The Missing Ink

Chapter 3

Tim waited until after he got off the phone with his people at the police department before interrogating me. “You didn’t think to call?”

I knew Tim would be upset. We were standing in the kitchen; I still had my messenger bag over my shoulder, but Tim had been home for a while and was wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt touting the Mets.

“I got busy. I spent four hours on this Jesus tat. There wasn’t time to call. I figured I’d tell you when I got home.”

It was a lame excuse. I’d had twenty minutes before the kid showed, and I spent the time gossiping about Kelly Masters with everyone in the shop.

“I didn’t know why the cops were looking for her,” I said when he didn’t say anything. The TV reporter hadn’t said much either, except that anyone who’d seen her should call the police. “That cop didn’t tell me anything. Just wanted to know if I recognized her. I’m not clairvoyant.”

I was babbling over my guilt. I knew something was amiss the minute he showed me the picture. It didn’t matter how much I tried to talk myself out of it, with Bitsy or with Tim. Kelly, or Elise, was in trouble, and Bitsy and I had seen her. But being a tattooist is sort of like being a psychiatrist. Some people come to us discreetly, and they expect discretion in return. I had to tread that line carefully.

Tim reached into the fridge, grabbed the milk, and poured himself a glass. He was drawing this out.

“So what’s her story?” I tried to sound nonchalant, shrugging the bag over my head and slinging it on one of the chairs at the table.

“Nothing you need to worry about, as long as you’re telling me everything.” He took a long drink, leaving a milk mustache. He didn’t wipe it away.

“I am.”

“We’ll need to talk to Bitsy, too.”

“Of course.” Bitsy was already anticipating that. She’d come up with more possibilities as we locked up the shop: rape, domestic violence, maybe Kelly was a terrorist. A little extreme, but I had to admit it might not be out of the realm of possibility. Especially since Tim was being just as closemouthed about it as Willis had been. I thought I’d have been a shoo-in to find out the whole story once I got home. Should’ve known better.

Tim and I had been living together for two years now. He’d left our childhood home in northern New Jersey and moved to Vegas ten years ago, getting a job as a blackjack dealer. A year of that was enough, and he ended up at the police academy, training to be a cop like our father. It’s in the DNA.

He bought the house in Henderson three years ago, when he and his ex-girlfriend, Shawna, had toyed with the idea of getting married. Well, he’d been toying with the idea, but she was dead serious. After a year, when she finally realized there was no diamond in her future, she moved out and he was stuck with the mortgage, so he got on the phone, trying to convince me that living in the desert would be heaven compared to scraping ice off my windshield in Jersey.

No kidding.

He also had a friend, Flip, who was selling his business. I had some money saved up, and Mickey said it was time for me to move on. I’d worked at the Ink Spot for eight years, starting as a trainee right out of college. Mickey taught me everything he could, and I was getting too comfortable. I needed a challenge. Buying Flip’s shop seemed like a plan.

So here I was, a woman who owned her own business, and I was about to start whining like a kid on the playground because my brother wouldn’t share information with me.

Contradictions are what make people interesting.

“Can’t you give me a little hint? Did she do something? Is she hiding? Is she like that crazy runaway bride?” The moment I said it, I wondered if that was it. She’d been wearing that huge rock, she wanted devotion ink, but she never came back. Trouble in paradise.

From the flush that crawled up Tim’s neck, I knew I was right. He could be as stoic as the next cop among his own and with real criminals, but with his sister, he caved every time.

I grinned. “That’s it, isn’t it? She was supposed to get married, but she took off. Couldn’t handle it or something, right?”

Tim put his glass in the sink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which he then wiped on his sweats. “You can think what you like,” he said. “I’m going to bed. I have to get up early.” He brushed past me, his eyes on the floor.

He paused before turning toward his room. “Oh, Willis asked a lot of questions about you.”

Willis? “That cop?” I asked. “You’re kidding, right?”

Tim chuckled. “He couldn’t understand why you would do what you do.”

“Did you enlighten him?”

“Not my place.”

I thought a second. “I never mentioned that you were my brother.”

“Brett, you’re almost as tall as I am, you’ve got red hair like me, and our faces look almost exactly the same except I shave and you don’t have my freckles. When he heard your last name, he put it together. Good night.” He disappeared into his bedroom.

Willis wasn’t the first to express curiosity about my career choice. My mother still grabbed for the smelling salts when someone put the word “tattoo” in front of “artist” to describe me.

Granted, I’d started out as a painter, but I liked to eat, earn money. Tattoos were profitable. Profitable enough to buy a business.

People should just mind their own business.

I rummaged through the fridge and found some leftover fried rice and a small bottle of Pellegrino. Taking them over to the long brown leather couch in the living room, I picked up the remote and turned on the fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV that hung on the far wall-Tim had done some serious electronics shopping after Shawna left; besides the TV, a surround-sound audio system had been wired throughout the house. I dropped a few grains of rice on the leather and wiped them up with my finger before starting to channel surf.

I couldn’t decide what I wanted to watch, so I ended up on CNN. The volume was low, so I wouldn’t bother Tim, and Lou Dobbs was going on about illegal immigration for the umpteenth time. It was white noise while I ate.

I was about to bring my empty dish to the sink when the top news stories of the day flashed on the screen.

One of them caught my eye.

Missing woman traced to Las Vegas.

I put my plate back on the coffee table and turned the sound up as the two anchors began their reports. I had to wait until after a story about a tornado somewhere in Arkansas and another about the housing crisis.

Finally: “A woman reported missing three days ago by her fiance was spotted in a Las Vegas casino. Elise Lyon of Philadelphia had an airline ticket to Los Angeles on Tuesday, but she never boarded the plane. Her car was found in long-term parking at Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C.”

Somehow she’d gotten to Las Vegas, and if she flew any sort of commercial airline it was likely she used the same name she’d given me-Kelly Masters-rather than her own; otherwise they would’ve tracked her down by now.

It was hard these days to get through airport security, however. They checked photo IDs against boarding passes. I wondered about fake IDs. With technology available today to anyone, it wouldn’t be hard to produce something passable.

Or maybe she chartered a flight. Or took the train. Or a bus. Scratch that. The chartered flight, maybe, but totally not a bus. She didn’t have that look about her.

Tim’s call to the department about her name obviously wasn’t on the media’s radar yet.

“The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow in Philadelphia at her parents’ estate, but it looks as if the bride will leave the groom at the altar.”

That was harsh. I felt for Matthew-I could only be on a first-name basis with him, because that was all I knew of him.