Driven to Ink

Chapter 3

They had rolled Mr. That’s Amore over, and apparently the rat had been squished underneath his body. The guy with the camera was busy shooting pictures from all angles, obviously terribly excited that there was something new to the composition.

The rat had been dead longer than the man. The bits of fur that still clung to the carcass were matted with dried blood.

Needless to say, it was a bit gross.

I stepped back a little. Tim and Flanigan were mumbling to each other. I picked up a couple of words, but nothing useful.

Finally, Tim turned to me.

“Brett, we’re going to have to take your car.”

“What?”

“It’s evidence in a crime. You can use my Jeep.” He looked sorry. Although it was probably more because I was going to drive his beloved Jeep for an indeterminate period of time than that my car was being confiscated.

I looked from Tim to Flanigan, who was staring at me as if daring me to oppose this turn of events. It was the good cop-bad cop thing.

The coroner’s van eased against the curb next to the driveway. Maybe I should’ve made hors d’oeuvres.

“How much longer is this going to take?” I asked. All I wanted to do was take a shower and go to work.

Tim was surprised, probably because he thought I’d argue the car issue. But honestly, now that they’d found the rat, the whole thing was giving me the willies. I didn’t know why a dead guy was less creepy than a dead rat, but it was. So there.

“You can go in and get changed if you want,” Tim said.

I smiled my thanks and started toward the door, but Flanigan’s voice stopped me.

“We’re going to need your clothes.”

Not again. I’d had to give up my clothes once before after finding a dead body. If this was going to be a habit, I’d have to keep two separate wardrobes.

“I’ll put them in a plastic bag,” I promised.

But that wasn’t good enough. Flanigan told Tim to go in the house with me. I glared at him. As if I’d substitute this outfit for another one. As if I’d have some sort of crime evidence on me.

And now the forensics guys were looking at me the same way Sarah Palin looks at a moose in the woods.

I went into the house, Tim on my heels. Once inside, I turned to my brother.

“Can I go to work after this?”

He took a deep breath. “Flanigan’s in charge.”

“Does he think I had something to do with this guy and the rat?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.” But his tone wasn’t exactly reassuring. He started to say something else, then stopped himself.

“What?” I asked.

Tim shrugged. “Wondering about that clip cord.”

I frowned. “Wondering how?”

“Wondering whose it is.”

“It’s not mine. I don’t keep my equipment in the car.”

“But he wasn’t killed in the car,” Tim said softly.

“How do you know that?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Brett, do you really think that the guy crawled into the trunk on his own, and then someone decided, Hey, why don’t I strangle him with a clip cord while he’s in there?”

“Maybe he did it himself.”

“Did what himself?”

“Strangled himself with the cord. You know, all that autoerotic-stimulation stuff. Aren’t some guys into that? You start to strangle yourself while you’re-um-well-servicing yourself so it feels even better? Maybe he did that, and he couldn’t stop. Maybe he strangled himself by mistake.” As I spoke, I began to wonder whether that wasn’t what had happened.

“With a dead rat?”

Okay, so I’d forgotten that tiny detail.

Tim started scratching his chin in that way he does when he’s deep in thought. “Although it’s an interesting theory.”

I left him with that as I went into the bedroom, plastic garbage bag in hand for my clothes. I filled the bag and stuck it in the hall, shutting my door before heading to the shower.

It felt really good standing under the stream of water, the heat soaking into the Celtic cross across my upper back, the dragon that curved around my torso from my breast to my hip, Monet’s garden on one arm and a Japanese koi on the other, and the tiger lily stretching along my side. Not to mention Napoleon on my calf.

I knew I wasn’t done yet, though. Getting tattooed, I mean. Every time a client came in, I wondered what my next one would be. The last was the koi, designed and inked by Jeff Coleman himself.

As I pulled my tank top on over my favorite denim skirt, I heard Bruce Springsteen singing “Born to Run.” My phone had fallen off the bed when I was getting changed. I picked it up and heard, “Kavanaugh?”

Speak of the devil. Jeff Coleman was the only person who ever called me by my last name and only my last name. I couldn’t remember him ever calling me Brett.

“Yeah?”

“The cops called.”

“I gave them your number. I didn’t know where Sylvia and Bernie were staying.”

“Why do you think they’re involved with this?”

“Jeff, they had my car at the wedding chapel. This guy is from the wedding chapel. I’m sorry if it seems clear to me that perhaps Sylvia and Bernie might know something. They may even have met this guy before he was killed.”

A loud knock resonated through the room.

“Hold on,” I said to Jeff as I tugged the door open.

Tim was holding the bag with my clothes. “Is this it?” he asked.

I nodded. “Everything.”

He strutted down the hall and out of sight.

“Kavanaugh?” I heard Jeff asking.

“Yeah, I’m here.” I wasn’t going to tell him that I had to strip down. There were things Jeff Coleman didn’t need to know. “There wasn’t only a dead body in the car.”

“What?”

I told him about the rat.

“How do you get yourself into situations like this, Kavanaugh?”

“I didn’t get myself into this situation, Jeff. It was your mother. By the way, did you reach her?”

He was quiet long enough so I thought maybe the call had been dropped.

“Hello? Hello?” I asked.

“I’m here.” But then it got quiet again.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. There’s just a little problem.”

I didn’t like his tone.

“Problem? What kind of problem?”

“My mother and Bernie never checked into their hotel at the Grand Canyon. I have no idea where they are.”