Driven to Ink

“I never shot my gun in combat. It was a very short war.”

“But you were in the Marines for how long?”

“Four years.”

“So what did you do the rest of the time?”

Jeff grinned as he maneuvered the car so we were now three cars behind Parker.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he said.

It wasn’t worth trying to have a serious conversation with the man. I focused on Parker’s car, which suddenly swerved and turned right down a side road, before the Little White Chapel. You could get married almost anywhere in Vegas.

Jeff immediately slowed down, but he didn’t turn. As we passed the road, we could see there were no other cars behind Parker. We kept going straight.

“We’re going to lose him,” I warned.

“Too risky. He’d notice us.”

“Do you think he already spotted us and did that to shake us off his trail?”

Jeff laughed out loud. “Shake us off his trail? I think you need to stick to tattooing, Kavanaugh. You’re not very good at spy stuff.”

No kidding.

“You need to call your brother, though.”

“Why?”

“To give him the license plate of that car.”

I hadn’t even thought about doing that. Jeff was right. I’d make a lousy spy.

I punched Tim’s number into my phone.

“What?” he barked.

“I’ve got a license plate number,” I said. “Will Parker’s blue car. Do you want it?”

He didn’t even ask how I got it after I rattled it off; he just hung up.

I noticed that we were also going down a side street now, and Jeff made a quick turn to the right. Will Parker’s car was two cars up. A white Bronco was between us.

I stared at Jeff. “How did you do that?”

He grinned and tapped the side of his head. “Leave it to me, Kavanaugh.”

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a high five or anything, so I rolled my eyes.

“You’re just jealous that you can’t do this,” he teased.

Parker turned left, and we were on Charleston. He turned right onto Las Vegas Boulevard. We were heading toward Fremont Street, close to where Jeff’s shop was.

Parker’s brake lights went on as we approached Murder Ink, and I caught my breath. Did Parker know we were following him? Was he baiting us?

He slid the blue car into a spot in front of Goodfellas Bail Bonds. Jeff eased the Pontiac into one two spaces away.

Parker climbed out of the car. But instead of going into Goodfellas, as I expected, he sauntered down the sidewalk and stopped in front of Jeff’s shop.

Jeff sat up a little straighter, his hands tight on the steering wheel as he leaned forward. I held my breath. The shop was closed. I assumed the door was locked. Was Parker going to break in?

Turns out he didn’t need to.

The door to Murder Ink swung open, and Parker went inside.

Chapter 49

We hardly had time to register what had happened when my phone rang. Tim. I flipped it open. “Hey,” I said.

“That license plate. On the blue car. I got it.”

“It’s Will Parker’s, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Parker? No. It’s that Love Shack guy. Martin Sanderson.”

Sanderson?

Jeff had opened his door, and I put my hand on his arm to stop him from getting out right away as I said to Tim, “I’ll give you a call back, okay?” and flipped my phone closed. “Where are you going?” I asked Jeff. My phone started to ring again, and I saw it was Tim. I turned off the ringer and stuck the phone back in my bag.

“Someone let him into my shop,” he said, his eyes dark with anger. “My mother’s at Rosalie’s. I’m with you. No one else has a key. The shop was locked. I was here earlier and made sure everything was shut down.”

Okay, so he had a legitimate reason to be concerned. If it were my shop, I’d be the same way. I pulled my arm away and nodded. “Okay,” I said, opening my door.

That caused him to pause.

“You are not coming in with me.”

“I am so.”

“I told your brother I’d take you home, and I can’t have you getting hurt or anything on my watch.”

I glared at him. “I’m a big girl, Jeff. I can take care of myself.”

I expected him to come back with some nasty retort, but instead he chuckled. “You’re right about that. Just stay behind me, okay?”

We got out of the car and walked slowly up to the corner of Goodfellas. An alley between Goodfellas and Murder Ink stretched back to another alley where Jeff usually parked his car and smoked with the Mexicans who cooked at the Chinese take-out place on the other side of his business.

“I’m going down here,” he whispered, “in the back way. Hopefully, I can catch them by surprise. But you stay here, in case someone comes out this way. Can you whistle?”

I cocked my head at him and rolled my eyes. “I pucker up and blow, right?” I asked, making my voice all husky and Lauren Bacall-like.

He caught himself before he chuckled. “Nice to know you’re a Bogie fan,” he said, then went down the alley, around to the right, and out of sight.

I leaned against the side of the stucco building that was Goodfellas Bail Bonds. I’d never seen anyone go in or out in all the time I’d known Jeff, but then again, their clientele might keep odd hours. Much like a tattoo shop.

I was concentrating so hard on watching the shop that when my cell phone rang again, I nearly jumped. I leaned down and felt around in my bag for my phone, finally finding it and flipping it open.

“Where’s my Godiva?” Bitsy asked without saying hello, her tone definitely frosty. “Where did you get off to?”

I kept my eye on Murder Ink’s door as I gave it all to her in a nutshell. I wondered what was taking Jeff Coleman so long. Was he inside with Parker and whoever had let Parker in or was he waiting for the right moment to go in the back way?

“You could’ve called earlier,” Bitsy chided, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I truly was. I didn’t need Sister Mary Eucharista on my shoulder to remind me that I was shirking my duties.

“When will you be back?”

Still nothing at Murder Ink.

“I’m not-” I started to say when the tattoo shop’s door suddenly flew open and Will Parker came scrambling out with Jeff Coleman on his heels. “Gotta go-call you right back,” I said, uncertain whether I could keep that promise.

Will Parker was coming toward me, and I stuck my foot out in the sidewalk.

He tumbled over it, did a somersault, and somehow landed back on his feet, like some sort of Cirque du Soleil acrobat. Come to think of it, maybe he had been with Cirque at one point. He was a performer, after all, and you couldn’t throw a cat in Vegas without hitting one of those Cirque shows.

The image of him wearing tights for that Renaissance show had bothered me; a leotard would’ve been much