The Missing Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  My hesitation must have told him I had doubts.

  “Trust me, Kavanaugh. I loved her; I wouldn’t hurt her. She left me.” I could tell he was confused by that.

  For a second, I flashed back to Paul, asking me, Why? He really had no clue. Asking me to quit my job at the Ink Spot, follow his career by giving up mine. I shook off the memory.

  Jeff was still talking. “I want to do a little look-see into this myself, and if I don’t have the cops breathing down my neck, I’ll be able to do it a lot easier.”

  I couldn’t resist. “If you find out anything, can you let me know?”

  Jeff cocked his head to one side and studied me for a second. “Why?”

  “Maybe I just want to find out what happened to Elise Lyon, and I’ve got a hunch there’s a connection.”

  “A hunch? Who are you, Nancy Drew?”

  Okay, maybe I deserved that. But it didn’t deter me. “Elise showed up at my shop and told me her name was Kelly Masters.”

  I couldn’t read his expression.

  “So maybe there is something there after all,” he said thoughtfully. “Sure, Kavanaugh, I’ll play Starsky and Hutch with you, as long as you promise not to blab my name prematurely to that brother of yours. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” I shifted my messenger bag to my other shoulder, crossing my fingers behind it so he wouldn’t see, and asked, “So who would want her dead?”

  He laughed, opened the door to his shop, put one foot inside. “The best question would be, who wouldn’t want her dead?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me worry about that right now.”

  “So Kelly had a lot of enemies?”

  “Let’s just say she would never be voted Miss Conge niality.”

  Again, the link between Kelly Masters and Elise Lyon seemed really remote.

  He started to go inside, but I grabbed the door before it shut, causing him to stop in the doorway. “What is it, Kavanaugh?”

  “Kelly’s brother. What’s his story?”

  “I don’t know where you met him, Kavanaugh, but my advice? Just stay away from him.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was soft, like he actually had a heart. “Matthew’s bad news. You don’t want to mess with him.”

  Matthew?

  Chapter 13

  So now I had two Matthews, or rather, a Matt and a Matthew.

  Jeff Coleman’s words floated around in my head, interrupted every second or so by the fact that Kelly Masters’s brother, Matthew, was the guy watching me.

  Matthew.

  The object of Elise Lyon’s devotion?

  Maybe.

  Or was it Chip Manning’s driver Matt?

  I had a hard time connecting Elise-from a well-to-do family in Philadelphia, about to marry one of the richest heirs in the world-with someone like Kelly’s brother.

  Where would she meet him? Did she hop a plane to Vegas, meet him in a casino or a bar here, decide she couldn’t marry Chip but had to marry Matthew instead?

  Something inside me wouldn’t let me believe that. It just didn’t fit.

  Then there was Matt, the driver. That made the most sense. She would obviously have known him through Chip. Maybe Matt drove her around, too. Maybe he started her engine a few times. Maybe that was enough for her to realize Chip was never in the driver’s seat.

  My car analogies were getting out of hand.

  Now I knew how Tim felt when he was working a case and didn’t have all the answers.

  It sucked.

  Tim. He wouldn’t be happy with me once he found out about my trip to Murder Ink to see Jeff Coleman. I thought about my promise to Jeff that I wouldn’t tell Tim. It let me off the hook, but only temporarily. Even though no one knew I’d come here tonight-except for Scottie the Star Trek fan-Tim would find out Jeff was Kelly Masters’s ex-husband and since Jeff was a tattooist and I was a tattooist, Tim was smart enough to figure that we might know each other and ask me about him.

  It shouldn’t be a difficult decision. Jeff Coleman was my sworn enemy; we hated each other. This was the first almost-civil conversation I’d ever had with him, and still he’d peppered it with constant reminders that he only ever called me by my last name. Like he was some sort of tough guy.

  I could take him out.

  But there had been something sincere about his voice when he talked about Kelly, and he’d definitely been surprised when he found out she was dead. If I went with my gut, I’d say Jeff Coleman didn’t have anything to do with his ex-wife’s death.

  I didn’t have to debate it too long, though, because when I got to the house, Tim wasn’t there. I remembered he said he might not be home tonight.

  I tugged off my tank top and skirt, changing into plaid pajama bottoms and a short-sleeved oversize T-shirt. It had been a long time since my burger, so I rummaged in the fridge and found some cheese and crackers. I poured a glass of Malbec and went to the sofa, clicking on the TV.

  Hadn’t I started my day here?

  Elise Lyon was all over CNN. And MSNBC. And FOX. She was still missing. Chip Manning had joined his father in Las Vegas, and they were staying in the penthouse suite at Versailles. Elise Lyon’s father had arrived in town; her mother was in Philadelphia not speaking to the press. A local tattoo shop owner had last seen Elise Lyon. See her in her shop in this incredibly unflattering footage.

  They must have bought the film from Leigh Holmes’s station. Great.

  Nowhere was there any mention of Kelly Masters.

  I finished my wine and felt my eyes droop. The day had finally caught up with me, and I had to get up early tomorrow for the TV crew’s little visit. Fun.

  I took the glass and empty plate to the kitchen, placing them in the dishwasher. Neither of us had eaten at home today except for breakfast, and it could be a few days before we had enough dishes in there to warrant using the water.

  One of my biggest issues with Las Vegas is the water situation. By all rights, we shouldn’t have any. We’re in the desert, and the fact that water is in short supply is no mystery. Lake Mead, our water supply source, was down a hundred feet because of the drought, yet every resort and casino used so much water every day that we could probably fill another ocean in no time. Every time I looked at that fake canal that ran parallel to my shop, I tried not to feel guilty.

  I shut the dishwasher, turned out the light, and went to my bedroom, where I fell on top of the covers and went to sleep immediately.

  Regardless, I woke up sometime in the night when I heard Tim come in after all. He tended to have heavy feet, and I followed his footsteps in my head around the house as he got himself a glass of water in the kitchen and then went into his bedroom and shut the door.

  I barely slept again, my nervousness about 20/20 bubbling up in my chest. How could I call it off? Could I do that to my staff?

  When I got to the shop the next morning-Tim had managed to sneak out during one of my bits of sleep, thus alleviating my guilt about not telling him about Jeff Coleman-Bitsy and Joel acted like it was Christmas, and even Ace wore a pair of jeans that didn’t have a hole in the knee.

  They all had dressed up like they were going to their First Communion. Bitsy had a new pair of trousers and a cute blue top that accentuated her blond curls. Joel’s massive frame wasn’t quite so overwhelming in a subdued charcoal rayon shirt and cream-colored slacks.

  “What did you people do with my staff?” I asked as I surveyed them over my to-go coffee cup.

  Joel circled me, his head shaking sadly. “Brett, you have to go get yourself something else to wear. I’ll go with you.”

  I didn’t think my print skirt and black tank top were awful. Why should I look different today?

  When I voiced that out loud, Bitsy “tsk-tsked” me. Even Ace made a face.

  I sighed. “Okay, Joel, take me out, dress me up.”

  The smile spread across his face as he clapped his hands. “Goody!”

  “We’re probably only going to be on air
for about one minute, you know. No one will even notice what we’re wearing.”

  No one got it. Joel shuffled me out of the shop and pointed me in the direction of Ann Taylor.

  “You do realize that this sort of thing gives me hives?” I asked him as I showed off a wraparound dress with a print that clashed with my tats.

  “Oh, shut up and deal,” Joel said, handing me a pair of white cotton trousers and a flowing purple silk sleeveless top.

  I got the top caught on one of my hoop earrings. Or maybe two of them. I wandered out of the dressing room with it stuck on my head, my bra and dragon exposed for all to see. Not to mention the tiger lily that stretched along the side of my torso from my breast to my hip. And the Celtic cross on my upper back.

  Joel chuckled as he set the top free, and it settled on my frame like it was supposed to.

  Joel stepped back and studied me, cocking his head from side to side. “Hold on a sec,” he said, and he disappeared, reappearing a minute later with a pair of red patent-leather pumps with a heel that was at least four inches high. They rivaled the Kenneth Cole shoes; in fact, I liked them even better.

  I slipped them on and stood slightly taller than Joel, who was nodding so hard I thought he’d turned into a bobble-head doll.

  “That’s it,” he said, “that’s the one.”

  I stepped in front of the three-way mirror and had to admit it looked good. I would never have chosen this for myself, but Joel had taste. The manager was nice enough to snip off the tags so I could wear the new clothes out of the store, and she bagged up the old ones.

  We walked back to the shop, looping around the canal and passing Breathe, the oxygen bar. Ace sat on the end stool, the oxygen tube in his nose, a short Asian girl massaging his back with something that looked like a large fork.

  Joel sighed as he shook his head at me. Ace was addicted to the aromatherapy oxygen, swore it gave him more energy. His eyes were closed, his face serene as he sucked in that air.

  I just hoped they changed those tubes so Ace wasn’t sticking someone else’s snot up his nose every time.

  My outfit got murmurs of approval from Bitsy. Since she’d canceled all our appointments until late afternoon, we didn’t have anything to do, and Joel wouldn’t let me finish my coffee because he thought I’d spill on my new white trousers.

  He was probably right. I drank a Pellegrino.

  The shop was gussied up, too, like the rest of us: A fresh spray of purple orchids had replaced the sad little white one on the front desk; the floor gleamed.

  Ace came back about fifteen minutes later, his eyes alert.

  “What time are they coming?” Ace asked Bitsy, who’d scheduled everything.

  I didn’t hang around to hear her answer; I went into the staff room and saw that all the piles of stencils I’d made had been filed neatly. I was getting too nervous to start the stencil I needed for later that day, so I turned on the TV, channel surfing until I saw a familiar face on CNN.

  Elise Lyon was still missing.

  But the media had caught wind of last night’s twist.

  “In a related story, a young woman named Kelly Masters was shot and killed and found in her car at McCarran International Airport yesterday afternoon,” the anchor was saying.

  Joel came in and started to say something, but I waved in his general direction, shushing him.

  “Police believe Kelly Masters may have had some connection with Elise Lyon’s disappearance.”

  I held my breath.

  “Police found Elise Lyon’s driver’s license under the seat of the car.”

  Chapter 14

  They were connected. Elise was posing as Kelly, and Kelly had Elise’s license. Had Kelly planned to pose as Elise? What was the deal between them? Had they switched iden tities for some reason?

  I didn’t have time to ponder it any further, because the TV crew had arrived. The producer brought in a couple of camera and sound guys and proceeded to rearrange the area Bitsy and Ace had arranged the night before. Lights went up, blasting hot rays. I was glad my new blouse was sleeveless.

  Bitsy coordinated it all. Ace, Joel, and I hovered in the background. Until the producer shouted, “Brett Kavanaugh? Who is Brett?”

  I raised my hand like I was in fourth grade, and he came over to me. “This segment will be taped, and we’ll air it tonight. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “We need to mike you.”

  I indicated Bitsy, who I could see was chomping at the bit. “She was here, too. Her name is Bitsy Hendricks; she talked to Kelly-I mean Elise-too.”

  The producer glanced at Bitsy, and while I didn’t see his expression change, I felt a distinct chill in the air. “We only have two minutes on air. We only have time for one of you.”

  He held the mike, which was attached to a small black box by a long wire. I put my hand on it and shoved it toward him. “Then interview Bitsy, okay?”

  He didn’t even look at Bitsy. “No. You. You’re the owner.” Like that made me the only grown-up in the room. I could see by the set of his mouth that he wasn’t going to argue this with me, that he was right and I was wrong, so I nodded, shrugging at Bitsy, who looked like she was getting ready to call her lawyer to file a discrimination suit against ABC. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  The producer fastened the black box on the back of my trousers. “I’m going to feed the wire up through your shirt. Can you grab it and bring it up around to your collar?”

  He got it halfway up without even touching my skin, and I managed to pull it up and out near my neck. He fastened the mike on my blouse and started to lead me toward the sofa when the door opened.

  The Asian woman who glided into the room was half a foot shorter than I was, with sleek black hair pulled into a tight chignon at the back of her head. Her handshake was firm.

  “Alison Cho, 20/20,” she said. “Where are we doing this?” She fingered the long strand of pearls that rested gently against a filmy cream-colored silk blouse. She may have been short, but she had a certain presence, a charisma about her that no doubt would be picked up by the camera.

  “Where’s Diane Sawyer?” Bitsy’s voice echoed across the shop and bounced off the wall.

  A flash of something-annoyance-was gone in a second before Alison Cho turned to Bitsy and smiled. “I’m doing the interview,” she said firmly, ignoring Bitsy’s expression, which clearly relayed that this was unacceptable, and turned to Joel and Ace, shaking their hands. Someone handed her a water, but she didn’t open it.

  They’d set up a chair for her across from the couch, and I settled in, jostling the black box at my waist a little. I shifted so I wouldn’t lean against it, acutely aware that I couldn’t slouch, trying to keep my back ramrod straight.

  “Don’t look directly into the camera,” she advised.

  I had no intention of looking at it at all.

  Alison Cho had no issues with looking at the camera, though.

  “Today we’re speaking with Brett Kavanaugh, owner of The Painted Lady tattoo shop in Las Vegas, where Elise Lyon was last seen alive.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, and it made me shiver.

  Alison swung her head around and looked me straight in the eye. “What was her demeanor that night? Did she seem well? Or agitated?”

  “She was fine. Relaxed.”

  The voice that came out of my mouth didn’t sound like mine; rather, it was like I was somewhere else and hearing myself through a tunnel. My heart was pounding, and I hoped I wasn’t sweating through the purple top.

  “She came in for a devotion tattoo, correct?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Please explain what that is.”

  “It’s a tattoo that has the name of a loved one on it. Kelly-I mean Elise-wanted the name in a heart with two clasped hands.” Maybe more information than anyone needed, but Alison seemed interested.

  “She made an appointment for the tattoo?” she prompted.

  I nodd
ed again. “For the next day. But she didn’t show up.”

  “And no one saw her again,” she said ominously to the camera. “We have a copy of the devotion tattoo Elise Lyon requested,” she said, holding up the sketch I’d drawn. Elise’s original drawing was still in my bag, where I’d put it before heading to Murder Ink last night.

  I instinctively glanced at Bitsy, who was frowning. She probably gave the sketch to the producer, thinking he’d put her on camera, and then he screwed her.

  But Bitsy wasn’t the only one getting screwed.

  Chip Manning was, too.

  Because the camera zoomed in on my sketch. Complete with the “Matthew” inside the heart.

  Alison Cho didn’t notice. She put the piece of paper in her lap and thanked me for my time.

  It was over.

  I stood up, trying to yank the mike and wire off my person, and was happy to see the producer come over to me. I assumed he’d help me out, but his mouth was set in a grim line.

  “That drawing. It was the wrong one.”

  Alison’s head snapped back. “What?”

  “It was the wrong drawing.” He looked at Bitsy, who’d come up next to me. “Why didn’t you give me the right one? Was it because we didn’t put you on camera?”

  So Bitsy’s attitude had not gone unnoticed.

  From the look on her face, I could see she was going to say something she’d probably regret, so I jumped in. “It was the right one.”

  His gaze moved from Bitsy to me. “But it said Matthew. Not Chip, or even Bruce.”

  “That’s right.” I met his stare.

  “You mean she wanted a tattoo with another man’s name on it?” Alison was justifiably curious, her journalistic instincts kicking into full gear.

  I took a page from Tim’s playbook. “No comment,” I said.

  Alison Cho looked like she’d just landed an interview with Osama bin Laden. “Do the police know about this?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I can’t say anything else.”

  Alison turned to the producer. “Get the police spokesman on the phone. We need to get over there now and find out what this is about.” She looked at me one last time. “This is your chance to have another few minutes on TV.”