The Missing Ink

Chapter 4

Tim was gone when I got up, but the note I’d left him saying Kelly wanted her ink to say “Matthew” was no longer on the kitchen table. As I fired up the engine in my Mustang Bullitt-I’ve got a thing for Steve McQueen; what woman doesn’t?-I was a little resentful that I was doing his job for him and he still wouldn’t tell me anything.

I was getting obsessed with Kelly/Elise. It was the most interesting thing that had happened for a while.

I slipped on my sunglasses and pulled out of the driveway.

Henderson to the Strip isn’t too far, just a straight shot on 215. But there’s traffic. Always traffic. Vegas has grown even in the short time I’ve been here, and between the residential population and the tourists and gas prices, well, it made me start thinking seriously about public transportation. The only thing I didn’t like was that I worked until midnight most nights, and taking a bus that late meant dealing with a lot more than just greenhouse gases.

Anyway, if I took the bus, I wouldn’t be able to crank Springsteen, who was singing about the Badlands.

I wasn’t putting the top down today, though. The desert in June is like an oven, and don’t get me started on that “it’s a dry heat” crap. Heat is heat, whether it’s wet or dry. The sun is searing, and even after only three years, the red tile roof on our house had faded to a pale pink.

In the distance, the mountains beckoned me. A hike at Red Rock Canyon, just outside the city and a world away, would balance my chi, but with the temperature hovering above a hundred, I’d risk more than just a bad mood. I didn’t much believe in Chinese hocus-pocus-the sisters had instilled a lifetime of the fear of God in me-but I knew when I was feeling a little off.

I had a cheap pass for the Henderson outdoor competition pool-that was my summer exercise. It didn’t have the same powers as Red Rock, but gliding through the water, the rhythmic breathing, the emptying of my mind as I counted each stroke, each lap, centered me in a different way. Sometimes Tim came with me, arriving at the pool at six a.m., and we’d swim side by side. We’ve been mistaken for synchronized swimmers because we look so much alike. We were both on our high school team, but he’s five years older.

As I approached, I saw the Strip’s lights were off, the glitz diminished by the glare of the sun. The magic just wasn’t there in the daytime. From a distance, it looked like a kid had dropped a bunch of toys in one spot and hadn’t bothered to straighten them out: a castle, the Statue of Liberty, a golden lion, the Eiffel Tower, an Egyptian pyramid, a Space Needle. A playground for adults, where no one can really win, but the illusion puts blinders on.

Instead of driving up Las Vegas Boulevard, I veered off onto Koval Lane, which runs parallel and behind the MGM, Flamingo, Paris, and the Venetian. Strip traffic isn’t so bad in the mornings, but the lights are too long and I get too frustrated.

While prices in Vegas have gone up-impossible to get that $2.99 breakfast buffet, unless you’re far off the Strip-parking can still be free. I turned left into the Venetian’s driveway and then right into the self-parking garage. I drove up to the sixth level and eased the Mustang into a spot. I slung my black messenger bag over my shoulder, adjusting it so the strap crossed over my chest. I wore my usual tank top-fuchsia, today-and a billowy cotton hippie skirt with an Indian print. My Tevas kept me from towering too tall, but I still topped out at five-nine.

Getting out of the car, I felt like I’d stepped into the center of a volcano; the heat was trapped in the garage, and it closed in around me. I hightailed it to the elevator, hitting the button too many times, like that would make the doors open faster. Once it got to the third level, where the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes were, I went back out into the heat and looped around up to the walkway. The automatic doors slid open, the cold, air-conditioned breeze washing over me. I sighed with relief.

Springsteen warbled “Born to Run” in my bag. I reached in for my cell phone.

You can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t take Jersey out of the girl.

The caller ID said, Restricted. I flipped the cover, asked a tentative, “Hello?”

“Brett?”

It was Tim. “Yeah?”

“Couple of quick questions. When Elise Lyon came into your shop, what was she wearing?”

I described her outfit. “Why do you need to know that?”

He ignored me. “Did she seem frightened?”

He’d asked me that last night. “No.” My voice echoed through the phone. “Hey, am I on speaker?”

A woman brushed past me, glaring at the phone in my ear. I made a face at her and leaned against the wall.

“Was she with anyone?”

“I told you, she was alone. She didn’t seem afraid, except maybe a little nervous about the idea of a tat.”

“How nervous?”

“As nervous as someone who’s never gotten one before.” I paused. “It hurts. And it’s permanent. People know that coming in.”

“But she still wanted to go through with it?”

“We might never know, will we?” Immediately I was sorry I’d been so flip, but sometimes I speak without thinking.

“I’ll probably be over there in an hour or so to talk to Bitsy. See if she noticed anything else.”

“She’ll be at the shop all day,” I said. “Anytime.”

“Okay, see you in a bit.” He ended the call.

I closed the phone and stared at it a second. Maybe Bitsy and I were the last ones to speak to Kelly/Elise.

A quick stop at the kiosk for a bottle of water, and I contemplated the two paths I could take to my shop.

The right one went past Kenneth Cole, so I took that one, stopping to check out a great pair of black patent-leather pumps with peep toes rimmed in red. I’d been eyeing them for days now. I could see myself in those shoes, already had an outfit picked out in my head.

As I was daydreaming, I suddenly had the feeling I was being watched. I didn’t turn around, but tried to see in the reflection in the store window if anyone was behind me. It was still early; the mall crowd was sparse.

I spotted him a few yards away, across the canal, the light hitting him just right so I could see him clearly.

He was taller than me-I put him at about six-four-and well built. The tattoos that bled down his face and under his T-shirt and onto his arms might have been considered uncomfortably excessive by someone not in the business. They didn’t bother me.

What bothered me was the way he was staring at me.

He saw me staring back. He raised his hand, making the sign of a gun with his thumb and forefinger. With a small pop movement of his lips, he moved his hand to make it look as though he shot at me.

And then he nodded and walked away.