The Corporal Works of Murder (9 page)

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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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“Stop!” Mary Helen shouted, but Alice kept on walking. Instinctively Mary Helen squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the thud. Instead she heard the screeching of multiple car brakes, the blare of a dozen horns, loud curses, and, above it all, the high-pitched giggle.
When the traffic finally began to flow again, Mary Helen opened her eyes. Crazy Alice was on the opposite side of the street safely strolling along the sidewalk. Unaware of anyone around her, she waved her arms as though she were directing the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra in full practice.
All the commotion had brought several shopkeepers out onto the sidewalk. Mary Helen waved to the mechanic from McCormick's Auto Parts who was talking to the owner of the American Asian Food Mart. Down the street, like an answer to prayer, was the tattooed man from the New You Tattoo Parlor. He stood in front of his shop staring after Crazy Alice.
“How do,” Mary Helen said, approaching him quickly. “I'm Sister Mary Helen from the Refuge. I don't believe we've met.”
The tattoo man, whom she judged to be somewhere in his mid-forties, was a tall man and had a beard that reminded her of Abraham Lincoln on a five-dollar bill. He looked down at her with clear blue eyes, which were neither warm nor friendly.
After coolly appraising her, he said in a deep voice, “I'm Tim.”
Tim, the tattoo man, Mary Helen thought. Catchy! “How do, Tim,” she said. Smiling up at him, she tried not to stare at his bulging arm muscles, covered with intricate tattoos. With effort she managed for the most part to concentrate on the man's face, which was pleasant enough, although her eyes kept shifting down to the ornate blue dragon curling around the back of his neck.
“Looks as if we almost had another fatality,” Mary Helen commented, hoping her remark would lead naturally into the subject to Sarah Spencer's murder.
Tim didn't bite. Instead, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his Levis. Only his fingertips fit, really, and Mary Helen noticed that one set of knuckles had the word
MOTHER
tattooed across them. She couldn't imagine any mother being pleased about that.
All the while, Tim continued to stare straight ahead.
This is going to be a tough one
, she thought, studying the array of tattoo samples displayed in the New You window. There were delicate butterflies and long-stemmed roses, skulls and swastikas, an elephant's head with a shortened trunk, swords and sunsets all in color. Something for everyone, she reckoned.
Turning back, she found that Tim was staring at her. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked, following her gaze to the tattoo display.
Mary Helen felt the color rush to her cheeks. “Oh, no!” she said, then hoped she hadn't sounded too horrified. Obviously the man took pride in his work. It would never do to insult him.
“Just wondering,” he said with a smirk. “You seemed awfully interested.” He turned to go back into the parlor.
It is now or never, Mary Helen thought. “Mr. Tim,” she called above the din of the traffic, “did you by any chance see anything when that young woman was shot yesterday morning?”
The man stopped dead, then spun around to face her. “What
did you say?” His voice was low and threatening.
Sister Mary Helen pulled herself up to her full five foot three inches, pushed her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, put on her “schoolteacher” face, and repeated her question. If there was anything she hated, it was being bullied.
Although Tim's face assumed a placid mask, his blue eyes burned. “That's what I thought you said. Come inside, Sister,” he ordered. When she didn't budge, he added, “Please.”
To her surprise, the shop was light and immaculately clean, like a doctor's office really. Sample tattoos were artistically arranged on the walls and a thick photo album lay on the counter, filled, no doubt, with pictures of more choices.
The price list was placed unobtrusively on the wall behind the cash register and Mary Helen was shocked to see that the price of tattoos began at fifty dollars and went up as high as five thousand dollars.
On her left was a doorway, which led to a second room with a lounge chair and table, undoubtedly for the comfort of the “tattooee.” She would have liked to look around more, but this was not the time.
Tim shut the front door. Mary Helen's stomach jumped with the click of the key in the lock. “Sister,” the man said evenly, “have you any idea how dangerous that question could be?”
The hum of the traffic from the street outside filled the silent shop. To be honest, up to this point she hadn't considered the danger of her question. Let alone the danger of coming into a locked shop with a man she had just met. Slowly fear crept through her body like a chill. She felt a little lightheaded.
“It is very dangerous!” Tim answered his own question.
“I suppose you're right,” Mary Helen said, struggling to keep her voice steady.
“Damn right, I'm right!” Tim strained his words through clenched teeth.
“I was just trying to help the police,” she explained reasonably.
“Well, don't!” Tim, the tattoo man, leaned forward. She felt his warm breath on her cheek.
“And for your information, Sister, I want you to know I am the police.”
Mary Helen was astonished. She couldn't believe her ears. “You don't own this shop?”
Tim shook his head. “It's just a front. The guy who owns the shop is an ex-cop who agreed to let me use it. I wouldn't know one end of a tattoo needle from the other.”
Mary Helen was astonished. “What do you do if someone comes in who really wants a tattoo?”
Tim shrugged. “I set up an appointment and my friend comes in. I'm here because I'm undercover.”
“Like Sarah?”
“Yeah, like Sarah.”
“And you didn't see anything?” Mary Helen couldn't resist.
Suddenly the man's eyes were wet and he swallowed hard. “The less you know about what anybody saw, the better off we all will be, Sister,” he said finally. “Nobody wants you to be the next one with a chest full of lead. Now, please go back to the Refuge.”
“One more question,” Mary Helen couldn't seem to help herself.
Tim's eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Not about the case,” she added quickly. “I'm just curious about the tattoos. Are all of yours real?”
With a crooked smile, Tim wagged his head. “No, thank God,” he said. “They're those paste-on things. The only real one is this one.” He pointed to the word
MOTHER
.
“At last, you're back,” Sister Anne said, trying not to sound as peeved as she felt. “What in the world have you been doing? Judy and I were starting to worry.”
Mary Helen looked at her blankly, her cheeks flushed and her eyes a little glazed.
“Sister Mary Helen?” Anne felt the muscles in her neck tightening. “Are you all right?”
“Of course I'm all right.” Mary Helen blinked as though she were coming out of a dream. “Why wouldn't I be all right?”
Taking a deep breath, Anne struggled to keep her composure.
Now I know for sure where the expression “pain in the neck” comes from
, she thought, slowly circling her head. “Well, for one thing,” she said crisply, “you've been gone for quite a while to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what. Anything could have happened to you and we'd never have known.”
From the expression on Mary Helen's face, Anne could tell that she was being totally ignored. “Actually, Judy was more concerned than I was,” she said, crossing her fingers.
Mary Helen frowned. “Judy? Judy who?”
“The volunteer you called to come in as an emergency substitute.” Anne pointed toward a small, pudgy woman with neatly cut, frosted hair wiping off tablecloths and collecting abandoned cups from around the room.
“Of course,” Mary Helen said. “Judy.” She still seemed a little foggy to Anne. “She was concerned?”
“Very,” Anne said, hoping that Judy wouldn't come over and make a liar out of her. Actually, the volunteer had been so busy that she'd hardly noticed Mary Helen was gone until Anne mentioned it.
“Where were you?” Anne pressed.
“You won't believe where I was,” Mary Helen said.
Which doesn't answer the question
, Anne thought, wondering if she'd be better off not knowing.
“I was with Tim, the tattoo man.”
Mary Helen had been right. Anne could scarcely believe it. “Why?”
“Because I thought he might have seen something or someone when Sarah Spencer was shot that could prove helpful to the police.”
Anne was about to protest, but Mary Helen raised her hand like a school crossing guard. “And you'll never guess what I found out.”
I'll bet I won't
, Anne thought.
“That he's a police officer, too. Undercover.”
Right again,
Anne thought,
I would never have guessed
. “How do you know that?”
As quickly as possible, Mary Helen told her. She began with Crazy Alice walking into the street and ended with Tim taking her into the New You Tattoo Parlor.
“No wonder Kate Murphy called,” Anne said. She watched Sister Mary Helen's jaw tighten.
“What do you mean, Kate called? What did she want?”
“She wants you to telephone her at the Hall of Justice, ASAP.” Anne said.
Purposefully Sister Mary Helen surveyed the gathering room. “Honestly, Anne,” she said, “look at this place. We have more to do around here than to spend our time trying to contact the police. Besides, Kate and Inspector Gallagher probably have left the Hall of Justice by now. And I'd just be wasting my time. I see no point …”
“As Soon As Possible,” Anne repeated, taking perverse pleasure in watching Mary Helen squirm.
“A perfect waste of time,” Mary Helen repeated. “Kate's time as well as my time. And I'll bet you anything that it was that Tim fellow who called her. The insufferable old tattletale!”
“Sister Mary Helen, telephone for you,” Judy the volunteer's voice startled Anne. She hadn't heard the woman approaching nor had she even heard the telephone ring. “It's that policewoman
again,” Judy said. “It must be important.”
Rolling her eyes, Mary Helen set her chin and walked toward the office like a soldier marching into a decisive and dangerous battle.
Curious, Anne followed. After Mary Helen's initial “Hello,” Kate seemed to be doing all the talking. It was difficult to tell from Mary Helen's monosyllabic answers what Kate's point was exactly. Although the “buts” coming from the old nun would indicate that Kate had the upper hand.
“Nice to talk to you, too,” Mary Helen said at last and replaced the receiver.
From the expression on Mary Helen's face, Anne knew that she was not happy about whatever it was Kate had told her. Anne contained herself for as long she could—which was about thirty seconds. “What did she want?” she asked.
“What she wants, if you ask me,” Mary Helen said, her words clipped with anger, “is to scare me to death.”
Fat chance
, Anne thought.
“All that talk about the brazen gunman, and the underbelly of society, and the complicated police plans, and the unknown danger I might be in.” Mary Helen's eyes flashed.
“And did she succeed at scaring you?” Anne said as the telephone rang again. She picked at the receiver but covered the mouthpiece with her hand, waiting for Mary Helen's answer. It was quick in coming.
“What is it Eileen always says? ‘Fear is a fine spur.'” Mary Helen grinned. “If anything, Anne, I must admit I feel spurred on.”
Anne's stomach fell. Exactly what she was afraid of.
Inspector Kate Murphy, her face burning, slammed down the telephone receiver much harder than she had intended.
That
has got to be the most infuriating woman on God's green earth
, she thought, slowly releasing her breath.
“So she finally got to you, too, huh?” her partner taunted, pointing to the telephone.
“What are you talking about, Denny?” Kate forced a smile. She had figured that Dennis Gallagher would be in the coffee room for at least another ten minutes chewing the fat with the other guys, but she had figured wrong. Here he was, standing in front of her with two steaming coffee mugs and a silly grin on his face. Kate would rather burst than give him the satisfaction.
“The receiver simply slipped. I just put on some hand lotion and it's greasy,” she said, which was partially true. The juniper lotion was new. She stuck the palm of her hand under Gallagher's nose.

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