Driven to Ink

Chapter 16

As with the cage, this might have not meant anything. “Maybe he needed a new air-conditioning unit or something for his house,” I said. “We don’t know what he used that money for.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Jeff said. “And maybe you’re right. But he withdraws this kind of money and then disappears? After his coworker is murdered? With a dead rat underneath him in your trunk?”

“It still doesn’t mean anything,” I insisted. “And we committed a crime. We should bring this back.”

Jeff indicated the torn envelope. “Don’t think so. I wonder where he is.”

“Well, it’s clear he hasn’t been home in a couple days at least.”

“Three, if you count the newspapers. But why is the car there?”

I didn’t answer as I stared out the window. Jeff had gotten onto the highway and was heading back downtown. The mountains spread out in the distance, their charcoal color clashing with the clear, light blue sky, clouds looking like cotton balls. A jet left a long white trail behind it as it sailed out of sight.

“Earth to Kavanaugh,” Jeff was saying. “What is it about those mountains for you?”

I sighed. “It’s peaceful up there. No worries. No schedules, no clients, nothing but me.”

“Don’t turn into one of those crunchy granola types.”

I lifted my leg to show off my Teva sandals. “I already wear these.”

“As long as they’re not Birkenstocks.”

“What’s wrong with those?” I thought about the sandals in my closet at home.

He laughed. “You’ve got a pair, don’t you?”

I felt my face flush hot, and I turned away from him so I could look out the side window. I heard him chuckling, then humming to himself as we took back roads all the way up to his shop.

He broke the silence as he pulled into the alley behind Murder Ink. “Maybe I should’ve let you hang a little longer with Mr. Studly,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“He liked you. Maybe he knows something. Something about Dan Franklin, why he’s missing, or something about Ray Lucci.”

“You think he’d tell me because he likes me?” I asked.

“Sure, why not? You should call him. Go out to dinner, wear something other than that skirt.” He made a face as he glanced at it. “How he could be interested in you, looking like that? Well, there’s no accounting for taste. Of course it could be worse. You could be wearing those Birkenstocks with it.”

“So now you’re Tim Gunn?” I asked. “You think you could dress me better than I can?”

He grinned. “Obviously you’ve got no fashion sense.” He paused. “Except maybe for the tats. Especially that Japanese koi on your arm.”

The one he tattooed.

The car eased against the curb, and Jeff cut the engine. I scurried out after him as he unlocked the back door to Murder Ink and followed him inside.

Jeff turned on the lights, and the fluorescent beams gave the room an unearthly glow. He dropped his keys on the desk that was already piled with scattered papers and folders. His filing system was an abomination. He said Sylvia had set it up, but the way Sylvia’s mind worked made me wonder how he kept track of everything. I’d never told Bitsy about it, because, knowing her, she’d be here in an hour reorganizing.

“So what now?” I asked as we went out into the front of the shop.

Jeff turned on the lights in here, too, and the one in the window lit up, advertising that the shop was open. I studied the flash on the walls, the stock tattoos that his shop specialized in.

“Wishing you had it this easy, Kavanaugh?” he teased.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him.

When Jeff had done my koi tattoo a few months back, I hadn’t wanted him to do it here. I wasn’t sure how clean this place was, and I knew you could practically eat off the floor in my shop, thanks to Bitsy. I’d made Jeff come to me.

What I hadn’t told him was how much this place reminded me of the Ink Spot, where Mickey had first taken me in as a trainee and taught me all he knew. I was a twenty-two-year-old kid, fresh out of art school, still thinking about going to Paris and making my way. But I needed some cash to get there. I’d been mulling it over when I saw the shop. I’d given myself a crude heart tattoo on the inside of my wrist with a sewing needle and some ballpoint-pen ink when I was sixteen. I’d toyed with the idea of another tattoo, maybe one done more professionally, for a couple years, but even then I knew tattoos are permanent, and I wanted to be sure about the design.

Mickey tsk-tsked over the heart on my wrist and suggested a Celtic cross on my upper back, stretching between my shoulder blades. I liked the idea of something that would be covered up most of the time, like a secret only I would know about and that would be with me forever. I sketched it out for him, and his eyes showed surprise that I could visualize it so well.

Halfway through the tattoo, Mickey asked whether I’d be interested in learning the trade. He gave me an old tattoo machine and a grapefruit to practice on. I was hooked.

The Ink Spot smelled like Jeff’s shop: ink and baby wipes and a little bit of sweat.

It was time to go. I took a step toward the door.

“Wait a sec,” Jeff said.

I stopped.

“I’m not kidding about that guy back there at the chapel,” Jeff said. “It wouldn’t hurt to see if he knows anything. Tell him you broke up with me. Tell him we have an open relationship.”

“So you want to pimp me out for information?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Call it what you will, Kavanaugh, but I thought you wanted to find my mother, too.”

The worry laced his expression, and I saw that all the teasing was a cover-up for his concern about Sylvia.

“What do you think happened to your mother and Bernie?” I asked softly.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m not sure. I was hoping we’d find Dan Franklin. Maybe he knows. But since he’s missing, too…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. I was thinking the same thing. Something happened with Ray Lucci’s murder that caused three people to go missing. One of them might even be a murderer. I didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened to Sylvia and Bernie.

I nodded. “Okay, fine. I’ll call the chapel and see if I can reach that guy.” I didn’t want to tell him that I’d given Parker my card. He’d probably give me a lot of grief over that.

“Thanks, Kavanaugh.” Jeff’s voice was soft, unlike him. It made me realize he really was human. Something that wasn’t always so apparent.

“What about Dan Franklin?” I asked, not wanting to have an Oprah moment with Jeff Coleman. “Should I tell Tim about his wallet and that he works with animals like rats?” I had no intention of telling him about our little adventure over at Franklin’s house. Although if I planted an idea about Franklin in Tim’s head, maybe he’d start looking into Franklin’s affairs and discover the empty house and the bank withdrawal. Despite what I’d said to Jeff, it did seem that the money could have something to do with all this.

“How are you going to explain to him how you saw the wallet?” Jeff asked.

That was a problem, definitely. I’d already told Tim about the phone conversation, so I couldn’t now say, Hey, Dan also dropped the fact that he works with rats; you might want to check that out. I would need a better reason as to how I knew this, and not from messing around in the Dean Martin locker room at That’s Amore.

“I’ll figure something out,” I said as I looked at my watch. It was almost noon. “Listen, I have to get to the shop. If you hear anything about Sylvia, call me. And I’ll let you know how it goes with Parker.”

“Who?”

I made a face at him. “Mr. Studly, as you insist on calling him.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I wanted to leave before he thought of some other smart-aleck thing to say.

As I reached for the door, it opened, and a woman came in.

She wasn’t as tall as me, but she was close. She had long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a pair of large sunglasses, dark jeans and a white button-down cotton shirt, buttoned almost too high, and a long strand of red beads bouncing against an ample chest.

She looked a little too high-class for Murder Ink.

Except when she took off the sunglasses to reveal a dark bruise circling her right eye.

When she saw me staring, her face went white, as if she’d seen a ghost.

I knew why.

I couldn’t remember her name, but about a year before I’d tattooed two ribbons circling her left biceps. One ribbon was white, the other purple.

Both signified that she had been physically abused and survived.

I nodded at her, but before either of us could say anything, Jeff spoke up.

“Rosalie, what are you doing here? Did they find my mother and your father?”

Rosalie? As in Bernie Applebaum’s daughter?