Tattooed (35 page)

Kate had walked into Imogen’s room to see if she could borrow a T-shirt. Imogen had whirled around, a sweater clutched to her chest, a snarl on her face.

“Get out!” she yelled.

Kate froze.

“You didn’t even knock!” Imogen smoothed her hand down the back of her hair, momentary panic in her eyes.

The strangeness of her gesture had been lost on Kate. She blinked back tears of hurt and anger. They had always roamed into each other’s bedrooms, flopping themselves down on the bed next to the other, sharing their day, their hopes, their dreams, their secret crushes.

Everything.

But it had been slipping away. Kate knew that. Her sister had ebbed out of her life, as inexorable as the tide and beyond Kate’s control. There were other forces, stronger forces, eddying her sister into a world where neither of them belonged.

She had hoped that tonight she might gain some ground, pull her sister back from enemy territory. They were both going to the same party, to the house of a girl Kate despised: Kenzie Sloane. At the very least, she could scope out why Imogen was so enthralled with Kenzie.

She studied her sister’s face.

The drug use had been shocking enough.

She supposed she shouldn’t be shocked by the tattoo.

What else had her sister been hiding?

She grabbed her jacket and stuffed the envelope that Frances had left for Kenzie in her purse.

Then she headed to Yakusoku Studio.

48

M
cNally was, as usual, waiting.

He sat in his truck at the tattoo-studio parking lot, gripping the steering wheel.

His nerves jumped in little sparks under his skin. He unscrewed the vodka bottle and took a long pull.

It burned down his throat, a fuse to his adrenaline.

When Kenzie’s car eased into the parking lot, he threw open the truck door with such force it swung on its hinges. He strode over to her car and jumped into the passenger seat.

“Hi.”

The strain of the past twenty-four hours showed on her face. She gave him a cool smile.

He cupped his hand around her jaw and kissed her.

Sweet Jesus.

He had waited for seventeen years for this kiss. Every nerve exploded. He leaned closer. Her lips were full. Just as he remembered.

He could never share her with another man again.

She was his. For eternity.

Even if that meant a different type of eternity.

She was not going to leave him ever again.

Not for jail.

Not for her life in Manhattan.

Not for another man.

She broke the kiss. But she stroked his cheek. “I need to talk to you.”

He was like a leopard, ready to pounce on his prey.

Ready to bite into the tender, moist flesh and carry it away to his den.

“I want you to take a drive with me,” he said.

Her hand traced the tendons of his neck. His skin grew hot. “Where to?”

“Where do you think?” He gave her a lazy grin. He had left the duffel bag in a safe place by the bunkers. It was stocked, and ready to rock ’n’ roll.

She tensed. “We can’t go to the bunker.”

“Why not?” he asked. “We can bring Kate Lange out there. It will be just like old times.”

“The police have been crawling all over it. So have the media. We’ll be seen for sure.”

He threaded his hands through her hair. The tangles wound around his fingers. He yanked it. “You need to listen to
me
. I’m in charge now. This is my plan.”

Something shifted in her eyes. “You’re right,” she said, her voice throaty.

His fingers relaxed their grip, but he left his hand lightly wrapped in a tendril by her ear. It was a sensitive spot. It didn’t take much pressure to bring tears to her eyes. And besides, her hair felt so damn good. He wouldn’t let go.

He would never, ever let go.

Not now.

Not ever.

The pistol he’d stolen from Lovett’s safe guaranteed he would succeed.

* * *

Adrenaline coursed through Kenzie, giving her one last, desperate burst of energy.

She shifted closer to McNally, leaning over the narrow console between the car seats. “Look, McNa—
I mean John, I’ve been thinking.” She forced a placating smile. “You’ve been right all along.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed.

“I shouldn’t have run away that night. I should have stayed.”

There was a flicker in his eyes—was it pain?—but he said nothing.

“I was too young. I freaked.” She lowered her voice, made it seductive. “But I made a big mistake. No one has satisfied me the way you did.”

His neck reddened under the collar of his jacket.

She felt a surge of excitement. This was working.

Take it slowly, Kenzie.

“And when I heard about Heather’s body being found, it was like a sign, you know? It brought back all the old urges. All the old desires.” She licked her lips. “Remember how we used to play Russian roulette?”

“Yeah, I remember.” His voice was rough.

“Well, remember that gun we used?”

His eyes sharpened. “Yeah.”

How could I forget?
his eyes said. It was the murder weapon.

She smiled. “I know where it is.”

“Yeah? So where is it?” Kenzie could tell he was trying to sound casual, but he couldn’t disguise his interest. If he got hold of the murder weapon—with her fingerprints on it—he would never let her go. She knew that.

“It’s in a self-storage locker. And Kate Lange is bringing me the key.”

His hand tightened in her hair. Tears pricked her eyes. “Why would she do that?” He didn’t believe her.

“It’s true.” She told him about her mother giving Kate the envelope. “We could play Russian roulette again. Like we used to.” She gave him a sideways glance. “It was the best sex I ever had.”

His lips curled. Was it a smile or a grimace? She couldn’t tell.

“It would be a perfect circle,” he murmured. “Imogen was killed by her sister before we could kill her, and now we get to kill the sister.” He grinned.

Kenzie smiled at him, her heart pounding.

It was going perfectly.

Now all she needed was to find the gun.

And hope it was still loaded.

Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror.

Kate Lange had arrived.

49

K
ate jumped out of her car, envelope in hand. She strode to the entrance of the tattoo shop and stood under the light.

Kenzie walked out of a lane by the tattoo studio.

The past few days had taken a toll on her. Her long hair was tangled, pulled back in a messy knot on the back of her neck. Tension tightened her face.

Kate thought of the photos of the younger, more beautiful, defiant Kenzie. Did she regret any of what she had done to Kate’s sister?

Or, if Kate was correct in her suspicions, what she had done to Heather Rigby?

And, she couldn’t help wondering, had she had a role in her mother’s death?

But these suspicions had to remain unvoiced. Her client had confessed. Kate had no proof her client had lied. She had no proof that Kenzie had committed a crime. Even the photo at the bunker meant very little. They were taken months before Heather’s death. The police already knew Kenzie hung out there. She had been on their radar from the beginning.

“Hi, Kate. Thanks for coming,” Kenzie said. She had a friendly smile pasted on her face.

Kate did not, could not, reciprocate. She held out the envelope. “Here it is.”

Take it.

I never want to lay eyes on you again.

“Thanks.” Kenzie tore open the envelope, glancing at Kate. “My mom told me that this was a key for a storage locker at Bluenose Self-Storage. She said she put my old things from my bedroom in there to prepare the house for sale.”

Why are you telling me this?

“And she says that there were some belongings of Imogen’s that she found in my room that she wanted me to give you.”

Really? When did you ever do what your mother wanted you to do?

Yet she found herself asking, “What kind of belongings?”

Kenzie frowned. “I’m not sure. I didn’t realize that I had any of her stuff. But I was kind of self-absorbed back then.” She gave Kate an apologetic smile, an acknowledgment of the bitch she had once been. “Kate…I’ve been wanting to say this for a long time—”

The hair on Kate’s neck quivered. She’d been waiting to hear this for a long time.

Kenzie took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about what happened to your sister.”

Was her apology for real?

“Do you want to come with me?” Kenzie’s gaze was open. “I’m not sure I’d recognize Imogen’s stuff if I came across it.” She glanced at her watch. “I don’t have a lot of time, Kate. My flight leaves later tonight.” She stuffed the key into her pocket.

Kate’s mind raced through the labyrinthine possibilities of Kenzie’s offer.

Before she had died, Frances had alluded to the fact that she still might have the gun that killed Heather Rigby. Could it be in the storage locker?

But Kenzie wasn’t stupid.

If she thought the gun was there, why would she ask Kate to come?

She wouldn’t want Kate to be a witness.

Unless… The hair on the back of Kate’s arms rose. Unless she was she planning to kill Kate.

That didn’t make sense, either. Her mother already confessed to the murder of Frances Sloane. Kenzie was off scot-free.

She had no reason to kill her mother’s defense lawyer. After all, it was Kate who had delivered Frances’ final instructions.

And Kate knew Kenzie wasn’t the stalker. She had a foolproof alibi with Finn.

Kenzie’s best strategy was to lie low and go back to Manhattan.

And Kenzie was no fool.

So why had she asked Kate to come to the storage locker? Was it an act of kindness?

Perhaps, in her own way, she was trying to return Kate’s sister to her through Imogen’s belongings. Perhaps that was too generous an interpretation, Kate thought. But whatever the motive, collecting her sister’s belongings was a means of taking stock of her life, and Kate was not going to give Kenzie that final authority. Frances, in disposing of her own life’s work, had recognized that moral obligation.

Kenzie jiggled her car keys. “I’ve gotta leave now.”

“I’ll follow you in my car,” Kate said, not knowing what to believe anymore—but knowing she would regret it if she didn’t go with Kenzie.

Kenzie roared out of the parking lot. Kate hit the gas to keep up. Fortunately, she knew that Bluenose Self-Storage was uptown from Yakusoku Studio, dead center in the city. It was a commercial area, with apartment buildings, automotive businesses and various industrial complexes surrounding it.

She dialed Ethan’s number, quashing the pang that came with the knowledge that Randall would be hurt by this choice. But he wasn’t here. If something did happen with Kenzie at the locker, Ethan would be able to find her quickly.

Ethan answered the phone on the first ring.

“It’s Kate,” she said, keeping an eye on Kenzie’s taillights. “Look—Frances instructed me to give Kenzie an envelope after her death. It turns out the envelope held a key to storage locker. Kenzie says that some of Imogen’s things are there.”

“Kate, this is a bad idea,” Ethan said, his voice tense. “Don’t do this.”

“I know what you are thinking, but I don’t think Kenzie is stupid enough to hurt me. She has no reason to. My client confessed to the murder. Why would she want to hurt me?”

“She could be the stalker, Kate.”

“Finn told me she spent the night at his house when my own place was broken into. It wasn’t her.”

“But we think the stalker might be a tattoo artist. What if it is someone she’s working with?”

Kate processed that information. “But do you have any evidence that she is working with someone?”

“No.” Ethan’s frustration was obvious. “Do you have to go tonight? I could come with you tomorrow. We are executing the search warrant tonight on Frances’ house.”

“Kenzie’s leaving on a red-eye tonight.”

“What if there is evidence connected to the Rigby case in Frances’ locker?” Ethan lowered his voice. “You don’t want to be involved in that, Kate.”

“Professionally, no.” She was about to head into no-fly territory from a professional perspective. She knew, on the surface, that her decision to go with Kenzie seemed foolhardy. “Frances left me several photos of Imogen. She had a tattoo in one of the photos, Ethan.”

“What kind of tattoo?”

“I couldn’t tell. It was too blurry. But it made me think…” Kate swallowed. “My sister obviously had a lot of secrets. Maybe she knew Heather Rigby. Maybe Kenzie did, too. There could be more photos of them with Imogen’s belongings.” Kenzie’s car had slowed. It turned into a side road. Kate followed it. At the very end of the dead-end street, Kate glimpsed the sign for the self-storage building. “Maybe there are photos that would point to a different killer.”
Like Kenzie.

Kate knew that the police had hit a number of dead ends on the Heather Rigby case, the greatest roadblock being Frances’ confession. Without any evidence to establish a different killer, they were stuck with it. “If we could find some evidence—”

“You can bet that Kenzie will go through everything right now, Ethan. We’ve just arrived at the storage locker. I’m going with her.”

“Kate, hold her off until I get there. I don’t need a search warrant under these circumstances. But it will take at least twenty minutes,” he said, his voice a mixture of frustration and excitement. “We are at Frances’ house.”

“I’ll do my best, Ethan. But if she goes in without me, what should I do?”

I can’t let her get away with murder.

This wasn’t about vengeance for her sister’s destructive path. This was about justice for a girl who had never come home.

“Don’t go in.” But she heard what it cost him to say that. Evidence could be destroyed in minutes.

“I don’t think Kenzie would ask me to come if she planned to hurt me. It doesn’t make sense. She’s smart enough to know that I would notify someone of my whereabouts. All fingers would point to her.”

He exhaled. “Okay. Try to stall her. I’m on my way.”

Kenzie parked in a dark corner of the parking lot. She hopped out of the car and gestured to Kate, pointing at her watch.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Kate, be careful.”

Kate deliberately parked under a streetlight, on the other side of the parking lot. Kenzie strode over to the security door. Kate hurried after her. Weeds sprouted between the cracks of asphalt, scrubby bushes flanking the pothole-ridden lot. The facility didn’t inspire much confidence. It was rundown, with a hodgepodge of additions that created a rough L-shaped building. At the end of each wing, truck ramps led down to dented double-garage doors. A variety of loading bays dotted the building, the lower edges patchy with pieces of torn tire rubber. Punctures gashed the wood flanking the bays, no doubt the victim of careless drivers.

The entire place had a shoddy, derelict air. Kate was surprised that Frances would entrust any belongings to it. Kenzie stood on the narrow porch in front of the main entrance. She swiped the key and pushed the security door open. “Come on, Kate.”

Kate stepped inside. It was totally black. No light whatsoever. Not very promising. “We need some lights, Kenzie.”

“Just a sec.” Kenzie groped around the entrance, flipping a bunch of switches. Fluorescent light flickered reluctantly along the narrow corridor, shedding barely enought light to see. Farther along the corridor, Kate could see a few dark stretches where the bulb had burned out and had not been replaced.

Kenzie stuffed a folded envelope between the door and the frame. “I don’t trust this place. I’m going to leave the door open, just in case.”

“I don’t think it can lock us in, Kenzie.”

“I’m not taking any chances. I don’t want to miss my flight. And these lights look pretty crappy, too. If they go out, we’ll be able to see the streetlight.”

A sign with bright neon letters listed the storage units. Kenzie frowned. “I don’t see 132 on this.”

Kate shrugged. “Let’s head in the direction of the one hundred series. It must be around here somewhere.”

She realized what a foolish strategy that was about five minutes into their foray.

“This place is a friggin’ maze,” Kenzie muttered. “Whoever numbered it should have their head examined. We should have left a trail of bread crumbs.”

It was the third time they had had to retrace their steps. There was a strange sense of camaraderie that made Kate uncomfortable. Kenzie seemed to feel it, too. The tattoo artist couldn’t meet Kate’s gaze as they turned another blind corner.

And the sight of the mousetraps edging the corridors did little to enhance the experience.
Well, at least it means that there are probably no rats in residence,
Kate thought.

“There it is,” Kenzie announced, rounding a corner. She unlocked the door, slid it up and turned on the light.

The room was small, Kate noted with relief.

This shouldn’t take long.
Despite her bravado with Ethan, she was on edge about being in this place with Kenzie.

Two sets of metal shelving lined each wall. Document boxes had been neatly stacked on each shelf, marked in what Kate guessed was Frances’ pre-ALS hand.
Closet. Bed linens. School projects. Garden. Old toys. Books. Misc.
And there, on the end:
Friends (Imogen?).
Kate’s tension dropped a notch. So far, Kenzie had told the truth.