mother had passed away over ten years ago.
She used her spare key to let herself into the house. The lights were off in the kitchen.
“Dad?” she called out. The lights in the front living room were also off. “Dad? Are you home?” No answer. She checked the rest of the house. Wandering toward her parents’ bedroom, she knocked on the closed door. Still no answer. Grace ducked her head inside the room and glanced around. The bedding was rumpled. Normally her dad kept the bed made. She approached the mattress and threw the patchwork bedspread over the exposed pale yellow sheets. She stood back, looking at the half-assed job she’d done at making the bed.
The phone rang on the nightstand. She smirked at her father’s insistence on still having a land-line and picked up the handset. “Hello?”
“Oh, hi. Grace? This is Marianne at Cake Happens Bake—”
“Uh huh.”
“Yeah, um, I wanted to let you know your mother’s cake will be ready for pick-up at—”
Oh God, Dad.
“Yeah. I see. Thanks.”
“Is there something wrong?” Marianne asked hesitantly.
“Do you think you could—oh never mind. All right, I’ll let my dad know. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Grace hung up the phone and went back into the kitchen. She wrote a note about the cake only after realizing that her father must have forgotten their dinner plans again. No sense in using a guilt trip on him. This was her father’s favorite weapon. And it was effective. How was she ever going to tell him she didn’t want to mark her mother’s birthday?
Back in her car and on the road again, she pulled into the parking lot at Hector’s. The bells over the door jangled. A waitress with a swinging blonde and pink ponytail greeted Grace as she walked by the entrance. “Have a seat anywhere you lik
e, ma’am.”
Since when had she become a ma’am? Funny how something as innocuous as ‘ma’am’ made her question herself with things like, ‘Oh my God, do I look that old?’ and ‘What have I done with my life?’ She had done plenty: she’d mourned her mother’s death at twenty, had a thriving CPA practice, and a divorce under her belt. Okay, she was a ma’am.
She sighed heavily as she sank in a booth across the aisle from a dark sandy-blond haired man. The guy glanced in her direction and his eyes lingered on her face longer than made her comfortable. She shied a little at the scrutiny. He was gorgeous. Tattoos peeked out below his t-shirt. A motorcycle helmet sat on the bench opposite him. She noted the overhead lights highlighted the shiny black enamel. In an instant she thought the man was everything she wasn’t—wild, free, and adventurous. Sexy.
Miss Pink-n-blonde set a soda and a glass of water on his table. Grace tried not to stare but found it impossible. A pang of envy pinched her insides. What was this now? She didn’t know the guy. He spoke with a deep voice when he ordered.
Oh. Dear. God.
He leaned back for a better view of the waitress’ ass, except he didn’t ogle the girl. He looked at Grace. She turned red, smiled crookedly, and pretended to peruse the menu. A breeze lifted the ends of her hair. Grace looked up through her lashes. The waitress ba-donk-a-donked away, swinging her hips. She rolled her eyes at the menu on the table in front of her. When she looked up, hot guy had turned in his booth toward her.
“There’s something familiar about you. Have we met?”
Grace’s heart sped up, excited he spoke to her. “No.” She shrunk into the booth. Her face tightened.
He swiveled back around and faced his table. “Sorry. I didn’t mean bother you.”
She exhaled loudly.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry. You’re trying to make conversation with me and I shut you down. It’s…forget it. Sorry.” Grace’s eyes never left the menu. Her cheeks heated. An image of her lying dead in her apartment surrounded by thirteen cats eating her eyeballs made her shiver. She sensed his eyes on her again and forced herself to look him in the face.