Driven to Ink

“How do you know him?” I wasn’t totally sure I wanted to know. Lucci was an ex-con, and it was possible they’d met in prison.

“We work together.”

A lightbulb went off. “At That’s Amore wedding chapel?” I asked.

“That’s right. We’re both Dean Martin impersonators.”

“Really?” They probably did look alike, then.

“There are five of us. We sing ‘That’s Amore’ at the end of each ceremony.”

I could picture it, and it sounded ridiculous but sort of cool at the same time.

“How long have you worked there?”

“A year.”

“How about Ray Lucci?”

“About three months.”

“So did you know Lucci had been in prison?”

“Six years. He stole cars. Liked the flashy ones. Not sure he was done with that, either. He told me he had his eye on a red Mustang Bullitt convertible.”

I stopped breathing for a second. He’d described my car. The one Lucci was found dead in. Had Lucci been planning on stealing my car when he ended up strangled and dead inside the trunk? Had he first seen it at That’s Amore, or had he been tracking me? Was it maybe not a coincidence that it was my trunk he ended up in?

“You know,” I said, struggling to get back to Dan Franklin, “the police may want to talk to you.”

“The police?” His voice went up an octave.

“Well, Lucci was found strangled, so I’m sure anything you can tell them could help figure out what happened.”

“I’m not sure about that,” he said slowly, making me wonder whether he didn’t have something to hide.

“Can I give them your number?” I asked. “It might be really helpful.”

He sighed in resignation. “Well, maybe. Sure, I guess so.” He probably figured that I already knew where he worked, so the cops could find him anyway.

“I really appreciate this,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Okay, sure,” he said and hung up.

I put the phone back in its cradle and stared out at the canal. A gondola was sailing past, the gondolier smoothly pushing it along the water, a couple of tourists smiling at each other as they fed into the illusion. I heard the faint strains of a harpsichord and knew the dancing was about to start in St. Mark’s Square, the men dressed in hose and ornate coats, the women in corsets and long, flouncy gowns. I spotted a mime scurrying past on the other side of the canal, not bothering to stop for the camera flashes. His shift must be up.

Joel and Bitsy and Flanigan were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had invited Flanigan for a margarita.

I could so use one myself right now.

I pondered what Dan Franklin had told me, wondered about his reaction to the police contacting him, his obvious dislike of Lucci.

And then there was my car. Maybe I shouldn’t drive such a flashy car, but Bullitt was one of my favorite movies and I had a crush on Steve McQueen. When I’d first seen the red Mustang, I fell in love with it and the idea that I was living my own movie.

I’d driven all the way out here from New Jersey in that car, leaving my parents’ house for only the second time in my thirty years. The first time I’d gone to Philadelphia, to the University of the Arts. I moved back in with my parents afterward, wondering what I’d do with my life. That was when I hooked up with Mickey at the Ink Spot and began my tattooing career.

My mother still had issues with my choice. My father, a former Jersey cop, not so much. He encouraged me to be creative in any way I could. If I couldn’t set up an easel along the Seine in Paris, then I’d tattoo body parts in northern New Jersey.

Owning my own shop had been only a dream, but when Tim called me to tell me about his friend Flip Armstrong, who wanted to sell his business in Vegas, I jumped at the chance.

I’d gotten a little stagnant with Mickey, not that we weren’t having fun, but I was ready to move on. Both from the Ink Spot and from my fiance, Paul, who felt that, as his new wife, I shouldn’t have a career, but only support his. So wasn’t going to happen.

Tim’s girlfriend, Shawna, had moved out, too, and he needed a roommate to help pay his mortgage. It was win-win all around.

Joel’s big frame came around the corner, interrupting my thoughts. Bitsy after him, and Flanigan at the rear.

Showtime.

I met them at the door, opening it as they all came in the shop.

Flanigan gave me a nod, Bitsy rolled her eyes, and Joel looked as if he was about to cry.

This should be fun. Not.

“Do you have a place where I can speak with Mr. Sloane alone?” Flanigan asked.

Joel’s eyes grew wide, and I gave him a pat on the arm to try to reassure him.

“You can use the office,” I said. “It’s in the back there.”

Flanigan allowed Joel to lead the way, and Bitsy and I stared after them until we heard the door shut. I turned to her.

“What has he said?”

She shook her head. “Not much. Just that he wants to talk to Joel about the clip cord and this Dan Franklin guy.”

“I just got off the phone with the real Dan Franklin,” I said softly, not wanting Flanigan to hear. I told her about the conversation.

“You need to tell him,” she said, tossing her head toward the back of the shop. “You know, maybe Dan Franklin really killed that guy and is trying to throw you off the trail by pretending to cooperate.”

The thought had crossed my mind.

“Should I interrupt?”

Bitsy shrugged. “Depends how important you think it is.”

I thought about my car again. It was pretty important.

I went to the back of the shop and tapped on the office door.

Flanigan opened it as if he owned the place. Did not endear me to him.

“Yes?” he asked, his tone frosty.

“I talked to Dan Franklin,” I said, launching into the phone conversation before Flanigan could stop me.

When I was done, he scratched his chin and frowned. “Thank you for this information. I appreciate you sharing it with me.” He said it as though he didn’t think I’d share anything. I hoped Willis wasn’t dissing me behind my back.

I started to close the door, but Flanigan moved toward me, holding up a finger to Joel to indicate he’d be but a second. A few steps outside the office, Flanigan stopped.

“Miss Kavanaugh, I understand you’re friends with Jeff Coleman, Sylvia Coleman’s son?”

I nodded, unsure where this was going.

“I spoke with Mr. Coleman earlier, and he wasn’t forthcoming with any information about his mother and her new husband. I did, however, speak to Mr. Applebaum’s daughter, who is very concerned, as she should be. She was very helpful in giving us the make and model and license plate number of the car her father was driving.”

He paused for a second, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what he was going to say.

“We found Mr. Applebaum’s car. Outside the Grand Canyon entrance. It was abandoned.”

Chapter 9

It took a few minutes to sink in. Sylvia and Bernie’s car? Abandoned? That wasn’t good. I