The Missing Ink

Chapter 11

“It’s not Kelly Masters,” I said.

“But it is,” Tim said.

“What?”

“Her name is Kelly Masters. She’s got ID on her; the rental car agreement is in her name. She’s from L.A.”

“What happened to her?”

“I really can’t say.”

I was ready to smack him. He couldn’t tease me like this. “But you’ve already told me plenty. And I might find out on the news anyway.”

“You might.”

Something in his voice told me I might not. “You’re not releasing anything about this, are you?”

“We need to find out the connection between Kelly Masters and Elise Lyon-”

“Because there is a connection, isn’t there?” I interrupted. “Why else would Elise use Kelly’s name?”

He was quiet a second, then, “You can’t tell anyone about this. Promise?”

“A 20/20 camera crew is coming to the shop tomorrow to interview us about Elise Lyon,” I said.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. Wish I were.”

“So there’s even more of a reason to keep the lid on this, okay?”

“No problem.” Not like I was ready to spill the beans to the media. And it was a good thing Bitsy didn’t know about this. Or Joel. Ace wouldn’t care, because Ace rarely paid attention to anything that didn’t directly involve him.

I toyed with the idea of telling Tim where I was heading. Just as I decided to, he said, “Listen, I’ve got to run. I probably won’t be home tonight.” And he ended the call.

I stared at my phone, the picture of Kelly Masters staring back at me. Kelly was a pretty girl, too, but now that I paid attention to more than her face, I saw there was another big difference between Kelly and Elise.

Kelly had a tattoo on the side of her neck. I couldn’t make out what it was, but it was definitely ink.

I punched Tim’s number into my phone.

“What?” he asked, annoyed.

“Quick question about this picture.”

“Shoot.”

“Kelly Masters has a tat on her neck, right?”

He was quiet a second. Then, “You can see that?”

“It’s my business, Tim.” My turn to be annoyed. “What’s it of?”

“What?”

“I can’t make out what it is.”

“What does it matter?”

“You never know. It might actually tell you a lot.”

“Come on, Brett.”

“Just humor me, okay?”

Tim sighed. “Will it get you off the phone?”

“Yes,” I promised.

“It’s an eagle. It’s actually on the back of her neck, and what you see are the wings that come out on either side.”

A shiver ran through me.

“Why does this matter?” Tim asked.

“It doesn’t,” I said, although it seemed like it most definitely did. But I wasn’t one hundred percent sure about it, and until I was, I didn’t want to say it out loud. “Thanks.” And this time, I ended the call.

I sat for a second, staring out at nothing.

The tattooed guy, the one I’d seen in the mall. He had the same ink on his neck as Kelly Masters.

I had to park in the lot at the Bright Lights Motel, across the street from Murder Ink. The motel didn’t live up to its name-the shabby building was mostly dark except for a faint glow behind a couple of windows covered by what could only be flimsy curtains-but the tattoo shop’s lights were spilling out onto the sidewalk, its bloodred neon sign flashing. It wasn’t the greatest neighborhood, and even though I knew Jeff Coleman, it was cold comfort, considering we couldn’t stand each other.

A couple of people were walking around inside, but I couldn’t see their features from where I was because the shop name was painted in large script on the window. With the neon, it was a bit redundant.

I got out of the car and locked it, shoring up some confidence as I jaywalked over to the shop and pushed open the door.

Jeff Coleman was working on a kid who looked like he couldn’t possibly be eighteen. He barely had any facial or chest hair. From the looks of it, he was getting the entire cast of the original Star Trek on his abdomen.

To each his own.

“Hey, if it isn’t the famous Brett Kavanaugh,” Jeff said. “Slumming, are we?”

The Star Trek kid looked over at me. “Painted Lady, right?”

I recognized him now. We’d kicked him out last month when he showed up drunk and definitely underage with a bunch of his friends.

I ignored him, concentrating on Jeff. “I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

Jeff’s machine stopped whirring.

“You want to ask me some questions?”

“Is there an echo in here?”

Jeff studied the Star Trek tat for a second. “Let’s take a break,” he told the kid as he peeled off his latex gloves and swung his leg over the swivel chair he was sitting on.

Jeff Coleman was a slight guy, shorter than me by a couple inches, and skinny. His arms were covered with ink, and I could see it just around the collar of his T-shirt, hinting at the tats on his torso. He was older than me, maybe around forty, and the lines in his face indicated he’d lived hard. The buzz cut on his head was salt-and-pepper, and his beard was scruffy, as if he hadn’t shaved in a day or so.

He grabbed a pack of smokes and indicated I should follow him outside.

“What’s up, Kavanaugh?” he asked as he lit a match, touching it to the cigarette that was now balancing precariously between his lips.

“Have you seen the news? The girl who’s missing from Philadelphia?”

He blew a perfect smoke ring, his eyes never leaving my face as he leaned his shoulder against the side of the building.

“Saw it. Also saw you. She was in your shop?”

I nodded.

“Figures. Girl like that wants a custom design.” He took a long drag off his cigarette. “What does she have to do with me?”

“The address of your shop was on the back of the drawing she gave me.”

The smoke curled out of his nose and from between his lips. “Really?” His demeanor didn’t tell me whether it was a surprise or not.

“She didn’t come in here, did she?”

“And take one look at my flash and decide to go upscale instead?” Jeff chuckled.

“Come on, Jeff, I’m serious. Can you let the competition go for a few minutes?”

He studied my face for a second, nodded, and took another drag off his butt. “Okay. No, she didn’t come in here. Although I wish she had. You’re getting some great free advertising.”

If I couldn’t explain how I felt about that to my own staff, how could I possibly explain it to Jeff Coleman? I let it alone, let him think what he wanted. Elise Lyon may have written down the addresses of more than one shop-it had been only half a piece of paper, after all-and stopped checking out any others once she came into The Painted Lady.

Jeff tossed his butt on the sidewalk and ground it with the heel of his boot. “Is that all, Kavanaugh? Or do you want some ink as a souvenir of your walk on the dark side?” A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but on him it looked more like he’d just bitten into a lemon.

I was about to say “thanks for nothing,” but then I had another thought. I pulled my cell phone out of my bag, hitting a couple of buttons, and watched the picture of Kelly Masters pop up. I held it up so he could see.

“What about her? Did she ever come into your shop?”

Jeff’s face turned white and he froze.

“What happened to her?” he asked, his voice tight, as if he were afraid to take a breath.

I didn’t want to say. But maybe I’d get a straight answer if I did.

“She’s dead.”

He swallowed. “How?”

“Not sure. How do you know her?”

He didn’t answer.

“Jeff, she’s dead.”

“Murdered?”

Tim hadn’t said as much, but I was willing to bet something had gone down. “Yeah, possibly.”

Jeff pulled another cigarette out of his breast pocket and lit it, his hands visibly shaking. I watched him take a long drag and then let it out slowly. As the smoke hung in the air between us, he said softly, “She’s my ex-wife.”