Driven to Ink

Chapter 42

Now I really felt as though someone had punched me in the gut. Baby?

He saw what I was thinking.

“You didn’t know about the baby?”

“No.”

“But you’re her friend,” he said.

I wasn’t. I barely knew her. She’d spent a couple of hours right here in this chair, but other than that, my contact with Rosalie Marino had been limited to the last couple of days. Because of our encounter at the university lab, it may have seemed to Bixby as though we were closer than tattooist and client. I shook my head. “No. Not really.”

Confusion crossed his face. “But you came to the hospital to see her last night,” he said. “I thought-”

“No. We’re not friends. But I am friends with her father’s new wife and her son. What’s this about a baby?”

Colin hung his head in his hands. “I should have known.”

He didn’t answer my question. “Should have known what?”

“That things with you aren’t always as they seem.”

Okay, so he was right on that. But he didn’t have to act as if it were the end of the world.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But you did come to me about something. Is Rosalie in trouble? I really am friends with the rest of her family.”

“Her new family,” he emphasized. “And I can’t say any more than that now.”

He shut down, his doctor-client confidentiality held close to the vest now that he knew I wasn’t who he thought I was. His eyes skipped around the room, resting finally on the ink pots lined up on the shelf, the tattoo machine on its side.

“Do you want another one?” I asked softly. I’d warned him when I’d given him his Celtic knot on his breast that tattoos are addictive. It’s rare to find someone who’s content with only one. Maybe he’d never get more than one, but I was willing to bet he thought about it. I had quite a few repeat clients.

When Colin didn’t answer, I tried a joke. “How about a stethoscope on your arm?” I could see it, too, how I would design it, and suddenly it wasn’t a joke anymore. It could be really cool. The stethoscope could start on his bicep and swirl down to the crook of his arm, where I’d place the chest piece, which he’d use to check someone’s blood pressure. I described my idea to him.

Colin Bixby’s eyes flickered, and the temptation had been planted. He liked the idea. Liked it a lot.

“You could do that?” he asked tentatively.

“I could draw up something, see if you like it,” I said, reaching for my pad and pencil. Quickly I sketched it out, shading here and there, and when I was done, turned it around so he could see it.

“Wow,” he whispered, staring at it.

“You could think about it, make an appointment if you think it’s something you want to do,” I said. The last time he didn’t think he would go through with it if I didn’t do it right then, so I had. He’d flinched only at the first touch of the needle, didn’t even seem as if he’d pass out at all-a problem more common than you’d think-which was why I thought perhaps he might not mind getting more ink. Despite his admission that he didn’t like needles.

The thing with the tattoo machine is, the needles only go down into the second layer of skin, where they release the ink. I don’t like needles, either, when they go farther than that. Granted, getting a tattoo still hurts, and knowing that the needles pierce the skin only so far is cold comfort.

I put the pad and pencil on the shelf. Colin got up and brushed imaginary lint off his jeans.

“It’s possible that since her husband is dead now, Rosalie’s going to be okay,” I said, wondering whether I could somehow trick him into telling me what he came here to say. I was sure he was here to tell me something so I could either watch out for Rosalie or warn her about something. I didn’t think he came just to spread information. That would violate his doctor ethics.

His head snapped up, and he stared at me for a moment. It wasn’t one of those sexy stares, but I could see him thinking about something, wondering what he should say next.

Finally, “Did you ever find Dan Franklin?”

The name jolted me out of my thoughts. I thought about the ten thousand dollars again. “No,” I admitted. “As far as I know, no one knows where he is.”

“You should tell that detective brother of yours to try harder,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.

Exasperated, I sighed. “Why can’t you tell me why you’re here,” I said.

He shook his head and then smiled. “I might be back for that tattoo.”

I grinned. “It could give you some cred with those guys who come into the ER.”

He pushed the door open and went out into the hall and down to the front desk, where Bitsy sat facing us as if she’d been waiting the whole time for us to emerge.

“Care to make an appointment, Doctor?” she asked politely, but I could hear the curiosity in her voice.

Colin Bixby gave me a look that curled my toes, his green eyes all smoky and sexy, before saying, “Maybe. I’ll call.”

And he went out the door without looking back.

Bitsy and I stared after him.

“What did he want?” she asked.

“I have no clue,” I admitted. “He wanted to tell me something about Rosalie Marino. He thought we were friends. But all he ended up saying was that we need to find Dan Franklin.”

“What about Franklin?”

Tim’s voice from behind made us both jump.

I related what Bixby told me.

“Pretty cryptic,” Tim said, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s pretty clear she lost a baby because of the abuse,” I said. “But I’m not sure what Dan Franklin would have to do with that.”

“He works with her,” Bitsy piped up. “Maybe he’s got the hots for her. Maybe he killed her husband.”

Tim and I exchanged a look.

“Has Flanigan actually looked for Franklin?” I asked him, thinking that if Flanigan focused on Franklin, it was likely he’d find out about the ten grand and I’d be off the hook.

“I have no idea. You’re my assignment,” he said with a shrug.

I thought about what Bitsy said, about Franklin possibly killing Rosalie’s husband. Maybe Franklin was one of those guys who decided to go after men who abused women. I voiced my thoughts.

Tim sighed. “That’s possible, I suppose.”

It was the only idea I had at the moment. But what about Ray Lucci? There was that rat.

The phone rang, interrupting us.

Bitsy picked it up. “The Painted Lady,” she said.

After a few seconds, she looked up at me and handed me the receiver. “Jeff Coleman.”

I took the phone. “Hi, Jeff.” I hadn’t talked to him since the previous day, when he came to take Sylvia and Bernie to Rosalie at the hospital. “How’s Rosalie holding up?”

“Listen, Kavanaugh, you and I both know that Rosalie is better off without that scumbag. I don’t even care if the cops never find the guy who did this.”

The words hung between us for a second before he spoke again.

“But I think I know who did it.”