Driven to Ink (12 page)

“Were you working that day?” I asked.

“Yeah, it was me and Lou and Ray.”

“But not Dan Franklin?”

He seemed a little taken aback by my question.

“Do you know Dan?”

“I talked to him yesterday,” I said, not lying. “So he wasn’t working that day? He wasn’t there at all?”

“I saw him come in, but he wasn’t on shift. At least not when I was. This isn’t his full-time job; it’s something he does to make extra money. Tony lets him make his own schedule.” He paused. “Why are you asking about Dan?”

I shrugged. “Just making conversation. So you saw the Mustang Bullitt, too.”

The change of subject threw him a second; then he said, “Nice ride.” His face clouded over. “That’s one of the other things that’s not right.” He ran a hand through those golden locks of his. The grin was AWOL now.

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, what he said was so unexpected I couldn’t catch my breath. “That very same car tried to run me down two days ago, about four o’clock, over on Charleston.”

W
ill Parker said he was sure it was the same car, but he hadn’t gotten the license plate number, which was why the cops hadn’t tracked it down.

Until yesterday.

When Ray Lucci’s body was found in it.

This could explain Flanigan’s song and dance in the parking garage last night. He must have been alerted to Will Parker’s report about the red Mustang convertible. So Flanigan showed up here to check out where it had been parked, to see whether there were any clues that it had been stolen. I guess someone could have taken it. I was in the shop, didn’t leave until midnight. That meant there were nine hours during which my car was unattended.

I hadn’t noticed anything unusual, though, when I’d gotten into it that night. There were no telltale signs that the car had been hot-wired. The seat was where I’d always left it; I hadn’t had to adjust the rearview mirror.

This was why Flanigan asked me whether anyone else had a key.

Of course Sylvia and Bernie had borrowed mine. Did someone make a copy?

But that begged the question: If someone stole it, why bring it back? Maybe to make it look as though it was never gone in the first place.

Will Parker was looking at me funny. I’d been quiet too long. I didn’t want to tell him it was my car. Somehow I had a feeling that might not go over too well. And we were just starting to get to know each other. If it went any further and he ever saw my car, I’d deal with it then. Now was not the time.

“You didn’t see who was driving?” I asked.

“You sound like the cops,” he said.

“My brother’s a detective,” I explained. “I think it’s in the DNA.”

“Really? He’s a cop?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, but he never takes anything I say seriously. So what happened with the car?”

“I didn’t see who was driving,” he admitted. “I was coming from work, and I’d stopped at a Terrible’s for gas. For some reason my card wouldn’t work in the pump, so I had to go inside. When I was walking back, the car came out of nowhere and plowed past me. I jumped onto the hood of my car to get out of the way. The Mustang just kept going. It was like watching something in a movie.”

“You don’t think that the guy driving just didn’t see you?” I had to play devil’s advocate.

“The car was gunning for me. I swear it. It barely missed me.”

“Why would someone try to run you down?”

He knew what I was going for. “It’s not me, I don’t think,” he said softly. “I think it’s all of us over at That’s Amore. First Ray, then me, then Lou.”

“What? Lou? What happened with him?”

“He got mugged. Guy pulled a knife on him as he was leaving work. In the parking lot. Cut his arm, but before the guy could do anything else, some kids on skateboards came by and scared the guy off. Lou’s afraid to go anywhere now.”

Was someone trying to kill all the Dean Martin impersonators? And why?

My brain was moving faster than a rat in a maze. Flanigan must have decided I hadn’t been driving my car when it jumped that curb at Terrible’s; otherwise he would’ve taken me in yesterday. I wondered whether he didn’t already have a suspect who actually had a motive to knock off these Dean Martins.

Like maybe Dan Franklin.

“What about Dan Franklin? Do you think something happened to him, too?” I asked. “DellaRocco said he hadn’t seen him in two days.”

“He was in yesterday, but he took off pretty fast after he made a phone call, even before he could start his shift. Didn’t even change out of his costume. You think maybe Dan had something to do with Ray, me, and Lou?” Will asked.

A phone call? Had he taken off after talking to me yesterday?

“I heard he didn’t get along with Ray, but what about you and Lou?” I asked.

He thought a second, then said, “No, we got along fine. I don’t really know about Lou and him, though. I’m not sure they work together all that much because of Dan’s schedule. Dan mostly works nights and weekends. Lou, mostly days and never weekends. He’s been there the longest. You watch a lot of cop shows on TV?” he asked. “Because you really sound like a cop.”

“Maybe I watch a little too much TV,” I admitted, “but like I said, my brother is a detective. My dad was one, too, before he retired to Florida.” I gave him a small smile back. “I’m worried about you and the other Dean Martins. What did you do? Sing the wrong song or sing off key or something?”

Will shook his head. “I don’t know. But ever since Ray came to work there, things have gotten weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Ray brings out the worst in people. He and Lou have been on each other from the first day he started. Dan’s gotten really quiet. It used to be really fun working there, but now . . .” His voice trailed off as he remembered the good old days.

Something flashed into my brain.

“There’s a fifth impersonator, isn’t there? Alan something? I saw his name on the locker in your dressing room.”

His face changed, so slightly that if I wasn’t looking carefully to see his reaction, I would have missed it.

After a second, he said, “Alan quit two weeks ago.”

“Why? Did someone try to kill him, too?”

“No. At least not that I know of. He went over to that Elvis chapel across the street. Decided Elvis was more interesting than Dino. The boss won’t even let us talk about him. DellaRocco and Sanderson, the guy over at the Elvis place, hate each other. They’ve been stealing each other’s performers for years, hoping to put the other one out of business. Sanderson approached me a month ago, but DellaRocco gave me more money, so I stayed on. Guess Sanderson caught on and gave Alan an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

And possibly saved his life, I added to myself.

“So what about you?” I asked. “Do you know of any reason why anyone would try to kill you?”

The instant I asked, I regretted it. It implied that he’d done something to cause someone to try to run him down with my car. But he didn’t seem to pick up on that because he thought for a second, then said, “I don’t think so. I’ve stayed out of Ray’s way, and I get along okay with the other guys.”

As he spoke, his expression changed, as if remembering something. He frowned, then said, “Wait. I did have a problem with Dan about three weeks ago.”

I waited.

“It was about that stupid rat he’s got. He kept it in the dressing room. Creeped me out. I told him he had to get it out of there.”

Rat?

“He got all pissy with me, said it wouldn’t hurt a flea. But it was a
rat
.”

My heart was pounding so loud, I could swear he had to have heard it.

“So did he get rid of it?” I prodded.

Will snorted. “Yeah, Tony agreed with me. Said he had to bring it home. And then last week Dan came in all sad and stuff, said I should be happy. The rat had died.”

W
hile I could see motive in trying to run down Will Parker—don’t quite understand why some people think animals are worth more than humans—it was still unclear as to why Dan Franklin would kill Ray Lucci. And then there was Lou Marino’s mugging.

Will had to leave for his interview, but he scheduled an appointment with Bitsy for a tattoo touch-up, and he even hinted that maybe he’d want more ink, too. I’d probably have to make sure to get the work done before he found out it was possibly my car that was used to run him down.

“Why don’t we call Dan Franklin again?” Bitsy asked when I told her everything Will Parker had said. She was already tapping on the computer keyboard, pulling up Dan Franklin’s information, the information Ray Lucci left for us.

“He’s missing, remember?”

“But maybe this is a cell phone number. Maybe he’s missing on purpose.”

“Okay, so say I do call him,” I said. “What am I going to ask him?
Why haven’t you gone to the chapel in two days? Why is your wallet in your locker there?
Right. Like he’s going to answer.” I thought about that ten thousand dollars. Another thing Bitsy didn’t need to know about.

Bitsy handed me the phone. “You’ll think of something,” she said.

But as it turned out, I didn’t have to think of anything at all.

The recording told me that the number was no longer in service. A number that had been perfectly fine yesterday.

Something was definitely up with Dan Franklin, and I didn’t know whether he was a good guy or a bad guy.

Even though my head was swirling, I couldn’t spend too much time pondering the situation. My next client came in as I hung up the phone.

As I picked up my tattoo machine and it hovered over Rachel Kristina Jones’s lower back, the clip cord got in the way a little, and I had to shift around slightly. I’d never looked at a cord as a murder weapon before, but now I could imagine it as one.

“Anything wrong?” Rachel’s voice was muffled because her face was in the crook of her elbow as she lay on her stomach.

“No,” I said, taking a deep breath and pushing away the thoughts. I dipped the needle into the ink and pressed on the foot pedal, the machine vibrating slightly in a familiar way against my hand.

Rachel was an English major at UNLV, and she was into quotations. So far I’d inked “Frailty, thy name is woman!” from
Hamlet
along her forearm and “We live as we dream—alone” from
Heart of Darkness
across her chest, just above her breasts. Today’s quote was from
Crime and Punishment
: “To go wrong in one’s own way is better than to go right in someone else’s.”

I vaguely remembered reading all three in school, but I spent my days with artists, not writers.

“So how’s school going?” I asked casually as I worked, adjusting the light so I could see better.

“Pretty good,” she said.

“I’ve never been over to the campus,” I said. “But I know a guy who works with lab animals. Would you know where that might be?”

Smooth, Kavanaugh, smooth.

Now I was talking to myself like Jeff Coleman.

Rachel lifted her head a little. “That’s probably over where all the science buildings are. I’m not really sure exactly where, but you can access that part of campus over by Flamingo Road.”

Good to know.

I mentally slapped myself. What was I thinking? Was I really considering going over there to check up on Dan Franklin?

I paused a second, lifting the needle off Rachel’s back.

Yes, I was considering it.

Tim would kill me.

“Is something wrong?” Rachel asked again.

“No.” I went back to work.

If my next client hadn’t canceled, I don’t think I would’ve found myself driving toward the university campus. And if Bitsy hadn’t pressured me into telling her where I was going, she wouldn’t have come with me.

But here we were, Bitsy and I, off to look for Dan Franklin, or at least see if anyone might know where he was.

“I should call Tim,” I said for the umpteenth time.

“He’s not even on the case,” Bitsy said.

“Why are you encouraging this?” I asked, shifting the Jeep into fourth, even though it really didn’t want to. Tim needed to get this Jeep serviced soon, or it would rebel on him and stay in first gear forever.

“I’m curious,” she said. “And it’s not as though you haven’t already told that detective about Dan Franklin. You did tell him about the phone conversation. But it doesn’t hurt to double-check things. Things they might have missed.”

“The police wouldn’t miss anything,” I said, although I thought about Dan Franklin’s empty house. Had the police been over there? Did the cruiser that showed up on our heels earlier check out the mail piling up in the mailbox, the newspapers on the doorstep?

“They miss a lot,” she was saying. “You’ve heard stories about people being locked up in prison for years, and then the police discover they’re innocent and have to let them go. What about that girl who was kidnapped and worked in public and no one ever figured it out, even though the cops knew the guy was a sex offender? Eighteen years and two kids later they finally figure it out? Give me a break. And then there are all those crimes that are never solved.”

She had a point.

“Unless you want to talk yourself out of this,” Bitsy said.

We were halfway there already. Might as well do it and satisfy my curiosity. I could tell Tim about it later.

Bitsy had Googled the Laboratory Animal Care Services department and discovered it was in the life sciences building, surrounded by chemistry and physics buildings. These were all subjects I had no talent for. The sisters had tried to teach me chemistry, but after I set a trash can on fire by accident, we all agreed that my future would not include medical school.

I turned off Flamingo Road and took an access road into a large parking lot. Bitsy held up the map that she’d downloaded, then looked up at the buildings in front of her.