Driven to Ink (7 page)

“You’ve been watching too many movies,” he said, taking a long drink from his own glass. He put it on the counter, then said, “You really don’t have anything stronger?”

“We’ve got some red wine.”

He snorted and made a face. “I knew I should’ve brought my own bottle.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were going to the Grand Canyon. You couldn’t have made it there and back in the time since I talked to you.”

We walked over to the living room, where I plopped down on the leather couch and he settled into Tim’s leather recliner.

“I didn’t go after all,” he said. “After I talked to you, I called the park, and they said the state cops had taken the car. I knew I wouldn’t get anything from them, just some more grief about where I thought my mother was, so I came back.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Maybe I wanted to pick your brain. And I knew you wouldn’t come to me.”

He had that right.

“Who’s in your shop?” Jeff’s shop, Murder Ink, was open ’til four a.m.

“I closed down. I didn’t want the distraction of thinking about it.”

I studied his face. If he’d closed his shop, then he was seriously concerned about his mother, but his expression didn’t reveal his worry. Jeff Coleman was about ten years older than me, I guessed, in his early forties. He had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and the lines in his face told me he’d lived hard. He was a little shorter than me, and wiry. Although in the last months I’d noticed he’d started to bulk up slightly, as if he had started working out. I wasn’t going to ask, though. He’d probably give me grief for noticing.

So instead I leaned back and told him about Dan Franklin and that I suspected Flanigan thought Sylvia and Bernie might have been witnesses to Lucci’s murder.

“He said Sylvia asked specifically for Lucci at the wedding chapel,” I said. “Did she ever mention him?”

Jeff chuckled. “My mother knew a lot of people. She had that shop for a long time and met a lot of crazy characters. So maybe she did know him. Did he have any tattoos other than the spiderweb and the one Joel did?”

“I don’t know.” But it was worth asking Flanigan. I made a mental note to remember.

Jeff had closed his eyes, and for a second, I thought he was drifting off to sleep, but then he sat up straight and stared at me.

“I’ve got an idea, and I hope you’ll keep an open mind.”

Immediately, I knew I shouldn’t agree to anything.

“Listen, Kavanaugh, it’s a good idea. So hear me out, okay, before you make up your mind?”

I didn’t have much choice, so I nodded.

“Tomorrow, you and I should go over to that wedding chapel.”

On the surface, it didn’t sound like a horrible idea. I’d toyed with the very same thing all day since talking to Dan Franklin. But I wasn’t prepared for the next proposal.

“We can pretend we’re getting married. We can ask specific questions, then, maybe meet this Dan Franklin. Find out more about Ray Lucci.”

My brain was still two sentences behind. “Pretend we’re getting married?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“They’d probably be more willing to talk if we pretend we’re giving them business,” he argued.

“And Dan Franklin? I already talked to him.”

“But you never met him, right? He doesn’t know what you look like.”

I held out my arms, decorated with Monet’s garden and a koi pond. “I’m the painted lady, remember? He may have heard about my tattoos. He may have seen the Web site.”

Bitsy had set up a Web site for the shop in the last month. I hadn’t been totally on board with it. I liked that we were more exclusive. Bitsy argued that we’d get more business, and since we were in a recession, it wouldn’t hurt. Business hadn’t slacked off at all, but she was hedging her bets. I told her she couldn’t put an e-mail address on the site, just a phone number, because I didn’t want to have to keep checking e-mail. She’d set up a page with some of our designs and photos of Ace, Joel, and me to “give the shop a face.” I hated to admit it, though, Bitsy was right: We had gotten some clients who’d found us on the Internet.

“It’s not the best picture of you,” Jeff said flatly. “It doesn’t show those glints of gold in your hair.”

He was teasing me, and I rolled my eyes at him.

Jeff gave me a sly smile. “If Franklin figures out who you are, say you were intrigued by the idea of getting married there after you talked to him. I’ll go along with it.”

“So now it’s
my
idea we’re getting married?” I asked.

He snickered. “It doesn’t matter whose idea it is, as long as it works.”

Despite my better judgment, the idea was growing on me. Not marrying Jeff Coleman, but going to That’s Amore to poke around a little. I knew Tim was on the outside on this case, and Flanigan certainly wasn’t going to be very forthcoming. I told myself I was helping a friend find his missing mother. Sylvia was my friend, too, and didn’t I owe her that?

I stood up and took our empty glasses into the kitchen.

Jeff followed. “So, Kavanaugh, what do you think?”

“I think we’d better do this before I change my mind.”

“You want to go tonight?”

I looked at the clock. It was one in the morning. While the chapel was probably still open, I figured I needed a good night’s sleep before I took on this ruse.

“No. In the morning. I don’t have to be at the shop until noon. Maybe we should meet at ten?” Now that I was on board, I was even organizing our adventure. Go figure.

Jeff opened his mouth to say something, but the door swung open, and Tim came in. The look of surprise on his face probably matched mine.

“Hey, well, what do you say?” he asked as he shook Jeff’s hand. Tim looked at me, his eyes asking me what was going on.

“Jeff has been looking for his mother,” I said. “He came by to see if I’d heard from her.”

While I’m not usually a good liar, this lie slipped easily off my tongue. I figured I’d rather lie than have Tim think something was going on.

But from his expression, he knew we were up to no good.

“Don’t mess in police business,” he said sternly, his eyes moving from me to Jeff. “The best thing you can do for your mother is to let the cops take care of everything.”

Jeff opened his mouth to say something, then had second thoughts and shut it again, nodding. I took his arm and started steering him toward the door.

“He was just leaving anyway,” I said.

Standing in the doorway, Jeff leaned in, whispered, “My shop at ten,” and shuffled out into the darkness.

I watched him a few seconds, wondering where he’d parked, when Tim came up behind me.

“Don’t do it,” he said.

“Do what?” I asked, stepping back and closing the door.

“Whatever it is he’s planning and has asked you to do.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, busying myself with putting the empty glasses in the dishwasher so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“He doesn’t know where his mother is, does he, Brett?”

That one I could answer truthfully. I stood up straight and looked him in the eye. “No, he doesn’t. And he’s worried.”

“He should be,” Tim said, turning away. But I saw something in his face before he did.

“What do you know?” I asked his back. “You know something.”

Tim turned around slowly. “You cannot tell Jeff Coleman.”

“I won’t.”

“No, really, I mean it. You can’t tell him. Because I don’t think he knows.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

Tim sighed. “Ray Lucci was Sylvia Coleman’s son. Jeff Coleman’s half brother.”

A
s I drove toward Murder Ink the next morning, I thought about what Tim had told me. The police had found evidence of Lucci’s relationship to Sylvia in his apartment. Letters she had written to him in prison.

When I asked Tim why he told me, he said that if I knew, maybe I’d keep more of an open mind. I could also keep an eye on Jeff Coleman, try to find out whether he knew about Lucci.

“But you said you didn’t think he knows.”

“He probably doesn’t. But he’s pretty good at covering stuff up.”

No kidding. Even though he denied any sort of covert-operative job in the Marines, I wasn’t too quick to believe him.

I was in the wrong lane. I missed my turn onto Koval, which meant I had to go up the Strip. Sitting at the intersection with the Statue of Liberty and the gold MGM lion hovering over me, I was again struck by the outrageousness of this part of Las Vegas. My neighborhood was a typical southwestern one, with stucco houses and faded red roofs and Home Depot and Target and strip malls interspersed among palm trees and banana yuccas. The mountains rose up in the distance, reminding me of my hike yesterday morning up at Red Rock, the hard red earth beneath my feet. The brownness of the desert was speckled with bits of green, and I couldn’t wait until the flowers bloomed bright against their plain backdrop, spectacular for such a short time.

Being from New Jersey, I suppose I could say I missed the change of seasons, but we had it here, too, only in a different way. And I totally did not miss scraping ice and snow off my car. While I’m not that spiritual a person, despite Sister Mary Eucharista’s best efforts, when I first saw Red Rock, I felt as if I’d come home in a way. I knew I probably would never go back east.

Tim felt the same way. Our sister, Cathleen, had moved to Southern California years before. Only my parents clung to the East, now in Florida in their retirement community, having cocktail parties and suffering the occasional hurricane.

The light changed, and I turned right onto the Strip. During the day it wasn’t as glitzy, but the tall gold towers of Mandalay Bay, the Eiffel Tower at Paris, the dancing fountains at Bellagio, and the Roman columns at Caesars were proof that we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

I passed the Venetian, wishing now that I’d gone to work instead of indulging Jeff Coleman’s little adventure.The replica of the Doge’s Palace might be realistic if there weren’t valets out front and St. Mark’s Square wasn’t trapped inside its walls instead of being spread out in front.

Farther up, I went by Steve Wynn’s newest behemoth: Encore. The economy really wasn’t supporting these places, but Vegas is optimistic by nature; otherwise people wouldn’t keep coming here and tossing their money on the tables.

Me, I didn’t gamble. Well, I did once and won a nice bit of cash. But that was a fluke. No one really won in Vegas, despite their hopes. It would be healthier for everyone if they came here with no expectations; then if they won a little, they’d be happier, and if they lost, they could chalk it up to the fact that the house always wins. Almost always.

I was getting into a seedier part of town. The farther away from the Strip, the less glamour. Fremont Street, where Vegas started, sprouted up to my left, and I glanced over at the pedestrian mall and the Four Queens Casino.

Murder Ink was just north, tucked next door to Goodfellas Bail Bonds and across the street from the Bright Lights Motel. The “B” was out on the sign, and it was flashing RIGHT LIGHTS, its neon barely discernible in the blast of sunlight that hit it.

I parked in the motel parking lot—I’d done that before, and no one ever said anything—and crossed the street to Murder Ink.

The door was locked, and the sign said it was closed.

I cupped my eyes and peered through the glass.

Suddenly, a figure moved in front of me, and I jumped back.

The door swung open, and Jeff Coleman grinned. “You wouldn’t make a very good spy, Kavanaugh.”

I stepped inside the shop. “I don’t want to be a spy.”

Jeff closed the door behind me and locked it again. When I turned to face him, he was looking me up and down.

“What?” I asked.

“You couldn’t find something else to wear? I mean, it
is
your wedding day.” He was teasing me, but I wasn’t in the mood.

I was wearing a cotton skirt that touched my knees, a black T-shirt, and my usual Tevas. “What’s wrong with this?” I asked.

“Well, it’s more like you’re heading off to work at the local homeless shelter. You’d fit right in in that outfit.” The edges of his mouth twitched with amusement.

“I didn’t think I should show off too much of my tattoos,” I said.

“Oh, so it’s a disguise,” he said thoughtfully. “You don’t really wear that outfit in public normally, do you?”

I wore this outfit every week or so, but the way he was trying not to laugh meant I was so not going to tell him that.

“You could’ve worn a pair of jeans,” he added as he went toward the back of the shop and through a curtain of sixties beads into his office.

I sighed and followed him. This was not going to be fun at all. I tried to remind myself why I went along with this in the first place, but I honestly couldn’t remember. Maybe it was because I was tired and he caught me off guard.

Jeff didn’t stop in his office but went out a back door, his car keys jingling in his hand. He held the door open for me, and I saw the gold Pontiac parked in the alley.

“If we’re supposed to be incognito, why are we going in that?” I asked.

“I don’t think it’s going to matter,” he said as he opened the passenger door for me.

I sunk down into the seat and fastened my seat belt as he climbed in. He gave me a sideways glance.

“Sure you don’t want to stop somewhere and get a pair of jeans or something?”

I took a deep breath. “Just drive, Jeff.”

The smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he kept it at bay.

We were a block away when I realized something.

“Aren’t you even going to try to have a cigarette with me in the car?” I asked.

Jeff did smile now, and he took his hand off the wheel for a second to pull up his short sleeve. A small beige patch was stuck to his bicep.