There were tattoo artists at everystation, and a customer lying or sitting in front of each of them. The wholeroom was awash with the incessant buzzing of the needles, like little insects.Zoe quite liked it. It was disorientating, made the rest of the noises aroundher disappear. She couldn’t count how many there were by sound alone, or evenpinpoint exactly where they were with her eyes closed. It was almost blissful.
Jasper Franks himself was not adisappointment. Six feet tall, white, with dark hair cut into a short style. Hewas easily close to what their one eyewitness had described at the NaomiKarling crime scene. Not only that, but he also met Zoe’s expectations: theright height to get a good angle on each of the victims as he approached themfrom behind, well-muscled enough to be able to drag a body around without aproblem. He could easily be their guy.
The one thing she was having troublewith was not fixating on his tattoos. They covered his body, crawling down hisarms and across his hands, up his neck, down the parts of his legs that werevisible below the board shorts he was wearing. Even his face bore severalmarks, although none of them were gang signs that Zoe recognized. Just his screenname above each of his eyebrows, the word split in two, and a heart beside hisleft ear in miniature.
“I can’t talk right now, ladies. I’mwith a customer.” The first thing that he said to them was dismissive. It wouldhave been rude, except that he did it in a regretful tone. He barely looked upat them. “You can schedule in an appointment with the receptionist. Consultationsare free.”
Zoe hesitated. How was Shelley going toplay this? Were they going to have to go back to the waiting area and sit withthe three people reading trashy magazines or scrolling through their phonesuntil he was done?
Apparently, Shelley had other ideas—andthey involved making as much of a scene as possible.
“Actually, Mr. Franks, we’d like tospeak to you right now,” she said, flipping out her badge. “I’m Special AgentShelley Rose with the FBI, and this is Special Agent Zoe Prime. We have somequestions for you about your membership in the Aryan Brotherhood.”
There was an audible reaction around theroom. A couple of the other tattoo artists stopped working, their needles goingquiet. The conversations ceased.
Shelley hadn’t just said it. She hadannounced it, in a voice that carried across the room. All faces were turningto them, spreading like a virus as each person realized that the others werelooking at something. Franks himself had stopped moving, looking up at themwith the needle gun held in his hand, pointing at them. Almost like a threat.
“You can’t come in here and say that infront of my customers,” he said. His voice was level and flat, but his face hadchanged color. First pale, and now a steadily ripening red. Zoe knew the signs ofanger well enough. This was pure fury.
“Actually, Mr. Franks, I can,” Shelleysaid. “Do you need me to show you the badge again?”
Franks slammed the gun down on a sidetable with a clatter, making the six other tools on the metal surface jumpslightly. “I am not a member of the Aryan Brotherhood. Do your research. TheLAPD file on me should tell you that. I was cleared of any connection.”
“That’s not quite the same thing as nothaving any connection at all, is it, Mr. Franks? It just means you’ve been smartenough so far not to get caught.”
“Get out,” Franks snarled. His handswere resting on his upper thighs, as if he was ready to push off and lunge forthem. “I’m not talking to you about anything. That whole thing was just amisunderstanding, and it got cleared up. I’m innocent.”
“We haven’t even told you what we wantto question you about yet,” Shelley pointed out, her tone deceptively mild. “Howdo you know we think you’re guilty of something?”
“You just accused me of being a fuckingNazi.” Franks got up, his six-foot frame with all of its musculature nowtowering over them. He had only two inches on Zoe, and four on Shelley, but itwas the width of his shoulders and the clear rage on his face that made himseem so much bigger. “I know I’m innocent of that. So get out of this store andstop sabotaging my business before I report you for harassment.”
“I’m afraid we’re not going anywhere,Mr. Franks. I would ask to go somewhere less public, but since you aren’tgiving me that option, I’ll just come out and say it.” Shelley paused foreffect. “We’re here to talk about the murders you committed.”
There were actual gasps across the room,now deathly silent except for their conversation. Franks’s eyes swept the room,taking in his customers and his co-workers, the way each of them was looking athim with concern. If Zoe was in his shoes, she would be wondering if they allbelieved it. If they really thought he was capable. She would have beenappalled at the thought. But then again, she wasn’t really a murderer.
“I haven’t done anything,” Franks said,his voice rising in volume, a shout now. “You can’t accuse me of that! Get thehell out of here!”
“Do I take it, Mr. Franks, that you aredeclining our request for a conversation?” Shelley asked. She was calm, unflappable.Even Zoe felt like taking a step back, out of the range of his powerful arms.The tattooist behind them certainly had. But Shelley looked as though she wasdealing with nothing more than a tantrum-throwing toddler—something that shehad actual experience in.
“You’re goddamn right I’m declining yourrequest!” Franks swept his arm toward the door, another violently sharp motionthat could easily be interpreted as a threat. “Get out!”
Shelley looked at Zoe for a briefmoment, their eyes meeting. Zoe appreciated the drama of the moment—and part ofher wondered if Shelley was enjoying it. After all, she knew she didn’t need toask permission. Zoe had told her to do her worst.
“Jasper Franks,” she said, pulling apair of handcuffs out of her pocket, “I’m
