Driven to Ink

Chapter 33

“Do you think this had anything to do with his murder?” I asked.

Jeff rolled his eyes at me. “Is the pope Catholic?”

Smart aleck.

“But then what about Lou? And the attempt on Will Parker? And where’s Dan Franklin? What about that rat?”

“So we’ve got a few loose ends.”

“A few loose ends? The whole freaking thing is barely held together.”

Jeff chuckled. “You know, you’re cute when you get mad.”

I felt my face flush. I so didn’t need him making fun of me right now.

Jeff leaned back in his chair and pointed at the guns on the screen. “You probably should tell your brother about this.”

I probably should, even though he’d get mad at me for “getting involved” again. I hadn’t asked Sylvia to give me that receipt. It seemed innocent enough, I suppose, if you looked past the clip cord. But now we’d gone into unchartered waters. And this was best left for the police to look at.

I couldn’t shake the feeling, though, that this might not have anything to with what had been going on.

“Where did you get the receipt?” Jeff asked, interrupting my thoughts, his voice soft, his eyes searching mine.

I stepped away from the desk. “I told you, I can’t tell you.”

“Okay, fine, be that way.” He pointed at the Tattoo Inc. box. “You should take that to your brother.”

I didn’t want to be that close to the gun, much less driving around with it.

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “What if I get stopped or something? I could be arrested.”

Jeff laughed out loud. “Stopped or something? Kavanaugh, you drive slower than my grandmother. You stop at every yellow light.”

“So what if I’m a careful driver?”

Jeff slowly shook his head from side to side. “Okay, fine. I’ll follow you to the police station, you can call your brother, and we’ll hand this over. Is that a plan?”

Jeff’s face was twitching with amusement. He knew if he came with me, then he’d find out how I got the receipt.

Sylvia had to tell him about Ray.

“Where’s your mother?” I asked.

“Why?”

I shrugged, as if it were a casual question. “Just wondering. Usually she’s here when you’re not.”

“She and Bernie are at Rosalie’s.”

“Can we stop there first? I really would like to give my condolences to Rosalie.”

“She already got that note. The one that doctor delivered last night.” The way he said “doctor” made me hesitate. “I thought you and he were all over. I mean, you did think he was going to kill you.”

I wished people would stop rubbing that in. I’d said I was sorry, and I really needed to move on.

“Can we stop at Rosalie’s first?”

“You know, Kavanaugh, you need to get over yourself.”

A bell jingled from somewhere in the distance.

Jeff pushed away from the desk and stood up. I followed him out into the front of his shop.

A young man with a big grin and a mop of dark curls held out his hand. “Bobby Douglas. Am I on time?”

From the look on Jeff’s face, I knew he’d forgotten about his client. As he pointed Bobby to a workstation, he turned to me.

“You have to go on your own. Take the box. No one will stop you.”

He saw me hesitate and chuckled. “It’s not loaded,” he said, reading my mind. “You’ll be fine.”

That’s what he thought.

“I still want to stop at Rosalie’s. Where does she live?” I asked.

Jeff took a deep breath, told Bobby to hang tight, and grabbed a piece of tracing paper and a pencil. He scribbled directions and handed them to me. “She’s out in Summerlin. On the way to Red Rock.”

I put the paper with the directions on top of the box. Granted, Rosalie’s was in the total opposite direction than the police station, but I wasn’t exactly relishing the idea of turning over this gun and explaining everything to Tim right away. The box would be safe in the Jeep. After all, if you looked at it, you’d think it had something to do with tattoos.

As I balanced the box in my arms, Jeff opened the door for me.

“You’ll be fine, Kavanaugh,” were the last words I heard before the door shut behind me.

I put the box on the floor under the passenger seat and found myself looking at it every few seconds. As if it were going to do magic tricks or something and I didn’t want to miss it.

I drove up Charleston, the mountains coming closer and closer as I drove. Despite my trepidation about the parcel I was traveling with, I could feel the muscles in my shoulders and back relaxing instinctively as I gazed at the red-and-brown rocks that pierced the deep blue sky. I wanted to chuck it all-forget about Sylvia and Jeff and Ray Lucci and the other Dinos and that gun-and put my boots on and feel the hard desert under my feet.

The longer I thought about it, the more I wanted to play hooky.

The Red Rock Casino Resort Spa came up on my left. It was out here off the beaten path, away from the Strip and its craziness, almost at the foot of its namesake.

The light was red, and it was a long one. I tapped the steering wheel impatiently. No one was behind or in front of me. On the other side of the four-lane road, a lone blue car sat like I did, just waiting.

That other blue car, the one that came too close for comfort at the university, flashed in my brain. The cars were similar, but I couldn’t say for sure what model the sinister one was. It had gone past so quickly, and I was too busy trying to get out of the way to take notice. This one was a Ford Taurus. Fords and Chevies sometimes have the same sort of body. They’re probably all made on the same chassis.

And then I remembered. Dan Franklin’s blue Taurus. In his driveway.

I leaned forward a little, squinting to see the driver. A shadow was cast across the windshield, obscuring my view.

I knew I was being paranoid, but almost getting run down gave me a pass on that. I might always have a problem with blue cars now. Good thing my car was red. If I ever got it back. If I ever wanted to drive it again after it had been used as a coffin.

My phone rang in my bag, and I leaned over and pulled it out.

“You’ve got a client in an hour,” Bitsy reminded me before I could even say hello.

“I know. I’m on my way,” I lied, my eye on the blue car as my thoughts swirled around in a stream of consciousness.

“Why is Colin Bixby coming in later?”

I stopped paying attention to the blue car.

“Bixby?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“He called and made an appointment for later. I made sure he and that Dean Martin guy weren’t coming in at the same time.”

I was barely comprehending. “Does he want another tattoo?” I asked. “And what’s this about a Dean Martin guy?”

“Who? Oh, the doctor. I don’t know. The Dean Martin guy’s getting a touch-up.”

“Which Dean Martin?” I asked, but then I remembered I’d offered to touch up Will Parker’s tattoo. Bitsy confirmed that it was him.

The light turned green. As I put my foot to the accelerator, the blue car sped through the intersection.

And a police cruiser with its lights flashing came up behind me and indicated I should pull over.