“Guy named Lou Marino.”
I tried to place him but couldn’t. Had he been a client? Something about his name was tugging at my brain.
Will was still talking, and I missed the first part of what he said, but his next words jolted me. “His wife’s father got married the other day at the chapel. Lou said he married a woman who owns a tattoo shop.”
“Sylvia Coleman? She used to own Murder Ink.” Small world was suddenly an understatement.
He nodded, and it hit me. That was why the name was familiar. Rosalie Marino. Bernie’s daughter.
“His wife is Rosalie?” I asked, thinking about Rosalie’s tattoos. I wasn’t sure Lou Marino was someone I wanted to cross paths with.
At the mention of Rosalie’s name, Will Parker’s grin vanished and he looked a little uncomfortable. I began to wonder whether Lou Marino’s coworkers knew about the abuse.
“That’s right,” he said, “Rosalie.”
“What does her husband do there?” I asked.
“He’s another Dino.”
I thought about Sylvia and how she’d requested Ray Lucci that day. Requested him because he was her son. It seemed too odd that Lucci worked with Bernie’s son-in-law. Yet another coincidence. Perhaps.
“So what about my tattoo?” he asked, pulling me back into the conversation. “Can you do it? Touch it up, I mean.”
“Not now. You need to make an appointment.”
“I can’t stay now anyway,” he admitted.
“You could’ve just called, then.”
“I had to be over here at the Venetian. I’ve got a job interview. When Lou told me about your shop and I was heading over here anyway, I figured it might be karma that we met this morning.” A smile crept back, and his eyes flashed with a distinct sexiness.
Karma. I liked the sound of that. And a job interview explained the outfit.
“Job doing what?” I asked, wondering in what capacity the Venetian would need a Dean Martin impersonator.
“They’re looking for some performers.”
“They’re starting a Rat Pack routine?” I asked. It would definitely fit the Italian theme.
He shook his head. “No, no. I don’t only do Dean. I’m a singer and a dancer. I can do pretty much anything.”
I had visions of those Renaissance dancers who swirled around St. Mark’s Square on a regular basis, and the idea of Will Parker putting that on his resume bothered me for some reason.
Was I snooty enough to not date someone because he pranced around in tights and a big white wig?
Possibly.
He saw my hesitation.
“I know it’s not Broadway, but it pays okay,” he said. “And I’ve got to get out of that wedding chapel.”
“Why?”
“Something’s not right over there,” he said, pausing.
“What’s not right?” I prodded.
“Ray Lucci’s murder, for one.”
“But that didn’t happen at the wedding chapel,” I said before thinking. And a nanosecond later I realized I couldn’t be certain it hadn’t. He’d ended up in my car, which had been at That’s Amore, and he had been dressed in his Dean Martin outfit.
But then I had a flash of that rat. That rat that came from somewhere, and even though I now knew Dan Franklin worked with lab animals, I didn’t know how it would have ended up at the chapel, especially since there was an empty cage at Franklin’s house.
Will Parker had started to notice that I wasn’t giving him a hundred percent of my attention.
“Do you know where Lucci was killed?” he asked, his expression guarded now.
I flashed him an embarrassed smile. “No, no, I don’t know about that,” I said quickly and, eager to change the subject, added, “You said Ray Lucci’s murder was one thing that’s not right over at the chapel. What else is going on?”
“You’re right-it wasn’t just that. Although Ray was a crazy guy. Always talking about the cars that came through. We all knew he’d been inside for car theft, so we were never really sure if he was joking or not. He really liked that car Lou’s father-in-law drove up in.”
My Mustang Bullitt again. It didn’t set right that a dead guy had been planning on stealing my car, or at least had thought about stealing it.
And then I realized something.
“Were you working that day?” I asked.
“Yeah, it was me and Lou and Ray.”
“But not Dan Franklin?”
He seemed a little taken aback by my question.
“Do you know Dan?”
“I talked to him yesterday,” I said, not lying. “So he wasn’t working that day? He wasn’t there at all?”
“I saw him come in, but he wasn’t on shift. At least not when I was. This isn’t his full-time job; it’s something he does to make extra money. Tony lets him make his own schedule.” He paused. “Why are you asking about Dan?”
I shrugged. “Just making conversation. So you saw the Mustang Bullitt, too.”
The change of subject threw him a second; then he said, “Nice ride.” His face clouded over. “That’s one of the other things that’s not right.” He ran a hand through those golden locks of his. The grin was AWOL now.
He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, what he said was so unexpected I couldn’t catch my breath. “That very same car tried to run me down two days ago, about four o’clock, over on Charleston.”
Chapter 19
Will Parker said he was sure it was the same car, but he hadn’t gotten the license plate number, which was why the cops hadn’t tracked it down.
Until yesterday.
When Ray Lucci’s body was found in it.
This could explain Flanigan’s song and dance in the parking garage last night. He must have been alerted to Will Parker’s report about the red Mustang convertible. So Flanigan showed up here to check out where it had been parked, to see whether there were any clues that it had been stolen. I guess someone could have taken it. I was in the shop, didn’t leave until midnight. That meant there were nine hours during which my car was unattended.
I hadn’t noticed anything unusual, though, when I’d gotten into it that night. There were no telltale signs that the car had been hot-wired. The seat was where I’d always left it; I hadn’t had to adjust the rearview mirror.
This was why Flanigan asked me whether anyone else had a key.
Of course Sylvia and Bernie had borrowed mine. Did someone make a copy?
But that begged the question: If someone stole it, why bring it back? Maybe to make it look as though it was never gone in the first place.
Will Parker was looking at me funny. I’d been quiet too long. I didn’t want to tell him it was my car. Somehow I had a feeling that might not go over too well. And we were just starting to get to know each other. If it went any further and he ever saw my car, I’d deal with it then. Now was not the time.
“You didn’t see who was driving?” I asked.
“You sound like the cops,” he said.
“My brother’s a detective,” I explained. “I think it’s in the DNA.”
“Really? He’s a cop?”
I chuckled. “Yeah, but he never takes anything I say seriously. So what happened with the car?”
