Driven to Ink (18 page)

“What’s going on?” I asked, slathering a bagel with cream cheese.

Sylvia watched. “I could take one of those. Without the cream cheese, though.”

As the bagel toasted, Sylvia took in her surroundings: the kitchen that opened up into a big family room with a sleek leather couch and big flat-screen TV plastered to the wall. Tim had gone a little crazy after Shawna moved out, taking all her Southwestern-motif furniture and decorations with her. Tim immediately painted over the blue and mauve walls with an eggshell color that contrasted sharply with the black leather. The long Scandinavian coffee table gave the room an elegance it hadn’t had before.

But then again, Tim said once you get rid of cactus-themed wall quilts, anything would look elegant.

“Less is more, right?” Sylvia said as I put the bagel in front of her and sat down again.

“Yeah. Sylvia, what are you doing here? I don’t think you came here just for breakfast.”

Sylvia grinned and took a bite of bagel. “You’re a smart girl. I tell Jeff all the time, that girl’s smart.”

It was hard sometimes to keep Sylvia on point.

“You’re here, why?” I prodded.

“Well, I went for my morning swim over at the community pool. That detective kept us late at the hospital, asking all sorts of questions. He wanted us to come to the police station, but Jeff wouldn’t have it. He said he’d bring us over today. But I snuck out so I could get my swim in. Clears the head, you know?” She tapped the side of her head and nodded.

I nodded, too, wondering where she was going with this.

“I need your help with something.”

Uh-oh. I tried to keep an open mind. Maybe she only wanted me to take her to the store to get some prune juice.

She pushed her chair back a second and rummaged in the front pocket of her skirt. She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.

It was all crumpled up, and I smoothed it out. It was a receipt printout from a company called Tattoo Inc.

Clever.

The receipt was for a clip cord. It had been shipped to Ray Lucci at the wedding chapel.

“W
hat do you think it means?”Sylvia asked as I stared at the receipt.

I had absolutely no clue, but ideas were starting to form.

“Why are you showing this to me?” I asked.

Sylvia sighed. “I haven’t told Jeff yet. About Ray. I don’t know how. And then Bernie hands this to me this morning. He said it was in the glove box in the Gremlin. I let Ray borrow the car last week. He must have left it there.”

Little bits of Ray Lucci were ending up in the oddest places. Sylvia’s car, my car.

I thought about what Tim would say.

“You should give this to Detective Flanigan,” I said. “Not me. It’s a clue.” It proved that Joel’s missing clip cord probably wasn’t the one that strangled Lucci. And it would be great if that little bit were cleared up, so we could all get on with our lives.

I couldn’t help but wonder, however, why Lucci would buy a clip cord. And if it was the one around his neck, how did his own cord get used against him? Just like how did he end up stealing my car and then end up in the trunk, with the car right back where Sylvia and Bernie had left it for me?

I tried not to think about Tim. How on earth could I possibly let this one go?

Sylvia tucked a stray hair in back of her ear. “I don’t want to get Ray in trouble.”

“But Ray is dead,” I said softly, and not unkindly.

Sylvia reached over and patted my hand. “I know that, dear.”

Sometimes I’m not sure what Sylvia knows or doesn’t. So I have to make sure.

“You need to tell Jeff about Ray,” I said.

“So you really think I should turn this over to that policeman?” Sylvia obviously wanted to change the subject. “He was dressed all fancy. Bernie says he doesn’t trust a policeman who’s got more money than he does. He thinks he’s on the take.”

On the take? What were we? In a Scorsese movie?

“I think you should give it to Detective Flanigan,” I said again, knowing Tim would be happy I was doing the right thing.

She picked up the last piece of her bagel and chewed slowly.

I’d put the receipt on the table and now picked it up again.

“He had it delivered to the chapel, not his home,” I said. “Where was he living?”

Sylvia touched the corners of her mouth with her finger, to brush away any leftover crumbs. “He had an apartment up in North Vegas.”

“Why wouldn’t he have the package delivered there, then?” As I asked the question, I realized the probable answer. He didn’t want it in his apartment. Did he plan to use the clip cord against someone else, who then used it against him?

My thoughts were all mixed up like a milk shake in a blender.

“Why would Ray need a clip cord?” Sylvia’s voice interrupted. “He could’ve asked to borrow one, if he needed one.”

If Ray was planning something that he didn’t want anyone to know about and he didn’t want anyone to know he had a clip cord, why be so careless and leave the receipt in the car?

Maybe he forgot about it. It’s not as if that doesn’t happen.

I looked at the receipt again. It had a customer account number on it. I hadn’t heard of Tattoo Inc., but there were a million Web sites that sold tattoo equipment. I could even contact the place where I get my equipment; maybe someone there had heard of it.

“Can I make a copy of this?” I asked Sylvia.

She nodded. “What are you going to do with it?”

I wasn’t sure exactly. I went into the small den off the living room, where we kept our printer, which was also a copy machine and a scanner. Amazing what a hundred bucks can get you these days.

I made a copy of the receipt and gave the original to Sylvia. “Detective Flanigan,” I said again.

“But I won’t tell him you have a copy.” Sylvia winked at me.

I smiled. “No, that might not be the best idea.”

“You’ve got a plan, don’t you, dear?”

“No—I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll see.” I looked at the wall clock. It was almost eleven. I needed to get into the shop. Sylvia saw me and got up, smoothing out her skirt as she stood.

I walked her to the door but stopped her before she went out.

“You need to tell Jeff about Ray,” I said. “Does Bernie know?”

She nodded.

“You need to tell Jeff. Today. Before Flanigan does.”

Sylvia squeezed my arm. “I know, dear. Thank you.” She shoved the receipt back in her pocket and went out to the car. I watched as she got in, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway.

When the little white car had disappeared around the corner, I went back into the house and found my laptop. I put the URL for Tattoo Inc. into the address field, and the site popped up immediately.

Tattoo Inc. promised all your tattoo needs would be met—at the lowest prices, of course. And as I perused the site, I wondered whether maybe I shouldn’t be changing my purchasing policies. These prices were far lower than what I was paying.

Granted, I’d have to talk about it with Bitsy. She did all the purchasing for the shop, and maybe she’d already found Tattoo Inc. and decided for some reason that it wasn’t worth saving a few pennies.

I went to “My Account,” entered Ray Lucci’s name and account number in the space allotted, and waited for the page to load.

When it finally opened, I couldn’t believe it.

Ray Lucci hadn’t ordered only a clip cord.

Three days ago, the day before he was killed, he’d ordered all the parts needed to build a tattoo machine. And he’d had them shipped to That’s Amore.

I
t was all right there in front of me on the laptop screen, but I couldn’t figure it out.

Why would Ray Lucci want to build a tattoo machine? I scanned the items he bought: coils, armature bar, grip, binding posts, frame, tube clamp. It would be easier to buy a tattoo machine already assembled. And why order a clip cord but not the power supply or the foot pedal? A tattoo machine without the last two items was useless. A clip cord that couldn’t clip to a power source made no sense, either—unless you were going to strangle someone with it. But Lucci didn’t strangle himself.

I remembered, though, how I’d suggested to Tim that maybe he
had
. That autoerotic-asphyxiation thing that you hear about occasionally, usually in hushed tones.

I shook away the thought. Not because it was weird and kinky, but because the theory was probably stupid.

But then again, he’d stolen my car, and he owned a clip cord. No sign that anyone else was with him.

Except that the car was returned to my parking spot. And there was that rat.

I was going in circles.

I looked at the laptop screen again, at Ray Lucci’s order. There was a tracking number for the shipment. I clicked on it, and the UPS page popped up. The parts had been shipped the day he ordered them, and he’d paid extra for faster mailing. According to this, the package had been delivered. Yesterday afternoon.

I closed my laptop and took a deep breath.

I hoped Sylvia would call Flanigan, but mostly for selfish reasons. So I could tell Tim that I talked her into it. Maybe then he wouldn’t be mad at me for what I was going to do next.

 

The wedding chapel was still as tacky as I remembered it from the previous day. Today there was a large number of motorcycles, all Harleys, in the driveway, under the long awning. I heard the strains of “That’s Amore” coming from the direction of the drive-through window and spotted two Dean Martins swaying as they sang. I squinted and saw the bride astride her bike, the black leather jacket with the Harley logo faintly visible through the long tulle veil that cascaded down her back. When the Dinos stopped singing, the guy on the bike next to the bride grabbed her and kissed her as she held her bouquet of white flowers high over her head. A cheer rose up from the crowd.

“Changed your mind, Kavanaugh?” I heard Jeff Coleman’s voice behind me and turned to see him leaning against the side of the Jeep, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“I thought you quit,” I said, pointing to the cigarette.

“I only did it for you, and then you jilted me,” he teased, but he took the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it, grinding it out with his heel. “So what are you doing back here?”

I didn’t quite know how to explain I was here looking for a package delivered to Ray Lucci, so I figured I’d turn it around on him. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I told Rosalie I’d come by and pick up Lou’s last paycheck.”

“He didn’t have direct deposit?” I asked.

Jeff reached toward his breast pocket, but it was empty.

“Your doctor said not to smoke anymore,” I reminded him.

He grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind, Kavanaugh. And no, Lou did not have direct deposit. Rosalie needs the cash now, to help pay for the funeral.”

“How’s she doing?”

Jeff shrugged. “They were married for ten years. He beat the crap out of her for most of that time. How do you think she’s doing?” He tried to keep his tone light, but the anger seeped out underneath his words.

“Did you know her before your mother met Bernie?”

“No. I didn’t meet her until a few weeks ago. She and Lou brought Bernie over to the shop to meet up with my mother. I could tell from the get-go that Lou was bad news.”

Interesting. “How?” I prodded.

“He dominated the conversation; she stood there with her head down, and only spoke when he looked directly at her. She laughed at his stupid jokes. Bernie hated him, the way he treated her.”

“So he’s not too broke up about his death, huh?”

Jeff cocked his head and looked at me sideways. “What are you getting at, Kavanaugh?”

“I don’t know.” And I really wasn’t sure. “Seems pretty convenient for Rosalie that Lou’s dead now.”

“You think she had something to do with it?”

“No, guess not. Sounds like whoever did this did her a favor. It’s probably the same guy who killed Ray Lucci and also tried to run down Will Parker.”

“Who? Oh, yeah, the guy you were making eyes with yesterday.”

Making eyes with? What century did he live in?

I chose to ignore him. “I’m just saying that I think somehow someone wants to kill off these Dean Martin impersonators.” Something Will Parker had said to me yesterday poked my memory. “You know, Will said that the Elvis chapel across the street keeps stealing the Dean Martins.”

We both instinctively looked over at the larger-than-life Elvis, dancing over the white wedding chapel. It was too much, but almost everything in Vegas was too much. You get used to it after a while.

Jeff laughed. “You think there’s some sort of Elvis- Dean Martin war going on here?”

It did sound ridiculous, but then again . . .

“Maybe,” I said.

Movement in the corner of my eye made me turn. Uh-oh. Anthony DellaRocco, owner of That’s Amore, was scurrying toward us, a big smile on his face, his arms outstretched.

“You’ve come back!” he said. “Have you gotten over your cold feet?”

The latter was directed at me, because, of course, I walked away yesterday.

Before I could say anything, though, Jeff put his arm around my shoulders and said, “We decided a church is the way to go.”

We did, did we?

“I’m afraid we’re here for a sadder occasion, though,” he added.

DellaRocco frowned, confused.

“Lou Marino’s widow is my sister-in-law,” Jeff continued. “She asked if I could pick up Lou’s paycheck.”

DellaRocco’s face registered recognition. “Jeff Coleman? She called to tell me you were on your way. Come with me.”

Jeff held on to my shoulder, steering me behind DellaRocco. I was glad I now had the excuse to get back in that building, but I wished I didn’t still have to pretend I was going to marry Jeff Coleman to do it.