I told him about Mr. That’s Amore. “He’s from the chapel. The drive-through.” I explained about the stitching on his pocket.
“Brett, how do you get yourself into these messes?” He was referring to a couple of other incidence in the last six months, incidence that were completely out of my control, thank you very much.
“I told you not to let that wacko borrow your car,” he said.
“She’s not a wacko,” I said, although not with much confidence. Sylvia had her moments. I didn’t know exactly how old she was, but I guessed she was in her seventies or possibly early eighties. She and her former husband had owned Murder Ink before he died and she retired, handing over the business to Jeff. She spent a lot of time at the tattoo shop and had actually inked my calf: Napoleon going up the Alps. It was one of my favorite Jacques-Louis David paintings, and I did the stencil. Sylvia, as far as I knew, didn’t do any original designs—and sometimes I wondered whether she hadn’t a touch of dementia. But I was happy she and Bernie had hooked up. They started swimming together at the Henderson pool a few months back, and it developed into a late-in-life romance.
“So you don’t recognize this man?” Tim asked, completely reversing the conversation and throwing me off balance for a second.
“You mean the guy in the trunk?”
“Yes, Brett, the guy in the trunk.” Exasperation had seeped into Tim’s tone, and I totally didn’t need that right now.
I counted to ten as I leaned a little farther into the trunk and peered at Mr. That’s Amore. His face was whiter than that zinc stuff you put on your nose so you won’t get sunburn. His eyes were closed, but his mouth hung open slackly, as if he didn’t have the energy to close it. With only a few spots of dust and dirt, the tux was remarkably neat, considering he was stuffed in my trunk.
He looked uncannily like Dean Martin.
I didn’t have time to ponder that further, because I could also see the side of his neck, below his ear.
He had a tattoo of a spiderweb.
I told Tim, who made a sort of mmm sound. I knew what he was thinking: Spiderweb tattoos were popular in prison. And from the looks of this ink, it could’ve been a prison tat: a sort of blue-black with rough edges that bled into the skin.
And what was that? I leaned in even farther, my finger precariously close to pulling back the white shirt collar.
Tim was warning me not to touch anything.
I yanked my hand back.
“No kidding,” I said, eager not to give myself away. “Although I did open the trunk, so my fingerprints are on that.”
“I should be there shortly,” he said, then added, “The forensics team and a cruiser are on their way. Stay where you are and wait for them.”
Where I was, was in the driveway. I was just back from Red Rock. I wanted to change out of my grubby jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and hiking boots, and, most of all, I wanted something to eat. I’d had some toast before I left at seven, but that was four hours ago. I also needed to get to the shop by noon, because I had a client scheduled.
“Do I have time for a shower?” I asked hopefully.
“No.” Tim hung up.
Without thinking, I leaned against the back of the car. Immediately I felt it bounce a little—not that I’m that heavy; I’m actually pretty skinny—and Mr. That’s Amore shifted slightly with the movement. I jumped away from the Mustang as I stared at the body, which rocked for a second and then rested again.
There it was. Poking out slightly through the collar of the shirt.
I couldn’t help myself. I reached in and moved the fabric so I could see it better.
It was the end of a cord.
A clip cord.
I’d recognize it anywhere.
A clip cord is used to attach a tattoo machine to its power source.
Chapter 2
My eyes strayed from the cord back to the spiderweb, noticing now a dark line running across the base of Mr. That’s Amore’s neck. A dark line that had nothing to do with tattoos but probably everything to do with that cord.
A clip cord can be six feet long. The part that attaches to the tattoo machine has L-shaped ends that clip onto the binding posts, and the other end sticks into the power source, which looks sort of