The Missing Ink

Chapter 33

I tried explaining that anyone could use a tattoo machine. It didn’t have to be a trained tattooist. But Tim seemed to think this was a more professional job.

“I’d like to see it,” I said.

“What?”

“I’d like to see the tat. I think I can make that call better than you.”

“I am not letting you into the morgue. He’s been autop- sied. You can’t see that.”

“I’m not seven years old, Tim.” Although we were both acting like kids. I forced myself to relax, breathing out of my nose for a second. “All right, I don’t have to see the body, but can I see a picture? You sent me one of Kelly-why not of this?”

“I don’t want to send it over the phone.”

“Why not?”

“It’s evidence, Brett. Last time I needed an ID, so it was different. The phone’s just not that secure.”

“That’s lame. Nothing’s secure these days. Someone could lose the picture in the evidence room.” I’d seen that sort of thing on TV. I continued to make my case: “I could help you. But you’re right about not sending it over the phone. I won’t be able to really see it that way. E-mail it to me.”

He hesitated so long that I thought I’d lost him, then, “All right. I know you won’t let up until you see it. I’ll e-mail it to you. I can’t do it right now, but within an hour or so, okay?”

I agreed. But I wasn’t finished with him yet. “So you think this guy was Elise’s lover?”

“Seems that way.”

“But why would Jeff kill him? Jeff didn’t know her, so why would he care if Elise was messing around with the guy? There doesn’t seem to be much motive here.” I didn’t watch Law & Order for nothing.

“Just let us do our job. I’ll send you the picture.” And he ended the call.

I wasn’t convinced Tim had this figured out. But he had to put on a good show, since it was his job to sort it all out and solve it. Me, well, I just fell in the middle of it, so it didn’t matter what I knew.

I finished up the stencil in time for my client, and I spent the next hour tattooing the Chinese characters for love, prosperity, and hope on a guy’s upper back, trying to be careful not to get any ink on the white trousers, since my other clothes were in Joel’s car and he was still out. But I managed to be neat, and I could’ve done the tats with my eyes closed.

Which was almost the case. I was exhausted when I finished. All the stuff that happened the last few days had finally hit me, and the endorphins had disappeared, leaving me dragging. I considered a Red Bull, but I wasn’t sure I needed that much of a boost. A coffee would do.

I thought about food, too, but lunch still sat in my stomach. I never eat so heavy in the middle of the day.

Ace ran out to get coffee for all of us, which was when I realized Joel wasn’t in the shop yet.

“Hey, Bits.” I poked my head into the office, where she was straightening up the file cabinets. “Where’s Joel?”

She shrugged. “Not my day to watch him.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “But he’s got a client in half an hour, so he’d better be back.”

I dialed his cell, but it just rang and rang, kicking into voice mail. I left a message.

I mulled over where he could be. He said he’d drop Sylvia back at Murder Ink. On a whim, I decided to call over there.

No one answered; there wasn’t even a machine pickup. That was odder than Joel not answering his phone. A business should always have a machine answer if no one was there. And why wasn’t anyone there? They were open till four a.m. Unless having Jeff on the lam was incentive for his staff to take a little vacation.

I mentally kicked myself for not finding out where Sylvia lived or hung out when she wasn’t in her son’s shop, even though there’d been no reason to until now. A walk through the phone book told me nothing. I pulled up a people search on the Internet, but nothing there, either.

I decided I should check e-mail while I was online, since Tim had said he’d send that picture.

He sent three.

The first was a close-up of the tat. So close so I couldn’t tell exactly where on the body it was; it could be the chest or the back, a place with little body fat and taut muscles. There was no hair, but if it had just been done, the hair would’ve been shaved beforehand. It did look professionally done, not by a scratcher-a disreputable tattooist or amateur. The heart was neatly outlined, the letters in careful calligraphy, the clasped hands incredibly well-drawn.

It was practically identical to the one I’d drawn for Elise, except her name was substituted for “Matthew” in this one.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think that whoever did this ink had seen my drawing. But my drawing hadn’t been made public until that night, on 20/20.

I clicked on the second picture, the tat slanted and elongated by the angle. The skin looked otherworldly; it must be from the autopsy. I shivered and clicked quickly on the third picture.

It was of the crime scene, the bathroom at Versailles, but the body had been rolled back against the back of the tub, the shirt unbuttoned to reveal the tat in the center of Matt Powell’s chest.

Right in the same place Chip Manning had shown me on his own chest where he wanted the exact same ink.

It struck me then.

Chip must have seen my drawing.