Tattooed

by Pamela Callow

  “Friends.”

  Frances Sloane wasn’t trying to be deliberately brusque, Ethan guessed. Communication—both verbal and nonverbal—was difficult for her. “Any kids that you knew?”

  She exhaled. “Some girls. Crystal Burton. Imogen Lange—”

  “Did you say Imogen Lange?” It was difficult to tell with her speech, but that was an unusual name.

  “Yes. Why?” Her eyes scanned his face.

  Ethan struggled to keep his expression impassive. Kate’s younger sister had hung out at the bunker with Frances Sloane’s daughter?

  Was that why Kate was putting herself on the line as a lobbyist for Frances Sloane?

  And yet, hadn’t she told him that in her final days Imogen had been hanging out with a bad group of kids?

  Was Kenzie one of them?

  He made a note to call Kate.

  Then crossed that off as fast. She couldn’t talk about her client.

  “I know Imogen’s family,” he said.

  “Her death was so tragic.” Frances’ gaze searched his.

  “After Imogen Lange died, who did Kenzie hang out with?”

  Frances Sloane closed her eyes. A spasm crossed her face. Ethan wasn’t sure if it was from a bad memory or was a symptom of her disease. She opened her eyes and said, “No one. After Imogen died, she stopped going.”

  “Kenzie was in grade twelve in 1995, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Kenzie use drugs at the time?”

  Frances Sloane’s eyelids flickered. “I don’t know.”

  Or you didn’t want to know.

  “Did her friends do drugs?”

  “I don’t know.” She swallowed. “What does this have to do with Heather Rigby?”

  “Were you at home on the night of the Mardi Gras in 1995?”

  “That was a long time ago. But I believe so.”

  “Where was Kenzie?”

  She exhaled. “She went downtown. To the bars. But then she came home.”

  “At what time?”

  “Before midnight.”

  Lamond, who had been taking notes, paused. Heather Rigby had been spotted on the bar security cameras

  at 1:09 a.m.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Because her curfew was midnight. And I would remember if she had broken it.”

  Lamond made of note of this flimsy rationale.

  Frances Sloane’s head drooped sideways. Her caregiver jumped to her feet. “Mrs. Sloane is getting tired, Detectives.”

  “One more question, if I may, Mrs. Sloane,” Ethan said.

  She gazed at him. She hadn’t moved a muscle but he had the sense she was bracing herself.

  “Did Kenzie have any tattoos?”

  The caregiver’s eyes grew round. Her gaze flew to Frances Sloane.

  A rather strong reaction.

  “She had several.” Mrs. Sloane’s face was calm.

  “What were they?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  She was lying, Ethan was sure of it. She had likely seen the police sketch of Heather Rigby’s tattoo. But why would she lie unless…her daughter had the same one?

  “Do you have a number where we can reach your daughter?”

  “She’s visiting from New York. She’s at a hotel downtown.”

  Kenzie Sloane was in Halifax? Ethan managed to keep his face impassive and caught Lamond’s eye.

  But they both knew where they were headed next.

  “She’s here for only a few days,” Frances added.

  “Do you have her number where she is staying?”

  Phyllis flipped open a binder. “She gave me her work number.”

  “She’s working in Halifax?”

  “Only while she is visiting. The name of the place is—” the caregiver squinted at the words “—Yaku… Yaku… Yakusoku Tattoo shop.”

  You have got to be kidding me. Ethan struggled to keep his excitement from showing. “She’s a tattoo artist?”

  Phyllis threw a panicked glance at her employer.

  “Yes,” Frances said, her voice steady. “She is.”

  He stood. Lamond flipped his notepad shut. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sloane.”

  “Goodbye.” Her tone had an air of finality. Her eyes drooped closed. They had exhausted her.

  They were ushered out quickly by Phyllis. But instead of returning to the car, Ethan detoured around to the back of the house. The property extended all the way to the cliff overlooking the ocean.

  Could someone walk along the headland to the bunkers from here?

  They returned to the car and drove down the long driveway to the highway.

  “So…” Ethan threw Lamond a sideways glance. “What do you think? Have we found our first suspect?”

  Lamond grinned. “Let me see—her daughter is close to the same age as Heather, lived near the dump site and hung out at the bunker. And, to top it all off, she works in a tattoo shop.” He sipped the nearly empty can of soda left over from his lunch. “Yes, I think Kenzie Sloane is definitely a person of interest.”

  “Let’s head straight over to Yakusoku. Her mother might not be able to warn her if she’s with a client. Also, Frances Sloane looks like she is on her last legs. The sooner we narrow down the Kenzie Sloane connection, the better.” Ethan took a sip of his now-cold green tea. “Have you ever been to Yakusoku Tattoo?”

  “No. But I think that’s the place Liscomb consulted for the tattoo drawing,” Lamond said.

  Ethan shot him a look. “Are you serious?”

  “Yup.”

  27

  Kenzie stretched her shoulders. “How are you holding up?” she asked Mikey, who lay on his stomach.

  He sucked in his breath when the needle hit his skin. “I’m starting to lose it.”

  “Almost done.”

  One could never tell who was going to last and who wasn’t. She had had skinny girls with no meat on their ribs who were able to tolerate sitting for elaborate back pieces. And then she had clients like Mikey, three hundred pounds of beef in a biker jacket, who began to wince an hour into the appointment.

  She added the final red highlights to the flames bursting from the skull’s eyes. “Done.”

  He practically leapt off the table.

  “Came out pretty good, don’t you think?” she asked as he admired his tattooed calf in the mirror.

  “It rocks. You are the best, Kenzie.”

  He gave her a hug. Over his shoulder she spotted two guys standing out front. From the way they held themselves—and the closed expression on their faces—she knew right away who they were.

  Police.

  Her client let go of her and shot a sideways glance at Kenzie. “Is Yoshi in trouble?”

  She managed a smile. “Don’t think so.”

  He patted her on the shoulder. “Be good.”

  She began to break down her workstation. Her skin prickled.

  Yoshi walked over to her. “Kenzie, there are two police officers who wish to speak to you. You can use my office.” His voice was calm, but she read concern in his eyes.

  She nodded. “Thanks.” She took her time cleaning up. Then she walked to the front of the tattoo shop, feeling the cops’ scrutiny as she approached.

  “Kenzie Sloane?” the taller one asked. “I’m Detective Drake, and this is Detective Lamond.” They flashed their badges. The receptionist watched, her eyes jumping back and forth between Kenzie and the two men.

  Why don’t you just take notes? Kenzie thought, trying to ignore the woman’s salacious interest.

  “I understand you wish to speak to me?”

  “Yes, we have a few questions.”

  She did not want them dropping Heather Rigby’s name in front of the receptionist and the all-too-interested clients, so she said, “Follow me. We can use the office.”

  She sat behind Yoshi’s desk, a simple drafting table that disconcertingly resembl
ed her mother’s. The detectives sat down opposite her. It felt wrong. Farcical. As if she was their boss, and they were reporting to her. She sensed their eyes tracking her tattoos, skimming each limb methodically. Were they looking for a tattoo of an admission of guilt: “I, Kenzie Sloane, put a bullet in Heather Rigby” scrolling in Old English font down her arm?

  Do not cross your arms. Do not cross your arms. It would look as if she was trying to hide something. She was trying to hide something, but it wasn’t her tattoos.

  “Ms. Sloane,” Detective Drake said, “we are investigating the death of Heather Rigby, whose remains were found not too far from your family home.”

  The first mention of Heather’s name made her heart thud. She raised her brows politely. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I had no idea. I don’t live there anymore.” A thought struck her. “How did you know I grew up there? Have you already spoken to my mother?” God knows what her mother would have told them.

  “What brought you back to Halifax, Ms. Sloane?” Detective Drake avoided her question. But she wouldn’t say any more until she knew whether her mother had already spoken to the police.

  “My mother is ill. I came to see her. Did you speak to her already?” She directed her question to the taller one, Detective Drake.

  “Yes. We saw her this afternoon. She’s very sick, isn’t she?”

  Don’t pretend you care, Detective. “Yes. She’s dying.”

  “And you are also doing a little work?” Detective Lamond asked.

  “Pay some bills?” The younger detective had impossibly large brown eyes. Must be hard to be taken seriously as a cop when you have eyes like that, Kenzie thought.

  “My friend Yoshi asked if I would do a guest spot while I was in town.” They clearly had no idea who she was.

  Yet.

  Detective Drake held out a picture. Kenzie’s stomach tightened.

  Oh, God, he wants me to look at her face.

  Sweat slid down her sides. She could smell it. It was so rank, it had broken through her deodorant.

  “Have you ever seen this girl before?”

  She gave the picture a cursory glance. Pretending to look, but not focusing. She couldn’t bear to do that. “She’s the dead girl, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And when did she go missing?”

  “1995.”

  “So I would have been…seventeen, I guess. I was in grade twelve then.”

  “And which school did you attend?”

  “Queen Elizabeth. I don’t believe she went to my school. Did she?” She held Detective Drake’s gaze.

  “No. She was in university.”

  “So why would I know her?”

  “That’s what we are asking you. Did you know her?”

  She shrugged. “Not from school. And I’ve tattooed so many people over the years. I can’t say.”

  “Do you think you tattooed her?”

  She cursed her stupidity. She had walked right into that one.

  She shook her head. “No. And anyway, I was only seventeen. I didn’t start tattooing until after I finished high school.”

  “Not even for fun?”

  “No.”

  “So, if I understand you correctly, you never tattooed anyone, not even yourself, until you finished high school?”

  “Geez, you guys.” She lightened her tone. “I’m not on the stand, am I?”

  “We are just trying to make sure we understand what you are telling us.” Detective Drake smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  Under normal circumstances, he would have merited a second look. He was ruggedly handsome—but clearly uptight.

  She exhaled. “No. I did not tattoo anyone until I graduated from high school.”

  “And you graduated in June of 1995, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Heather Rigby went missing in October of 1995. So it’s possible you could have tattooed her, right?”

  “No!” She shook her head. In a calmer voice she added, “No. I never tattooed her. I never even met her. I don’t know who she is.” She stood. “I need to go now.”

  “Where were you on the night of the Mardi Gras?” Detective Drake asked. His gaze locked with hers. His eyes were hard, inscrutable.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve really got to run.” She strode to the door.

  “Where are you staying, Ms. Sloane? In case we have more questions.”

  “You can find me here.”

  She hurried out of the room and headed back to her station. She busied herself packing her equipment while they left. God, she stank. She grabbed her kit bag and hurried out of the studio.

  Way to go, Kenzie. You just made yourself their number one suspect.

  But what else could she do? Until she knew what her mother had said, she wasn’t going to answer anything.

  * * *

  McNally parked Lovett’s truck in front of a rental property midway down Kate Lange’s street. A For Rent sign swung in the breeze. If anyone noticed his truck, they would assume that the Lovett Property Group had legitimate business on the street.

  He took a clipboard from the backseat of the truck and studied it, sending an occasional, casual glance down Kate’s street. She should be home soon. It was supper time.

  He wondered what her reaction had been to the envelope he’d left on the windshield.

  Was she scared?

  Angry?

  He wished he could have seen her face.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he was rewarded for his patience. Kate pulled into the driveway. She hurried into the house before he could fully savor the sight of her.

  Damn.

  Would she come out?

  He pulled the brim of his cap lower on his forehead and pretended to write a long note on his clipboard, throwing thoughtful looks at the rental unit.

  Kate opened her front door. She carried a duffel bag. Her two large dogs followed her down the porch steps.

  Was she going to the gym?