Driven to Ink

Chapter 44

All I could think about was how Jeff Coleman said he thought Dan Franklin killed Lou Marino. It wasn’t the most calming of thoughts. I felt my heartbeat ratchet up, thumping in my chest as if it were trying to break free. Sort of like I’d been when I left the shop just moments ago.

Bad move.

I found my voice. “Where have you been?” I was surprised it came out so normally, as if I were just meeting an old friend for drinks at the bar. “And why are you looking for me?”

“I heard you were at my house.”

“How did you hear that?”

“With neighbors like mine, who needs a security system?”

“They must have pretty good vision,” I said.

“You sort of stand out. You’re so tall, and you’ve got that red hair.” He cocked his head toward my arm with the koi swimming on it. “Not to mention the tats.”

That’s right. I wasn’t wearing my jacket when Jeff and I were poking around Franklin’s house.

“You made a positive ID on me from that?” I clicked my tongue. “I find that hard to believe. It could’ve been anyone. How did you know to look for me?”

“You did call me. We spoke. I looked you up online.”

He’d found the Web site, as I suspected.

“So what do you want?” I asked, knowing now that I couldn’t weasel my way out of this. “Why are you grabbing me?”

Granted, this might not be the way to talk to a possible killer, but despite what Jeff Coleman had said to me, I wasn’t getting that vibe off Franklin. Not anymore, anyway, after that first moment. As I assessed his appearance, too, I saw that he couldn’t be less threatening. He did look remarkably like Dean Martin, much more so than Will Parker, who needed the wig and the tux to complete the transformation. Franklin was tall, his dark hair a little wavy, his eyes small, his face long and jowly. He wore a pair of beige slacks and a button-down shirt under a Windbreaker.

Dan Franklin looked as if he was heading out for a game of golf.

He indicated Double Helix. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I’d come over here for that, so why not? Maybe I’d get some questions answered, so I could stop snooping around and Tim could stop babysitting me.

We went around to the entrance of the bar. It felt like an amusement-park ride, with a low wall circling the bar and the rest of the place open-air. We slid onto two barstools, and the bartender came over.

“What can I get you?”

Franklin looked at me, waiting for me to order first. He really didn’t seem like a killer right now.

“Margarita,” I said, “rocks, salt.”

“Gin and tonic,” Dan Franklin said.

“No martini?” I asked.

He looked confused a second, then smiled shyly. “Because of the Dean Martin thing, right?”

The bartender busied himself making our drinks, and Franklin tapped his fingers on the bar top.

“Where have you been the last few days?” I asked. What I’d initially thought of as a hostile meeting was turning into something rather civilized.

Franklin stiffened slightly, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, I would’ve missed it.

The bartender put our glasses in front of us, and Franklin took a quick sip, as if he was buying time. I swished the straw around in my margarita before taking it out and sipping from the brim, making sure I got some salt, savoring the tang and the kick of the tequila.

Dan Franklin could take his time if it meant we could sit here and enjoy our drinks.

He seemed to notice that I wasn’t exactly pressing him for an answer, and the muscles in his neck relaxed a little. He sipped his own drink before finally saying, “I had to lie low. When you called about Lucci, I knew they’d come after me.”

“Who?”

“The cops.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would they come after you?” I tightened my grip around my glass.

He shifted a little on his stool. “Lucci and I didn’t get along.”

“Didn’t sound like he got along with anyone,” I said. “Why do you think the cops would focus on you?”

“Rosalie,” he said softly.

“Did you have a relationship with Rosalie?” I asked softly.

His eyes widened, getting that deer-in-headlights look. “No, no, not that way. She’s a beautiful woman, but she’s married. I respected that.”

And I believed him. His reaction seemed sincere, and because of that I also knew he loved her. Was in love with her and had been for a long time.

“How does Lucci figure in all this?” I asked, taking another sip of my drink.

Dan Franklin fidgeted a little more, his foot tapping the rung on the barstool, his fingers drumming his knee. Little beads of sweat started to form on his forehead, and he swallowed hard.

“He found out how I felt about Rosalie. He threatened to tell her husband. And then he killed Snowball.”

“Snowball?”

“She was my pet rat. She was so innocent.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his eyes cast down as he got caught up in the memory.

“Why did he kill her?” I nudged.

“He said she had no business at the chapel. I’d wanted to keep her there for one shift. She wasn’t feeling good. I told him that, and then when I came back from my serenade, she was dead in her cage.”

“Are you sure he killed her?”

Dan Franklin gave a little high-pitched sob. “Of course he said he had nothing to do with it. But her neck was broken.”

Much like Dan Franklin’s heart, it seemed. But none of this really explained why he’d gone missing. So he had a dead rat, and he suspected the murder victim to be the killer.

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he was shrugging out of his jacket. It fell against the stool back, and as he reached over to pick up his glass, I saw it.

The tattoo.

It said “That’s Amore” on his arm.