'THE MISSING INK'
Chapter 1
I've made grown men cry.
It's not a crime.
I wasn't sure exactly what the cop was doing, hovering
outside the shop. Was he expecting a robbery? Was he just giving us a
little free security?
I pulled the door open and stepped outside.
"Can I help you, Officer?" I politely
asked his profile. I knew how to talk to cops: Keep it cordial, no sudden
moves.
He was studying the frosted letters on the window,
his hands on his hips. He didn't look ready to grab the gun or the nightstick
that flanked his stocky frame. He turned his head slowly, his mouth set
in a grim line, eyes narrowed as they settled on my face.
It unsettled me. Usually people stared at the ink
on my left arm - a detailed replica of Monet's water lily garden, complete
with a weeping willow and footbridge - or the dragon that creeps up over
my right breast under my tank top.
"You work here?" he finally asked, his
voice as deep as I'd expected.
"I'm the owner. Brett Kavanaugh."
A twitch in his left cheek told me he didn't expect
that, even though the name of the shop is The Painted Lady and he'd obviously
known that, since he'd been staring at the letters long enough. Or maybe
he recognized my last name.
"What can I do for you?" I asked again,
when he didn't say anything.
"I'm looking for a girl."
I chuckled. "This is Vegas; a lot of guys are
looking for girls. But this is a tattoo shop, not a brothel."
He didn't even crack a smile.
Okay, so the name of the shop might not have been
a great idea, and occasionally we did get calls asking for girls. But
this was the first time a cop had come around.
I folded my arms across my chest. "You can't
stay outside my shop. We've got clients. It's not exactly good for business." I
had another thought. "Unless, of course, you want to come in?"
He ignored my question, reached over, and pulled
a photograph out of his breast pocket. He held it up so I could see it.
"Recognize her?"
I stepped closer to see it better.
"Why are you looking for her?" I asked.
The cop, whose nameplate dubbed him Willis, shook
his head. "Do you recognize her?"
"Is she dead?"
"No."
That narrowed it down.
"What's up with her, then?"
Willis took a deep breath, obviously irritated.
I didn't much care. I was curious; I had a half an hour until my next
client, so I had some time to kill.
"You haven't seen her?" It was a new tack
for him, and he made the transition smoothly.
"Are you checking at every shop?"
"Yes."
At least we weren't being discriminated against.
I wondered how long it took him to go into Shooz. Those stiletto heels
could be even more intimidating than my tats.
The Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes are what da Vinci
would've designed if he were a capitalist. Besides Shooz - my favorite
store - there was Ann Taylor, Ca'd'Oro, Kenneth Cole, Gandini, and Davidoff,
among others.
Then there's The Painted Lady.
At first, I figured some palms got greased for the
shop to get this location. It's sandwiched between Barneys New York and
Jack Gallery. But I found out that Flip Armstrong, the guy I bought the
business from, apparently had tattooed a prominent city politician's
name in a very private place on a local hooker. It's amazing what a little
blackmail will do for you.
The only prerequisite was that we had to look respectable.
No street-shop flash in the windows. No sign advertising tattoos. Anyone
walking by would think we were an art gallery; through the glass windows,
passersby could see the long mahogany table that served as our front
desk, a spray of orchids perched on its edge. Paintings hung on the cream-colored
walls on either side that hid the four private rooms behind them. The
blond laminate flooring was sleek, sophisticated. What the public couldn't
see was the staff room behind the second room on the right, and the small
waiting area with a long black leather sofa and glass coffee table covered
with tat magazines behind the room on the left. A large, vertical, comic-book
version of one of Degas's ballerinas adorned the back wall.
"Got a big job ahead of you. You working alone?" I
wasn't answering Willis's questions, and his irritation was growing.
"Just yes or no, did you see her or not?"
I shrugged. I may know how to talk to cops, but
I also knew not to say anything that might incriminate me - or anyone
else.
He shoved the picture back in his pocket and brushed
past me in long strides, his face flushed red. Another uniformed cop
was coming out of Godiva across the way - maybe he needed a chocolate-covered
strawberry to get him through the rest of his canvass - but I turned
my attention back to Willis when I heard a shout. He'd collided with
a family of four as he crossed the footbridge over the canal that ran
past St. Mark's Square. A gondola sailed under the bridge, the gondolier
never missing a stroke.
I could never be fooled into thinking this was really
Venice, but the tourists liked to believe the illusion.
Las Vegas is one big illusion.
I went back into the shop, thinking about that picture.
It hadn't fooled me, either.
There was no mistaking it: That girl had been in
the shop two days ago. She had wanted a devotion tattoo.
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