Driven to Ink

eyes showed surprise that I could visualize it so well.

Halfway through the tattoo, Mickey asked whether I’d be interested in learning the trade. He gave me an old tattoo machine and a grapefruit to practice on. I was hooked.

The Ink Spot smelled like Jeff’s shop: ink and baby wipes and a little bit of sweat.

It was time to go. I took a step toward the door.

“Wait a sec,” Jeff said.

I stopped.

“I’m not kidding about that guy back there at the chapel,” Jeff said. “It wouldn’t hurt to see if he knows anything. Tell him you broke up with me. Tell him we have an open relationship.”

“So you want to pimp me out for information?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Call it what you will, Kavanaugh, but I thought you wanted to find my mother, too.”

The worry laced his expression, and I saw that all the teasing was a cover-up for his concern about Sylvia.

“What do you think happened to your mother and Bernie?” I asked softly.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m not sure. I was hoping we’d find Dan Franklin. Maybe he knows. But since he’s missing, too…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. I was thinking the same thing. Something happened with Ray Lucci’s murder that caused three people to go missing. One of them might even be a murderer. I didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened to Sylvia and Bernie.

I nodded. “Okay, fine. I’ll call the chapel and see if I can reach that guy.” I didn’t want to tell him that I’d given Parker my card. He’d probably give me a lot of grief over that.

“Thanks, Kavanaugh.” Jeff’s voice was soft, unlike him. It made me realize he really was human. Something that wasn’t always so apparent.

“What about Dan Franklin?” I asked, not wanting to have an Oprah moment with Jeff Coleman. “Should I tell Tim about his wallet and that he works with animals like rats?” I had no intention of telling him about our little adventure over at Franklin’s house. Although if I planted an idea about Franklin in Tim’s head, maybe he’d start looking into Franklin’s affairs and discover the empty house and the bank withdrawal. Despite what I’d said to Jeff, it did seem that the money could have something to do with all this.

“How are you going to explain to him how you saw the wallet?” Jeff asked.

That was a problem, definitely. I’d already told Tim about the phone conversation, so I couldn’t now say, Hey, Dan also dropped the fact that he works with rats; you might want to check that out. I would need a better reason as to how I knew this, and not from messing around in the Dean Martin locker room at That’s Amore.

“I’ll figure something out,” I said as I looked at my watch. It was almost noon. “Listen, I have to get to the shop. If you hear anything about Sylvia, call me. And I’ll let you know how it goes with Parker.”

“Who?”

I made a face at him. “Mr. Studly, as you insist on calling him.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I wanted to leave before he thought of some other smart-aleck thing to say.

As I reached for the door, it opened, and a woman came in.

She wasn’t as tall as me, but she was close. She had long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a pair of large sunglasses, dark jeans and a white button-down cotton shirt, buttoned almost too high, and a long strand of red beads bouncing against an ample chest.

She looked a little too high-class for Murder Ink.

Except when she took off the sunglasses to reveal a dark bruise circling her right eye.

When she saw me staring, her face went white, as if she’d seen a ghost.

I knew why.

I couldn’t remember her name, but about a year before I’d tattooed two ribbons circling her left biceps. One ribbon was white, the other purple.

Both signified that she had been physically abused and survived.

I nodded at her, but before either of us could say anything, Jeff spoke up.

“Rosalie, what are you doing here? Did they find my mother and your father?”

Rosalie? As in Bernie Applebaum’s daughter?

Chapter 17

Giving me an anxious look begging me not to reveal I knew who she was, Rosalie worried the edge of the sunglasses with long fingers tipped with short-clipped nails.

“I haven’t heard a word,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I was hoping you’d have some news.”

Jeff went over to her and patted her on the forearm. “I went out to the canyon. Stopped everywhere I could between here and there, but I couldn’t find them.”

“Have you heard any more from the police about their car?”

“No, I’m sorry.” And I could see in his face that he truly was. There was compassion there, and his own worry.

Hated to say it, but I liked Jeff Coleman better when he wasn’t quite so human. Made him easier to deal with.

Rosalie was looking at me out of the corner of her eye, and Jeff noticed.

“Rosalie Marino, Brett Kavanaugh.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I said, hoping she’d see that I wasn’t about to out her.

She took my hand limply with a couple of fingers. “Yes, nice to meet you, too.”

“Brett’s helping with trying to track down my mother and Bernie,” Jeff explained.

Rosalie was still looking at me, and her eyes widened, but I shrugged and, before she could say anything, added, “So far, though, we’re hitting a brick wall.” I didn’t want to get into the whole Dan Franklin thing. If we found out for sure he had something do with Sylvia and Bernie, then that would be the time to mention him.

Rosalie looked back at Jeff and gave him a sad smile. “I’m on my way to work. Can you give me a call if you hear anything?” She pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her bag and scribbled down a number, handing it to Jeff.

He took it and held her hand for a second. “We’ll find them, Rosalie. Don’t worry.” His expression held a tenderness I’d never seen before, and her eyes filled with tears.

I shifted uncomfortably, uncertain what to do or say.

My cell phone made the decision for me as it warbled Bruce Springsteen from inside my bag.

It startled both Rosalie and Jeff, who seemed as though they had forgotten I was there.

I took the phone out of my bag, said, “I’ll be outside,” and flipped the phone open with one hand as I pressed the door with the other. Once on the sidewalk, I said, “What’s up, Bitsy?”

“It’s almost noon, and you’ve got a client coming in. Where are you?”

Who needed a mother with Bitsy around? The guilt started to seep in. Sister Mary Eucharista would make me write fifty times, I will not exploit my employees while I go messing around in other people’s business. Although admittedly, I’d been asked to help, so I could be perceived as being a good friend. Somehow I’m not sure the sister would’ve seen it that way, though.

“I’ll be there in a few,” I said. “I’m up here at Murder Ink. Bernie’s daughter just showed. She and Jeff are really worried.”

That was the way to turn it around on the guilt, because Bitsy immediately said, “So there’s still no word from them? Where do you think they might be?”

I quickly told her about our morning’s activities-going to the chapel and then to Dan Franklin’s house and finding it all closed up-and ended with my suspicion that Sylvia and Bernie had seen something they shouldn’t have.

I didn’t tell her what Tim had said about Ray Lucci being Sylvia’s son. Unlike Bitsy, I can keep a secret, and, anyway, I hadn’t really thought that one through yet. How that could’ve played a role in all this.