Driven to Ink

Chapter 7

Mr. That’s Amore was Dan Franklin? Hadn’t Tim said the guy’s name was Ray Lucci? I was trying to wrap my head around this.

“Brett?” Tim said when I took too long to respond.

“Yeah, I’m here. I’ve got something to tell you.” I launched into the story about Dan Franklin and Joel’s missing clip cord.

Now it was Tim’s turn to be quiet.

Finally, he said, “I appreciate you telling me this, Brett. Sounds like this guy was using an alias. I’m going to have to tell Flanigan about the clip cord, and he’s going to have to talk to Joel and Bitsy.”

“Bitsy?”

“She must have met Lucci yesterday, too, right?”

“They’re not suspects or anything, are they?” I asked.

It was a second of hesitation, but I noticed. “No, I don’t think so,” Tim said.

“But you’re not in charge on this one. You told me it’s Flanigan. He doesn’t like me,” I added.

“He doesn’t like anyone,” Tim said as he hung up.

Joel was in his room with a client. I poked my head in the doorway.

“A minute?”

The machine stopped whirring, and he set it down, telling his client he’d be back in a second. He came out into the hall.

I told him how Flanigan would be contacting him because my dead guy was someone named Ray Lucci, who’d called himself Dan Franklin here yesterday.

Joel stared at me. “What’s up with that?”

I rolled my eyes. “Obviously the man didn’t want anyone here to know his real name.”

“But you’d think then that he’d be the one doing the killing, not the one being killed.”

There was an odd logic to that.

I shrugged. “What do I know?”

Joel went back in with his client, and I went out to talk to Bitsy.

“So this detective might think that a person of my stature might actually have stuffed that man in your trunk?” she asked.

“He doesn’t know that you’re a little person,” I said, although I wasn’t sure why I was defending Flanigan. “And I’m sure he won’t think you killed him. He just wants to talk to you about Dan Franklin.”

Bitsy tossed her blond hair to one side and said, “You know, Brett, when Flip owned the shop we never had the cops around asking about anything.”

Great. I didn’t want to get into it, so I went into the staff room to finish up the portrait. I wondered how long it would take Flanigan to get in touch with us.

As I drew, I thought again about Sylvia and Bernie and wondered whether Jeff was having any luck finding them. Because I was a little bored, I pulled my cell out of my bag and punched in his number.

“Kavanaugh, to what do I owe this honor?” Jeff asked before I could even say hello. He must have my number queued in. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.

“Just wondering if you’ve found your mother.”

“Not yet.”

I could hear a radio playing in the background.

“Are you in your shop?” I asked.

“No. I’m out near Hoover Dam.”

“You’re going to the Grand Canyon?”

“Seems to be the only way. I called the hotels there, but no one’s seen my mother.”

“So you’re going out there? You don’t believe them?”

“Well, it’s not as though my mother is the typical whitehaired little old lady in a housecoat.” That was true. Sylvia’s ink would make her stand out anywhere. “So I do believe them. I’m going to check out all the hotels and motels on the way there, in case they decided to stop somewhere else instead.”

“But what if they went off the beaten path and in the total opposite direction, like L.A. or something?” I wasn’t really meaning to play devil’s advocate, but I had nothing better to do.

“My mother hates L.A. No, if they went anywhere, they stopped in the desert.”

“So you are worried about them?” I teased, remembering how he’d insisted he wasn’t.

“Maybe a little.” But from his tone it sounded like a lot more than that.

I decided to let it slide. “You know, it would be easier if you told the cops about this, and they could put out one of those APBs on them.”

“I thought I explained why I didn’t want to do that right now.”

Sure he had, but that was before my entire shop was going to be questioned by the police. I said as much, telling him about Dan Franklin, aka Ray Lucci.

I heard a low whistle when I finished.

“Sounds pretty weird,” he said. “Listen, Kavanaugh, I’ll give you a call later. If I haven’t found them by tomorrow morning, then I’ll go with you to the cops and we can report my mother missing. And if I do find her, then I’ll take her to headquarters, so she can talk to that detective. How’s that?”

It was the best I would get, and I agreed, even though I knew tomorrow morning was the latest I could give him.

I closed the phone and threw it back in my bag, turning back to my stencil. It was nearly done. I spent the next half hour working on it and then started another one I’d need the next day. I kept looking at the clock, expecting Flanigan to show up any moment.

It was dinnertime when he finally came through the door. He looked as neat in his suit as he had this morning-surprising, since he’d spent all day in it. I tried to see whether he was rumpled in any way, but he caught me staring, and I felt my face flush.

“I’m here to talk to a Joel Sloane and a Bitsy Hendricks,” he said.

Problem was, both had gone down to the Mexican restaurant for dinner a few minutes before. They’d been on edge all day after I’d talked to Tim, and when it looked as though Flanigan wasn’t going to show, I said they should take a break and go have something to eat. I could hold down the fort.

“It’s too bad you did that,” Flanigan said when I explained. “Because now I have to interrupt their dinner.”

Okay, so I was the villain.

“And I’d appreciate it if you stick around. I’ve got a few more questions for you, too,” he said as he went out the door.

Great. Not that I was going anywhere, but now, because I couldn’t, I had an incredible desire to take off. Nowhere in particular. Just somewhere other than here.

As I pondered my imaginary escape, the phone rang. I picked it up.

“The Painted Lady.”

“Is this a tattoo shop?” The voice on the other end was gruff.

“Yes.” There were times when I regretted the name of the shop. Especially when we got the occasional call thinking we were an escort service. “May I help you?”

“I got a message on my machine.”

“Yes?” I prompted when he didn’t continue right away.

“From this number. This shop. Saying you were checking up on a tattoo I got there.” He paused. “I’ve never been in your tattoo shop, so I don’t know what this is all about.”

“I’m sorry, Mr.-”

“Franklin. Dan Franklin.”