The Missing Ink

Chapter 40

When I’d first heard his name, I had wondered if Matthew was Elise’s Matthew, but he seemed like too much of a square peg for that round hole. Matt Powell was much of more likely, especially since he was close to Chip and, by extension, Elise, and then, of course, there was the little fact that he had that tat on his chest.

But maybe, just maybe, that ink had been done after he’d already been dead. How else to explain the gloves and needle in the bathroom?

I had multiple Matthews, although the Elvises still outnumbered them.

Elise saw me.

She twisted around, her eyes wide with fear. Matthew’s head swiveled up toward me, and a grimace crossed his face. He turned his attention back to Elise, pushing her now.

I remembered what Bruce Manning said on CNN when Elise first went missing: He suspected she didn’t leave of her own accord, that there might have been another party involved.

This backed up that theory.

I shoved my way through the Elvises and some other ordinarily dressed people who’d come in since we’d arrived for a little karaoke. Behind me, the music started, and another singer-and I use the term loosely-began warbling “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Something about the voice made me pause. I stopped to see if I was right.

It was Joel, belting out the song as best he could. Which wasn’t saying much. Although I certainly wasn’t one to judge.

Our little excursion had brought out the inner Elvis in my staff. Who knew?

I didn’t have time to ponder this, however, since Elise and Matthew were already a few minutes ahead of me. I bounded through the black curtain, momentarily distracted by the darkness, but the door opened, letting in a streak of light, and I followed it, like you’re supposed to.

The motorcycles still filled most of the parking lot, and one was speeding out toward the main road. Two people. A man and a woman. No helmets. Who had told me Matthew was a biker? They were too far away for me to say for sure whether it was Matthew and Elise.

I saw my Mustang in the lot and considered my options. If I left Joel here with Bitsy, there was no way he’d fit into that little MINI Cooper of hers. He’d give me a lot of crap over that.

As I debated, the motorcycle was getting smaller and smaller, farther and farther away.

There was no way I could catch up to it.

I heard Springsteen.

It took a second for me to realize it was my cell phone in the bottom of my bag. I swung it around and dug around inside until I found the phone, checking the name on the front and flipping the top up.

“Hey, there,” I said to my brother.

“You never got back to me.”

“About what?”

A heavy sigh. “About the tattoo. Did you get the pictures in your e-mail?”

Oh, yeah, right. “Sorry. I’ve been a little busy.”

“So?”

“Listen, there’s something you should know.” I paused. How to approach this? Straight out would be a good idea. “Elise Lyon is alive. I just saw her.”

“Where?” I could practically feel his blood pressure go up over the phone.

“Viva Las Vegas. You know the place?”

“You’re there? Why on earth would you go there?”

I considered telling him the truth: that I’d gotten locked in Simon Chase’s office, heard Elise’s message, then hightailed it over here because Bitsy was on the inside when it came to Elvis. But it sounded a little deranged. So I settled for, “Bitsy wanted to come to karaoke night. I saw Elise in the ladies’ room, but she left in a hurry. With Kelly Masters’s brother. Matthew.”

Silence. So long that I thought I might have lost the connection.

“Hello?”

“I’m here, Brett. He’s not bothering you again, is he?”

“No, but he’s got Elise Lyon.” I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice, but I wasn’t too successful.

“And they left?”

“I thought about following them.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed? Why would I do that? Because I’d gotten in over my head on this one?

Tim spoke before I could answer. “Don’t play hero, Brett. Where did they go?”

“I don’t know. I think they left on a bike.”

“A bicycle?”

“Motorcycle,” I said sarcastically. “There are almost as many bikes here as there are Elvises.”

“Which direction?”

“I don’t know. Looked like they were heading back downtown, but who knows?”

More silence.

“She looked scared,” I offered.

“Did you talk to her?”

“No.” But something tugged at my brain. Why had she run from me? And what was Simon Chase’s role in this? He was nowhere to be seen. He’d gotten me up onstage, singing, and then took off. Leaving Elise to Matthew.

Maybe he hadn’t seen her.

Or maybe he’d set her up. Maybe he and Matthew were in cahoots together.

Cahoots? What was I, a hundred years old?

My thoughts jumbled around like the letters in Boggle. I’d seen Simon with Matthew, outside Giverny before our lunch date. Maybe I wasn’t so far off in my suspicions.

This time Tim thought he’d lost me.“What’s going on, Brett?”

“Umm, well, you might want to talk to Simon Chase again,” I said, throwing caution to the wind and any possible romance out the window.

“Why?”

“He was here, too. I think he was meeting her here.”

“How do you know that?”

Uh-oh. How to get out of this one? “He might have said something.”

Even more silence. “You know, Brett, I can’t bring someone in and question them just because my sister might have suspicions. I need more than that to go on.”

I knew that. I also knew that if Tim called Simon in now, Simon would know who’d ratted him out.

Simon Chase emerged from around the far corner of the building. Quickly, I ducked behind a pickup truck that was taller than me, and I watched him scan the parking lot.

Was he looking for Elise and Matthew? Or for me?

“Listen, Tim,” I said, “maybe I’m wrong. If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know.” I started to flip the phone shut but heard him saying, “Brett? Wait.”

Lifting the phone back up to my ear and keeping an eye on Chase, I said, “Yeah?”

“That tat. On Matt Powell. What did you think?”

“Professional. Definitely not a scratcher. It looked remarkably like my drawing.”

“Remarkably?”

“Almost identical, except for the name. Apparently Powell came in looking for a tat like that and Ace showed it to him by accident. We’ve got a file on him. On Powell, not Ace. But Ace didn’t do the ink. I don’t know who did.”

Simon Chase was now weaving through the bikes in the lot, getting closer. I ducked a little lower, but not too low, so I still could see him through the window of the truck.

“Do you think Coleman did it?”

“I don’t know, Tim,” I said, lowering my voice a little so Chase wouldn’t hear me. Voices can travel on that still desert air pretty easily. “I have to get going.”

“Okay, sure, but, Brett?”

“Yeah?” Chase was getting closer.

“Powell’s ink? It was done after he was dead.”