Driven to Ink

Chapter 2

My eyes strayed from the cord back to the spiderweb, noticing now a dark line running across the base of Mr. That’s Amore’s neck. A dark line that had nothing to do with tattoos but probably everything to do with that cord.

A clip cord can be six feet long. The part that attaches to the tattoo machine has L-shaped ends that clip onto the binding posts, and the other end sticks into the power source, which looks sort of like an amplifier because it’s got dials with numbers on them that show how high the power can go. Although it doesn’t go up to eleven.

There’s another cord that goes from the power source to the foot pedal. A tattoo machine runs like a sewing machine, in that I put pressure on the pedal with my foot, sending power to the source, which sends power to the machine, causing the needles to puncture the skin and push the ink into the skin’s second layer, where it stays forever.

It’s a pretty simple process and one that hasn’t needed to be improved upon much since the late 1800s, when it was first invented.

The tattoo machine can’t run without the clip cord.

I hadn’t really been aware that I was holding my breath until I let it out.

A look around told me the police were not considering my situation an emergency.

I kept my eye on the end of the cord as I punched a few numbers into my phone and heard Bitsy’s voice.

“Hey, there,” I said to my shop manager. “I’m going to be a little late.”

“What? Did you fall off some mountain or cliff or something?” Bitsy didn’t understand why anyone would want to go hiking. She’s a city girl. Her idea of wilderness is the buffet bar at Caesars.

“No, I’m waiting for the police to arrive-”

“What did you do now?”

“Why do you assume that I did something?”

“You’re always getting into trouble.”

Okay, so maybe my reputation has preceded me.

“There’s a body in my car trunk,” I said, explaining about Mr. That’s Amore and the clip cord.

Bitsy made a sort of snorting sound.

“That Sylvia Coleman’s a whackjob.”

“Why does everyone think that?”

“Because she is. Do you think she killed him?”

For a split second, I wondered whether she had. I wouldn’t put it past Sylvia. If this guy had crossed her in some way, who knew what she’d do to him. I pushed the thought out of my head.

“Just because the body’s from the place where she and Bernie got married, it doesn’t mean she killed him,” I said.

“But she does have access to clip cords.”

“So do you.”

“You tell me how I’d get a guy in someone’s trunk.” Bitsy’s tone was matter-of-fact, and she was right. Bitsy is a little person. Unless the body was only four feet tall, it would be pretty tough for her to hoist it into a car trunk. “So who do you think put him there?” she asked.

“Maybe he climbed in there himself,” I suggested.

Bitsy snorted. “Like a cat who knows it’s going to die, so it crawls into some dark corner somewhere? Give me a break.”

Okay, she had a point.

I told her I’d give her a call as soon as I could get on the road. She mumbled something about rescheduling my first client before she hung up.

I stuck the phone in my jeans pocket and again leaned into the trunk. I wanted to take another look at that cord and the guy’s neck.

My hand was hovering over him when the cruiser careened into my driveway. I pulled back faster than you could say “That’s Amore” and straightened up some, slamming the back of my head into the lid of the trunk.

Sister Mary Eucharista, my teacher at Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy School, would have said I deserved that.

The uniformed cop who stepped out of the cruiser looked like a fireplug. I recognized him immediately. His name was Willis, and I’d had a couple of brief encounters with him a few months earlier when he was looking for a missing woman.

Let’s just say that we hadn’t gotten off on the right foot.

And from the way his mouth was set in a grim line, I figured I could easily bet that hadn’t changed.

In Vegas, sure things are hard to come by.

Willis took a couple steps toward me, but before either of us could say anything, another car swung into the street behind the cruiser. Tim. And then a big black SUV pulled up to the curb. Two burly guys got out from either side. One held a big case, the other, a camera.

If I’d known they were going to take pictures, I would have washed my car on the way back from Red Rock.

A third car, one that looked identical to Tim’s Impala, drove up and parked behind the SUV. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair cropped close and wearing a charcoal pin-striped suit climbed out.

It was like a party. Mr. That’s Amore was even dressed for the occasion.

Me, on the other hand, well, I was sweating bullets in my long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. Not because it was hot outside. It was December in Vegas, when the temperatures actually meant a sweater or even a jacket at night.

The nattily dressed man walked around his car and met up with Tim. They both stopped a second to greet Willis before coming over to my car. Willis forced a smile, but it didn’t extend to his eyes. The two guys with the equipment gave curt nods to everyone.

“Brett, this is Detective Flanigan,” Tim said, introducing me to his companion. “Kevin, this is my sister, Brett.”

Even though I sensed he must be another detective, he didn’t dress like any of the cops I knew. He was too neat, and that suit must have set him back about five hundred bucks, if not more. But I’m not a fashionista-preferring jeans and cotton skirts and T-shirts-so I don’t know much about men’s suits.

I held out my hand and said, “Nice to meet you,” because it’s what my mother would’ve expected from me.

Detective Flanigan didn’t care about introductions. He stared past me at my Mustang Bullitt, its trunk gaping open. I stepped aside so he’d have a better view.

“So here he is,” I said, waving my hand over the trunk like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. Too bad Mr. That’s Amore didn’t win the washer and dryer.

Flanigan was already pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Willis was standing sentry, scowling at me. Tim had his hands on his hips as Flanigan started poking around inside the trunk. I stepped closer to Tim and asked in a low voice, “You’re not going to check it out?”

“Brett, this is my driveway. You’re my sister. Kevin’s in charge.”

As if on cue, Flanigan turned to me, taking only a second to indicate the two burly guys should start documenting the scene. One of them pulled out a little flashlight like they’ve got on those TV shows so he could see farther into the back of the dark trunk.

“Miss Kavanaugh? When did you discover the body?”

I took a deep breath and told my story: getting home from Red Rock, feeling something thump in the trunk, opening it to find Mr. That’s Amore. Flanigan opened his mouth at that point, and I knew what he was going to say, so I launched into the story about Sylvia and Bernie and That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel, and how I’d lent them my car and they’d returned it a few hours later, before leaving for the Grand Canyon.

“So you don’t know this gentleman at all?” Flanigan asked, his eyes boring into mine. Even though he was younger than my dad, the way he looked at me made me wonder if he had teenage daughters who were into tattoos.

“I have no idea who he is,” I said.

He studied my face for a second before apparently deciding I was telling the truth, because he said, “Is there any way I can get in touch with this Sylvia Coleman and Bernie Applebaum?”

I was impressed. He had a little notebook out, but he hadn’t scribbled much of anything. Maybe he had some sort of weird mnemonic thing that helped him remember names so well.

“I’m not sure where they’re staying, but they’re at the Grand Canyon. I think there’s only a couple of hotels there, so they should be easy to find. I can give you Sylvia’s son’s phone number, and maybe he can tell you,” I said, rattling off Jeff’s name and number. Flanigan did write those down.

“So do you think he was strangled with the clip cord?” I asked, glancing over at the car, where Tim was chatting up one of the forensics guys.

“With what?” Detective Flanigan had been flipping through his notes, and now his head snapped up with surprise.

I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but it was too late now.

“It looks like a clip cord around his neck.” I explained how the cord attaches to the tattoo machine on one end and the power source on the other, providing the electromagnetic charge that causes the machine to run.

It was too much information.

I knew that the minute I started, but for some reason I couldn’t stop. As though I was trying to impress him or something.

Right.

I was trying not to give him the opportunity to ask how I came to ascertain that there actually was a clip cord around his neck. Because I wouldn’t have seen it or the bruise without peeking under his collar.

I didn’t tell him that the one around Mr. That’s Amore’s neck was pretty basic. It could’ve been from anywhere. Someone could’ve bought it off the Internet. You can get a custom cord made, just as you can get custom coils for the machines. Joel’s machine’s coils have skulls on them. Mine are plain. And all the cords at my shop are standard, nothing special.

Like this one.

“Miss Kavanaugh, did you touch the body?” His voice brought me out of my thoughts.

Flanigan had my number like Sister Mary Eucharista used to. It was a little disconcerting.

I shrugged and gave him a little smile. “Well, I may have moved his collar a little, you know, because I thought it was a clip cord, but I couldn’t be exactly sure without checking.”

“And you felt compelled to check?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m a detective. It’s my job.”

And I’m a tattooist who should just shut up already. Okay, I got it.

“Kevin?”

I’d forgotten about Tim. I could only hope he hadn’t heard our exchange, although he was the only person I knew who could hear those whistles that only dogs are supposed to hear. At least that was what he told me when we were kids.

Tim was gesturing now, indicating that there was something enthralling going on in my trunk. As if we didn’t know that already.

Flanigan joined him over at my car. Not wanting to be left out, I sidled up next to them and hoped they wouldn’t notice.

But when I peered over Tim’s shoulder, I let out a loud gasp. I couldn’t help it.

Mr. That’s Amore’s wasn’t the only body in my trunk.