going to be fine.”
Bitsy held her hand up. “Stop. You know you have to tell us everything from the beginning, but you’ve got a client coming in about two minutes. Is that enough time?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not nearly enough.”
As I spoke, my client came in. I was a little worried I’d be too tired, but turns out there’s a little thing called autopilot. I didn’t want to tell the client that I could do this in my sleep, because I practically was.
Bitsy plied me with more coffee after my client left, and I went over the story piece by piece. She and Joel and Ace, who’d come in while I was with my client, hung on every word and didn’t even interrupt.
I’d gotten pretty much all of it right. When Tim took me home to get a little sleep, he told me Rosalie admitted she and Parker had had an affair; she was protecting Parker by telling me that Lou killed Lucci. Bernie admitted- after the blood type found on the Gremlin matched Lou Marino’s-that he’d contracted to have his daughter’s husband killed, and when it didn’t work out, he took matters into his own hands.
And the thing that Parker thought I found in the locker room? The reason why he’d tried to run me and Bitsy down at the university and then Tim and me in the parking garage? And why he’d shot at Jeff and me?
A love letter from Rosalie.
“Are you sure?” I asked for the umpteenth time.
Jeff sat in my chair, in my room at The Painted Lady. His shirt was off, showcasing his tattoos. My eyes lingered on the Day of the Dead tattoo that he’d designed himself-a skeleton in a big sombrero, playing a guitar-before moving up to the ugly red wound that was still healing near his clavicle.
“I know you think I’m good-looking, Kavanaugh, but let’s get to it,” he quipped. He’d been out of the hospital for two weeks. So far we hadn’t talked about anything that had happened. I tried, but every time I did, he changed the subject. Like now.
“Bitsy says you’re having dinner with that Dr. Sexy tonight.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “That’s not really your business.” I’d had a long conversation with Colin Bixby and asked him why he’d pointed me in the direction of Dan Franklin, who clearly had only an unrequited relationship with Rosalie. But the rumor around the university lab, however, had them having a heated relationship, and Bixby felt Franklin was suspect.
“Bitsy says you have a hard time with commitment,” Jeff was saying. “But I don’t think so.”
I frowned. What would Jeff Coleman know about that? I secretly thought Bitsy was right. I’d had a series of relationships in the last ten years, and none of them had lasted.
“You don’t get it, do you, Kavanaugh?”
“I guess I don’t,” I said, slipping a new needle into my tattoo machine.
He watched me for a second, then said, “Every time you mark your body, you’re making a commitment. A lifelong commitment. One of these days it won’t be just a tattoo.”
What? Was Jeff Coleman becoming profound? Who knew?
But then he ruined it. “Maybe it’ll be Dr. Sexy. Tonight. Should I tell your brother not to wait up?” He winked.
I dipped the needle in black ink. Despite his attempt to distract me, the question remained. “Are you sure?” I asked again, the machine poised.
Jeff pointed to a small space of bare skin just above where his wound was. “Right there. And I’ve never been so sure in my life.”
“You and Sylvia have talked about it?”
“That’s between me and her, Kavanaugh. Don’t worry your little head about it.”
But I did worry about it. This wasn’t just another tattoo.
I sighed and pressed the foot pedal, and the machine began to whir. I touched the needle to his skin.
There was no stencil. I didn’t need one.
It took fifteen minutes.
I wiped the last of the ink and blood away with a soft cloth and took my foot off the pedal. I handed him the small mirror so he could see it.
Jeff took the mirror and gazed at the tattoo.
“You know, Kavanaugh, you could have a good career for yourself if you play your cards right.”
I turned to put the machine on the shelf.
I felt his hand on the back of my neck. “Thanks,” he whispered, all teasing gone now.
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to see that I’d teared up. I nodded as I heard him slide off the chair. I reached over and grabbed a tube of ointment.
He stood, shrugging on his shirt.
“You better put this on first,” I said, indicating the salve.
He grinned and winked. “You do it.”
I rolled my eyes at him, ran my fingers through the ointment, and touched it to the new tattoo, red around the edges, slightly inflamed.
“That’s Amore.”
detective. I had a bad feeling about this.
“You hear about Dee Carmichael?” He didn’t mince words.
“Watching it on TV right now. What happened?”
“That’s what I’d like to ask you.”
I stopped breathing for a second. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve got a witness who says she saw a tall redhead leaving the hotel room about two hours ago.” He paused, and even if my mouth hadn’t felt as though it were filled with sand, I knew he wasn’t done yet. I waited as I curled one of my own red locks around my finger.
“We found some ink pots and tattoo needles in the trash.”
Karen E. Olson
