Driven to Ink (16 page)

“The new ink. ‘That’s Amore.’ ”

Her eyes flickered a second, as though she was trying to think of what to say. Then, “I got it in Sedona. Bernie wasn’t happy, but I said I wanted a souvenir of our wedding.”

I thought a second before saying, “Ray got one, too. It said the same thing. Came to my shop for it. Joel did it. And then his clip cord went missing.”

Sylvia didn’t say anything right away, as if she was taking all this in and deciding what it meant. Finally, she said, “I didn’t know Ray was getting a tattoo. And do you think he took the clip cord?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “He told us his name was Dan Franklin. When he came to the shop. And we found out that Dan Franklin works with him at the chapel. Did you ever meet him?”

“My dear, I meet a lot of people, but at my age, I’m lucky if I remember one of them. So no, I don’t know this Franklin fellow. And I don’t know why Ray would impersonate him.”

I opened my mouth to ask another question when my cell phone rang deep in my bag. I took my hand out from under Sylvia’s and swung my bag around, digging until I found it.

I glanced at the number on the display, flipped the phone open, and said, “Hey, Jeff. Guess who I’m sitting with.”

“I don’t have time for games, Kavanaugh.”

“You’ll have time for this, Jeff. I’m with your mother.”

Silence, then, “How?”

I told him how I’d seen her on my way to Noodles and we were hanging out near the Blue Man Group Theatre.

“Can I talk to her?”

I handed Sylvia the phone, and she got up and walked several feet away for more privacy. I studied the plants in the planter behind the benches. I thought about Sylvia and how she found her son after all those years and wondered how she’d tell Jeff. Because he was going to find out, and it would be best to tell him before the police did. While Tim was sensitive about the issue, I was willing to bet Flanigan wouldn’t be.

My thoughts wandered back to Sylvia’s new ink. It seemed too much of a coincidence that she and Ray Lucci got the exact same tattoo, albeit in different places, at the same time. She’d hesitated before telling me where she got hers. Was she lying?

I thought about how new the ink was. How it still had that pinkish hue. It had a sort of wet look, too, which meant she could be using Tattoo Goo, a product I gave my clients to keep the area lubricated right after giving them the tattoo.

Ray Lucci had gotten his tattoo the morning of Sylvia and Bernie’s wedding. It was possible he’d told Sylvia about it. Maybe that was how she got the idea for it, and it would mean something even more special than just her wedding day. It was the same tattoo her long-lost son had.

Even though Sylvia was covered in body art, she’d once given me the grand tour and told me the stories of each tattoo. Each had meaning to her. It was a long, but very interesting, afternoon.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked down to see Sylvia handing me the phone. I stuck it in my bag. “Everything okay?” I asked.

“He’s meeting us in the casino,” she said. “He’s going to take us to Rosalie’s. I hope she’s got supper.”

My antennae went up. “Rosalie’s?” I thought about how I’d left her only a little while ago at the university lab. Jeff must’ve been mistaken. “You need to talk to the police, let them know you’re all right. You might remember, too, if you saw anything that could help in the investigation.”

She threw up her hands, the cheetah-print bag swinging violently back and forth. “If you want to argue with Jeff, be my guest.”

I didn’t really, but I didn’t think I had a choice. He had to realize that going to the police would be the right thing.

Sylvia tucked her hand in the crook of my arm again, and we started walking back toward the casino.

“Are you sure you didn’t see anything that day? Something unusual?” I pressed.

Sylvia gave me a sad smile. “I saw my son. And two other Dean Martins. They were pretty good, although sober as a preacher. It wasn’t exactly realistic. I asked them if they wanted to go get a martini or something, on me.”

I chuckled.

“Lou was one of them—you know, Bernie’s son-in-law.” She
tsk-tsk
ed. “I don’t know what Rosalie is doing with that man. He treats her like dirt. No woman should let a man treat her that way.”

“I heard someone mugged Lou,” I said.

Sylvia made a face. “Serves him right. Flashing his money clip all the time, his big gold rings and chains around his neck. He’s such a guido.”

She didn’t have any problems being politically incorrect.

“I guess the mugger cut him with a knife.”

“I bet he cut himself just to tell that story,” she said.

I frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he always needs to be the center of attention.”

“You don’t like him.”

“No.”

We paused on the edge of the casino, the sounds echoing in my head: the slapping of the cards on the table, the clink of ice in glasses, the soft music that replaced the clatter of coins as they fell from the slot machines. Everything was automated now. Tickets took the place of quarters and nickels and dimes. I missed the little buckets whose weight indicated how lucky I’d been. Or how unlucky. It was too quiet in here.

But even with the changes, a casino is a casino: the black orbs in the ceiling, where the cameras watched our every move; the bright carpet patterns that made you look up at the tables, which enticed with their promise of luck; the dealers flipping the cards or turning the wheel or pushing chips across the tables.

Sylvia stood on tiptoe, and her head swiveled from side to side like a bird as she surveyed the room. I had a better view and said, “Over here.”

Bernie sat at one of the blackjack tables. He had a pile of chips in front of him and wasn’t ready to leave.

“In a minute, in a minute,” he said without taking his eyes off the table.

Bernie Applebaum was bald, with wisps of white hair around his ears and on the back of his head. He was a little stocky, a little hunchbacked. But he had a quick, warm smile, and the wrinkles around his brown eyes accentuated his kindness. He’d owned a deli in northern New Jersey, not too far from where I grew up, but I didn’t think I’d ever had one of what he called his “famous” pastrami-and-Swiss-on-rye sandwiches. Rosalie finally talked him into selling the business and moving out here with her after he’d had a heart attack a few years back. If I had to guess, I’d say Bernie was older than Sylvia, probably around eighty. He was in good shape now, swimming every day, which was how they met.

We watched Bernie play a few hands. I was still trying to figure out how to persuade them to talk to Flanigan about Ray Lucci, but when I started to make my case again, Bernie waved his hand in dismissal and Sylvia shushed me.

I felt a light touch on my shoulder and turned to see Jeff Coleman. His other hand was on his mother’s shoulder.

“How are my girls doing?” he drawled, his grin wide as he leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek.

She turned her face up to meet his, but I slid out from under his hand. I didn’t want him to think I’d welcome a kiss, too. Our relationship had moved forward, but not that much.

He gave me a wink, and I told myself it wasn’t because he was reading my mind but because he was happy to see his mother.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

Bernie shook his head. “In a minute.”

I tugged on Jeff’s sleeve and pulled him away from the table, out of earshot.

“Your mother says you’re taking them to Rosalie’s? What’s up with that? They need to talk to Detective Flanigan. With a little prodding, maybe they’ll remember something that could help solve Ray Lucci’s murder. And I thought Rosalie was at work, anyway.” I wasn’t in the mood to tell him about my little visit to the university yet.

Jeff sighed and ran a hand across his salt-and-pepper buzz cut. “I get it, Kavanaugh. You want me to do the right thing. But I am doing the right thing. Trust me.”

“I don’t see how it’s the right thing,” I argued.

Jeff hesitated a second, looking toward his mother and then back to me.

“I’m taking them to Rosalie. Not her place. She’s at the hospital. Her husband got clipped by a car. Not sure if he’s going to pull through.”

I
could barely concentrate on work. I felt the machine in my hand as I tattooed a young man’s calf with the image of his pet dog, but I was on autopilot. The dog was one of those little ones, the ones that look like hairless rats, which didn’t help my state of mind because I kept thinking about Dan Franklin and that dead rat in my car and Lou Marino getting hit by a car and being almost run over myself in the parking lot at the university.

I wondered whether he’d gotten hit while Bitsy and I were over there talking to Rosalie.

There had to be a connection with what was going on with the That’s Amore Dean Martins, and as soon as I got home, I’d talk to Tim about it. For about a nanosecond I considered calling Flanigan, but then it would’ve been all official and everything, and I might’ve not been able to get that good night’s sleep I was hoping for.

It had been a long day.

But before I went home, I wanted to stop by the hospital to check on Lou Marino and see how Rosalie was holding up.

Granted, considering her black eye, I supposed I shouldn’t be concerned about her husband, but it was the right thing to do. Sister Mary Eucharista was urging me on.

And sure, I could’ve called Jeff Coleman instead, but when I tried, his phone just rang and rang.

Bitsy was wiping down Joel’s room. Joel had left half an hour ago; his last client hadn’t taken as long as mine. Ace was long gone.

“Are you almost done?” I asked.

Bitsy looked up. She was standing on her stool, the one she dragged around with her to reach those places she couldn’t, as she cleaned up Joel’s ink pots.

“Just your room left,” she said.

“I already did it,” I said, and a grateful smile crossed her face. She’d had as long a day as I’d had, and I wanted to give her a break.

I surveyed how much she had left to do in here and silently joined her, putting the needle bar in the autoclave, wiping down Joel’s client chair, collecting the trash and putting a new liner in the can. The room was, as Mary Pop-pins would say,
spit spot
in no time.

We got our stuff from the staff room and went out front, where I locked the glass front doors, then pulled the gate down and locked that, too. The rest of the mall shops were locking up, as well. Time to turn into a pumpkin.

I left Bitsy at her MINI Cooper, which she’d had outfitted to accommodate her size. I wished I could fit into one of those comfortably, but it was a lost cause.

We said our good-byes. I could see the weariness in the lines around her eyes. Mine probably looked the same, and I wondered whether I shouldn’t head straight home, but once I got into the Jeep and pulled out onto the Strip, the lights flashing across the windshield, I got a second wind.

Jeff had said Lou Marino had been taken to University Medical Center, so I pointed the Jeep in that direction.

I told myself I wasn’t going over there hoping for a glimpse of Colin Bixby.

He worked in the emergency room there, when he wasn’t teaching classes at the university.

He probably wasn’t working tonight anyway.

The parking garage was all lit up like a Christmas tree. I found a space and parked, heading down to the hospital entrance, where I pushed my way in through the heavy doors and stepped up to the information desk.

An older woman with bright white hair and too much makeup scowled at me. “May I help you?” She so obviously did not want to help me.

“I understand a friend”—okay, he wasn’t my friend, but his wife was a client and his in-laws were friends—“was brought in here earlier. Lou Marino. He got hit by a car.”

Her fingers were already moving on her computer keyboard. After a second, she looked up at me. “Are you family?”

I was too tired to lie. “A friend of the family. I really want to say hello to them. See how they’re doing. See if they need anything.”

“I can’t let anyone up who’s not family,” she said curtly, turning back to her computer.

I stood there, shifting from one foot to the next. I didn’t want to leave yet, and it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that I would still have to pay five dollars for an hour of parking even if I was here only ten minutes.

Well, maybe that did have something to do with it.

“Is there any way I can get word to them?” I persisted.

The woman rolled her eyes at me. She didn’t even pretend to hide it.

“You’re not family,” she said flatly.

I tried the only other thing I could think of. “Dr. Colin Bixby, is he on shift tonight?” I kicked myself for even asking, but he might be able to actually tell me something if he was here.

She rolled her eyes again. I pretended not to notice.

After a minute, she picked up the phone and spoke so softly I couldn’t hear what she was saying. I didn’t want to know what she was saying. Finally, she put her hand over the receiver and asked brusquely, “Name?”

“Brett Kavanaugh.”

She went back to her phone, then hung it up and pointed behind me. “He’ll meet you outside the emergency room.”

Which was all the way around the building. I trudged along the sidewalk and finally saw the bright lights streaming out onto the pavement. Colin Bixby stepped out from behind a shadow.

“Twice in one day? And you’re now harassing the staff?”

I couldn’t tell whether he was teasing me.

“I could file a restraining order against you, you know.” I saw the smile then, the one he tried not to show.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I said. “I didn’t know what else to do.” I told him about trying to see how Lou Marino was doing and wanting to see Rosalie.