“Someone’s watching us. The cops could be on their way.”
Disappointment crossed Jeff’s face, but he closed the door with his hand over the tail of his shirt to get rid of those pesky fingerprints, and we ran back around the house to the Pontiac. Jeff had just started the engine when I glimpsed a cruiser coming down the opposite street.
“Get going!” I said, and the car shot forward, the tires screeching across the pavement.
I caught the cop car in the side-view mirror as we turned the corner.
I took a deep breath and leaned back in my seat. “That was close.”
Jeff grinned. “Don’t you like living on the fast side, Kavanaugh?”
“I could live without it,” I said.
“But you got your rocks off going through that guy’s mail, all right, didn’t you?”
I rolled my eyes and stared out the window.
“Hey, Kavanaugh, can you get it out?”
I turned back to see Jeff shifting up in his seat, his butt facing me, the white envelope he’d taken from Dan Franklin’s mailbox flapping against the back of his seat.
I didn’t really want to be that close to Jeff Coleman’s butt, but I reached over and snatched it out.
It was a bank statement.
“We really shouldn’t open this,” I said, but my fingers were itching to.
Sister Mary Eucharista would have slapped those fingers with a ruler if she could.
What was wrong with me? Was being with Jeff Coleman turning me into a felon? We pretend to be getting married to get information; we steal mail; we almost break into a man’s house. What else? Oh, right, I looked into a man’s locker at That’s Amore. But I couldn’t exactly blame Jeff for that. I was alone at the time. But it was his influence, for sure.
Jeff Coleman wasn’t good for me.
He was grinning. “Oh, go ahead,” he egged me on. “Everyone does their banking online anyway now. Don’t you throw those mailed statements in a box and not even look at them?”
How did he know what I did with my bank statements?
He was still talking. “Dan Franklin might not even realize that he didn’t get a statement this month.”
I sighed and tossed the envelope on the dashboard. “I can’t do it,” I said. “It’s bad enough we took it.”
We were stopped at a light at the Home Depot. Jeff grabbed the envelope, slid his finger into the crease, and opened it. He pulled out a couple of sheets of paper with Dan Franklin’s personal business on them.
And he let out a low whistle.
“You ought to look at this, Kavanaugh,” he said, throwing it into my lap as the light turned green and he hit the accelerator.
I jumped as if he’d thrown a snake at me.
“It’s not going to bite,” he teased.
I didn’t even have to pick it up. It landed in such a way that I could see exactly what Jeff Coleman had seen.
Dan Franklin had made a withdrawal of ten thousand dollars two weeks ago.
Chapter 16
As with the cage, this might have not meant anything. “Maybe he needed a new air- conditioning unit or something for his house,” I said. “We don’t know what he used that money for.”
“It’s a lot of money,” Jeff said. “And maybe you’re right. But he withdraws this kind of money and then disappears? After his coworker is murdered? With a dead rat underneath him in your trunk?”
“It still doesn’t mean anything,” I insisted. “And we committed a crime. We should bring this back.”
Jeff indicated the torn envelope. “Don’t think so. I wonder where he is.”
“Well, it’s clear he hasn’t been home in a couple days at least.”
“Three, if you count the newspapers. But why is the car there?”
I didn’t answer as I stared out the window. Jeff had gotten onto the highway and was heading back downtown. The mountains spread out in the distance, their charcoal color clashing with the clear, light blue sky, clouds looking like cotton balls. A jet left a long white trail behind it as it sailed out of sight.
“Earth to Kavanaugh,” Jeff was saying. “What is it about those mountains for you?”
I sighed. “It’s peaceful up there. No worries. No schedules, no clients, nothing but me.”
“Don’t turn into one of those crunchy granola types.”
I lifted my leg to show off my Teva sandals. “I already wear these.”
“As long as they’re not Birkenstocks.”
“What’s wrong with those?” I thought about the sandals in my closet at home.
He laughed. “You’ve got a pair, don’t you?”
I felt my face flush hot, and I turned away from him so I could look out the side window. I heard him chuckling, then humming to himself as we took back roads all the way up to his shop.
He broke the silence as he pulled into the alley behind Murder Ink. “Maybe I should’ve let you hang a little longer with Mr. Studly,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“He liked you. Maybe he knows something. Something about Dan Franklin, why he’s missing, or something about Ray Lucci.”
“You think he’d tell me because he likes me?” I asked.
“Sure, why not? You should call him. Go out to dinner, wear something other than that skirt.” He made a face as he glanced at it. “How he could be interested in you, looking like that? Well, there’s no accounting for taste. Of course it could be worse. You could be wearing those Birkenstocks with it.”
“So now you’re Tim Gunn?” I asked. “You think you could dress me better than I can?”
He grinned. “Obviously you’ve got no fashion sense.” He paused. “Except maybe for the tats. Especially that Japanese koi on your arm.”
The one
The car eased against the curb, and Jeff cut the engine. I scurried out after him as he unlocked the back door to Murder Ink and followed him inside.
Jeff turned on the lights, and the fluorescent beams gave the room an unearthly glow. He dropped his keys on the desk that was already piled with scattered papers and folders. His filing system was an abomination. He said Sylvia had set it up, but the way Sylvia’s mind worked made me wonder how he kept track of everything. I’d never told Bitsy about it, because, knowing her, she’d be here in an hour reorganizing.
“So what now?” I asked as we went out into the front of the shop.
Jeff turned on the lights in here, too, and the one in the window lit up, advertising that the shop was open. I studied the flash on the walls, the stock tattoos that his shop specialized in.
“Wishing you had it this easy, Kavanaugh?” he teased.
I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him.
When Jeff had done my koi tattoo a few months back, I hadn’t wanted him to do it here. I wasn’t sure how clean this place was, and I knew you could practically eat off the floor in my shop, thanks to Bitsy. I’d made Jeff come to me.
What I hadn’t told him was how much this place reminded me of the Ink Spot, where Mickey had first taken me in as a trainee and taught me all he knew. I was a twenty-two-year-old kid, fresh out of art school, still thinking about going to Paris and making my way. But I needed some cash to get there. I’d been mulling it over when I saw the shop. I’d given myself a crude heart tattoo on the inside of my wrist with a sewing needle and some ballpoint- pen ink when I was sixteen. I’d toyed with the idea of another tattoo, maybe one done more professionally, for a couple years, but even then I knew tattoos are permanent, and I wanted to be sure about the design.
Mickey
