Driven to Ink (25 page)

“Oh, that. Well, it sort of got all messed up. I was on my way over to see Rosalie—”

“She said you never showed.”

“No, I didn’t. I was talking on my cell phone, and a cop pulled me over.”

He chuckled. “You can’t tell me that they gave you a ticket.”

“Worse than that.” I gave Tim another sidelong glance. “He found the gun in the box addressed to Ray Lucci and took me down to see Tim and Flanigan.” I didn’t want to tell him about Tim’s new assignment as my babysitter.

“So what did they say about it? Did they know about this illegal-gun stuff?”

Now that was a question I hadn’t asked. “I’m not sure,” I said. “They sent me back to work.” I paused. “Hey, how do you know Franklin’s car is gone?”

“I happened to take a ride over there. The mail in the box is gone, too, along with the newspapers on the stoop. Looks like the man came home after all.”

“So he’s not dead.”

Tim’s eyebrows were just about popping off the top of his head, and Bitsy was hanging on my every word.

“Probably not.”

It was killing me that I couldn’t hop in my car and drive over to see for myself. Maybe after Tim and I got home and after he went to sleep, I could take a little midnight stroll over to Franklin’s house.

Maybe I
was
too nosy, as Tim said. Because even to me that sounded a little crazy.

“Listen, Kavanaugh, gotta run. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” And then he was gone.

I hung up the phone, putting up my hand before Tim could speak.

“Flanigan says they think it was a blue car that hit Lou Marino.”

Tim pondered that a second, but as he opened his mouth, Bitsy said, “Like that blue car that came after us at the university?”

And like that blue car that almost hit me and Tim in the parking garage. Was it the same car? Who knew? Franklin and Will Parker both had blue cars.

I shrugged.

“Why does he think it’s Franklin?” Tim finally got to ask a question.

“He says Franklin drives a blue Taurus. It was in his driveway, and now it’s not.” Oops. Might have been a little more information than I wanted to give.

Tim caught on. “How does he know it was in his driveway and now it’s not?”

I sighed. “Okay, Jeff and I went over to Dan Franklin’s house. We saw the car in the driveway. There was also a pile of mail in his box and newspapers on the stoop, and Jeff says those are gone now, too. So Franklin came home after being gone for what looks like a couple of days.”

Tim’s face was so red I thought he was going to have a coronary.

“You have to stop this, Brett.”

Bitsy took that as her cue to skedaddle off to the staff room. She saw what was coming.

I was tired of it, though. “Okay, fine, I’ve been doing a little snooping. But it’s only to help.”

“Do I need to lock you up in the house until all this is resolved?”

Now that was going a little too far, and even he knew it. Tim threw up his hands, said, “I give up,” and went to join Bitsy back in the staff room.

I sat at the front desk, watching the people milling around outside. Suddenly I needed to feel not so much like a prisoner anymore. I also needed chocolate. Godiva was across the canal.

“Anyone want chocolate?” I asked loudly.

Joel’s head stuck out from his room. “I do,” he said gleefully.

“Can you have that on your diet?” I asked sternly.

He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t really care.”

Joel was back.

I grinned. Call me an enabler.

Tim was standing in the staff room doorway.

“I’m going across to Godiva,” I said, getting up and going around to the front door. “Want anything?”

He must have been as tired of me as I was of him because he shook his head and disappeared again. I could hear his and Bitsy’s voices murmuring, but I ignored them as I pushed the door open and stepped outside.

I could just keep walking, I thought as I strolled along the canal to the end, where a line of tourists awaited their turn in a gondola. A glance back at the shop told me Tim wasn’t waiting in the doorway, watching me. I saw the top of Bitsy’s head, but no one else.

I stepped up my pace and didn’t round the end of the canal as I should’ve if I was going to Godiva. Instead, I moved into the Shoppes at the Palazzo, passing Michael Kors’s store, not even pausing briefly to admire the shimmering cobalt strapless gown in the window—although I promised myself I’d be back later to check it out—and going around the maze of walkways until I faced Double Helix, the bar.

I really wanted a drink. But more than that, I wanted to feel a little invisible.

The problem was, I was all too visible.

The hand gripped my shoulder, and I felt his hot breath on the back of my neck as he said, “Just the person I was looking for.”

I tried to turn around, but I couldn’t.

“Who are you?” I asked. “I’ll scream.”

“Don’t scream.” Anxiety laced his voice, and he loosened his grip, moving around so he was facing me.

I recognized him then. From his ID picture.

Dan Franklin.

A
ll I could think about was how Jeff Coleman said he thought Dan Franklin killed Lou Marino. It wasn’t the most calming of thoughts. I felt my heartbeat ratchet up, thumping in my chest as if it were trying to break free. Sort of like I’d been when I left the shop just moments ago.

Bad move.

I found my voice. “Where have you been?” I was surprised it came out so normally, as if I were just meeting an old friend for drinks at the bar. “And why are you looking for
me
?”

“I heard you were at my house.”

“How did you hear that?”

“With neighbors like mine, who needs a security system?”

“They must have pretty good vision,” I said.

“You sort of stand out. You’re so tall, and you’ve got that red hair.” He cocked his head toward my arm with the koi swimming on it. “Not to mention the tats.”

That’s right. I wasn’t wearing my jacket when Jeff and I were poking around Franklin’s house.

“You made a positive ID on me from that?” I clicked my tongue. “I find that hard to believe. It could’ve been anyone. How did you know to look for me?”

“You did call me. We spoke. I looked you up online.”

He’d found the Web site, as I suspected.

“So what do you want?” I asked, knowing now that I couldn’t weasel my way out of this. “Why are you grabbing me?”

Granted, this might not be the way to talk to a possible killer, but despite what Jeff Coleman had said to me, I wasn’t getting that vibe off Franklin. Not anymore, anyway, after that first moment. As I assessed his appearance, too, I saw that he couldn’t be less threatening. He did look remarkably like Dean Martin, much more so than Will Parker, who needed the wig and the tux to complete the transformation. Franklin was tall, his dark hair a little wavy, his eyes small, his face long and jowly. He wore a pair of beige slacks and a button-down shirt under a Windbreaker.

Dan Franklin looked as if he was heading out for a game of golf.

He indicated Double Helix. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I’d come over here for that, so why not? Maybe I’d get some questions answered, so I could stop snooping around and Tim could stop babysitting me.

We went around to the entrance of the bar. It felt like an amusement-park ride, with a low wall circling the bar and the rest of the place open-air. We slid onto two barstools, and the bartender came over.

“What can I get you?”

Franklin looked at me, waiting for me to order first. He really didn’t seem like a killer right now.

“Margarita,” I said, “rocks, salt.”

“Gin and tonic,” Dan Franklin said.

“No martini?” I asked.

He looked confused a second, then smiled shyly. “Because of the Dean Martin thing, right?”

The bartender busied himself making our drinks, and Franklin tapped his fingers on the bar top.

“Where have you been the last few days?” I asked. What I’d initially thought of as a hostile meeting was turning into something rather civilized.

Franklin stiffened slightly, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, I would’ve missed it.

The bartender put our glasses in front of us, and Franklin took a quick sip, as if he was buying time. I swished the straw around in my margarita before taking it out and sipping from the brim, making sure I got some salt, savoring the tang and the kick of the tequila.

Dan Franklin could take his time if it meant we could sit here and enjoy our drinks.

He seemed to notice that I wasn’t exactly pressing him for an answer, and the muscles in his neck relaxed a little. He sipped his own drink before finally saying, “I had to lie low. When you called about Lucci, I knew they’d come after me.”

“Who?”

“The cops.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would they come after you?” I tightened my grip around my glass.

He shifted a little on his stool. “Lucci and I didn’t get along.”

“Didn’t sound like he got along with anyone,” I said. “Why do you think the cops would focus on you?”

“Rosalie,” he said softly.

“Did you have a relationship with Rosalie?” I asked softly.

His eyes widened, getting that deer-in-headlights look. “No, no, not that way. She’s a beautiful woman, but she’s married. I respected that.”

And I believed him. His reaction seemed sincere, and because of that I also knew he loved her. Was in love with her and had been for a long time.

“How does Lucci figure in all this?” I asked, taking another sip of my drink.

Dan Franklin fidgeted a little more, his foot tapping the rung on the barstool, his fingers drumming his knee. Little beads of sweat started to form on his forehead, and he swallowed hard.

“He found out how I felt about Rosalie. He threatened to tell her husband. And then he killed Snowball.”

“Snowball?”

“She was my pet rat. She was so innocent.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his eyes cast down as he got caught up in the memory.

“Why did he kill her?” I nudged.

“He said she had no business at the chapel. I’d wanted to keep her there for one shift. She wasn’t feeling good. I told him that, and then when I came back from my serenade, she was dead in her cage.”

“Are you sure he killed her?”

Dan Franklin gave a little high-pitched sob. “Of course he said he had nothing to do with it. But her neck was broken.”

Much like Dan Franklin’s heart, it seemed. But none of this really explained why he’d gone missing. So he had a dead rat, and he suspected the murder victim to be the killer.

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he was shrugging out of his jacket. It fell against the stool back, and as he reached over to pick up his glass, I saw it.

The tattoo.

It said “That’s Amore” on his arm.

H
e caught me staring.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, a little panicky.

What? That he really was the guy who came to The Painted Lady after all, and not Ray Lucci? Because that was exactly what I was thinking right that second.

Every muscle in my body was taut. I was ready to run. But I did want some answers, especially now. His gaze had wandered over to the entrance to the bar. I could see him figuring how long it would take him to get over there.

I clamped my hand down on his knee.

“So you’ve never been in a tattoo shop before, Dan?” I asked, my voice low and possibly a bit threatening.

He started shaking his head so fast I thought it would spin right off his neck.

“No, no, no, I’d never been in
your
shop before,” he insisted, moving his leg to try to release my grip, but my hand was holding on pretty tight.

“I don’t think I believe you,” I said. “This is exactly what my tattooist tattooed on you. Isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“What else are you lying about? Is that why you’ve been hiding? Because you’re guilty?”

“I didn’t kill him,” he hissed.

I took a shot in the dark. “So why did you give him ten thousand dollars?”

“I don’t need to answer any of your questions.” Dan Franklin pushed himself off the barstool. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor from his pocket as he ran toward the entrance. I started after him, but the bartender stood in my way.

“That’s twenty bucks for the drinks,” he said, then pointed to the ground. “And can you pick up your garbage?”

I totally did not have time for this right then. I tried to keep an eye on Franklin as I reached in my bag for my wallet, pulled out a twenty, and threw it on the bar before stooping down and picking up the hard piece of paper, which didn’t belong to me, thank you very much. The bartender obviously wanted a tip, but I didn’t have time. I almost slapped the paper in his hand but instead shoved it in my pocket as I sidled around him, stumbling out of the bar. I couldn’t see Franklin any longer. There were three walkways he could’ve gone down, and I skipped from one to the other, but I didn’t spot him.

“What are you doing, Brett? You were supposed to come right back to the shop.”

I whirled around to see Tim walking toward me. I said the only thing I knew he’d respond to. “I ran into Dan Franklin. He’s got a ‘That’s Amore’ tattoo, like Ray Lucci, and he said Ray Lucci killed his rat, Snowball, and he withdrew ten thousand dollars from his bank account, and I think that’s where Lucci got his money. And now he’s getting away.”

I could see the little wheels of Tim’s brain working, and he was coming to the same conclusions I did.

After a couple seconds that felt like hours, Tim pointed down one walkway. “You go down there, and I’ll go down this one. They do meet up eventually, right?”