“I’m not sure about that,” he said slowly, making me wonder whether he didn’t have something to hide.
“Can I give them your number?” I asked. “It might be really helpful.”
He sighed in resignation. “Well, maybe. Sure, I guess so.” He probably figured that I already knew where he worked, so the cops could find him anyway.
“I really appreciate this,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Okay, sure,” he said and hung up.
I put the phone back in its cradle and stared out at the canal. A gondola was sailing past, the gondolier smoothly pushing it along the water, a couple of tourists smiling at each other as they fed into the illusion. I heard the faint strains of a harpsichord and knew the dancing was about to start in St. Mark’s Square, the men dressed in hose and ornate coats, the women in corsets and long, flouncy gowns. I spotted a mime scurrying past on the other side of the canal, not bothering to stop for the camera flashes. His shift must be up.
Joel and Bitsy and Flanigan were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had invited Flanigan for a margarita.
I could so use one myself right now.
I pondered what Dan Franklin had told me, wondered about his reaction to the police contacting him, his obvious dislike of Lucci.
And then there was my car. Maybe I shouldn’t drive such a flashy car, but
Bullitt
was one of my favorite movies and I had a crush on Steve McQueen. When I’d first seen the red Mustang, I fell in love with it and the idea that I was living my own movie.
I’d driven all the way out here from New Jersey in that car, leaving my parents’ house for only the second time in my thirty years. The first time I’d gone to Philadelphia, to the University of the Arts. I moved back in with my parents afterward, wondering what I’d do with my life. That was when I hooked up with Mickey at the Ink Spot and began my tattooing career.
My mother still had issues with my choice. My father, a former Jersey cop, not so much. He encouraged me to be creative in any way I could. If I couldn’t set up an easel along the Seine in Paris, then I’d tattoo body parts in northern New Jersey.
Owning my own shop had been only a dream, but when Tim called me to tell me about his friend Flip Armstrong, who wanted to sell his business in Vegas, I jumped at the chance.
I’d gotten a little stagnant with Mickey, not that we weren’t having fun, but I was ready to move on. Both from the Ink Spot and from my fiancé, Paul, who felt that, as his new wife, I shouldn’t have a career, but only support his.
So
wasn’t going to happen.
Tim’s girlfriend, Shawna, had moved out, too, and he needed a roommate to help pay his mortgage. It was win-win all around.
Joel’s big frame came around the corner, interrupting my thoughts. Bitsy after him, and Flanigan at the rear.
Showtime.
I met them at the door, opening it as they all came in the shop.
Flanigan gave me a nod, Bitsy rolled her eyes, and Joel looked as if he was about to cry.
This should be fun. Not.
“Do you have a place where I can speak with Mr. Sloane alone?” Flanigan asked.
Joel’s eyes grew wide, and I gave him a pat on the arm to try to reassure him.
“You can use the office,” I said. “It’s in the back there.”
Flanigan allowed Joel to lead the way, and Bitsy and I stared after them until we heard the door shut. I turned to her.
“What has he said?”
She shook her head. “Not much. Just that he wants to talk to Joel about the clip cord and this Dan Franklin guy.”
“I just got off the phone with the real Dan Franklin,” I said softly, not wanting Flanigan to hear. I told her about the conversation.
“You need to tell him,” she said, tossing her head toward the back of the shop. “You know, maybe Dan Franklin really killed that guy and is trying to throw you off the trail by pretending to cooperate.”
The thought had crossed my mind.
“Should I interrupt?”
Bitsy shrugged. “Depends how important you think it is.”
I thought about my car again. It was pretty important.
I went to the back of the shop and tapped on the office door.
Flanigan opened it as if he owned the place. Did not endear me to him.
“Yes?” he asked, his tone frosty.
“I talked to Dan Franklin,” I said, launching into the phone conversation before Flanigan could stop me.
When I was done, he scratched his chin and frowned. “Thank you for this information. I appreciate you sharing it with me.” He said it as though he didn’t think I’d share anything. I hoped Willis wasn’t dissing me behind my back.
I started to close the door, but Flanigan moved toward me, holding up a finger to Joel to indicate he’d be but a second. A few steps outside the office, Flanigan stopped.
“Miss Kavanaugh, I understand you’re friends with Jeff Coleman, Sylvia Coleman’s son?”
I nodded, unsure where this was going.
“I spoke with Mr. Coleman earlier, and he wasn’t forthcoming with any information about his mother and her new husband. I did, however, speak to Mr. Applebaum’s daughter, who is very concerned, as she should be. She was very helpful in giving us the make and model and license plate number of the car her father was driving.”
He paused for a second, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what he was going to say.
“We found Mr. Applebaum’s car. Outside the Grand Canyon entrance. It was abandoned.”
Chapter 9
I
t took a few minutes to sink in. Sylvia and Bernie’s car? Abandoned? That wasn’t good. I thought about Jeff, on his mission to find them.
Flanigan was looking at me as if he could read my mind.
“Do you have another number where I could reach Mr. Coleman?” he asked, and from the way he said it, he knew I did.
“I might be able to find out,” I said.
Flanigan gave me a smile, as if I were a puppy that had passed obedience training. “Thank you.” And then he turned and went back into the office. In the second before he closed the door, I caught Joel’s eye and gave him a small smile. He smiled back, although I could see how nervous he was.
I ducked into the staff room and got my phone. I punched in Jeff’s number.
“What’s up, Kavanaugh?” he asked.
“Where are you?”
“Some little hole in the wall. No sign of them.”
“Well, the police found their car.”
Silence, then, “Where?”
I told him what Flanigan had said.
More silence.
“Jeff?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“He wants to talk to you.”
“I bet he does.”
“Listen, Jeff, now is not the time to be some sort of renegade. Your mother might be in trouble.”
“She might be.”
“So call Flanigan.”
“I’m not far from the canyon. I’ll get in touch with the rangers. They’ll tell me what’s going on.”
“Why don’t you want to talk to this cop?”
“Because he thinks my mother had something to do with that guy in your trunk.”
I suppressed a chuckle. “I doubt that.”
“He sure as hell indicated that when I talked to him before.”
“That’s his job.”
“Trust my instincts on this, Kavanaugh. I’ll be back tonight. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
And the call ended.
I heard a small cough.
Flanigan was standing in the doorway.
“Was that Mr. Coleman?”
I put my phone back in my bag. “Yes.”
“Is he going to take my call?”
“No.”
We stared each other down.
“There’s just so much I can do,” I finally said. “I told him you needed to talk to him. I told him about finding their car. He said he’s going to see the rangers at the canyon.”
“They won’t be able to help.” Flanigan started picking at imaginary lint on his suit. “The state police have already taken the car away.”
“Well, then he’ll find that out, and he’ll come home.”
“Did Mr. Coleman know Mr. Lucci?”
The question came out from left field.
“I—uh—I don’t know,” I sputtered.
“His mother knew him,” Flanigan said. “She requested he sing a solo at their wedding.”
“Maybe she just liked the way he sang.”
“She requested him by phone before she and Mr. Applebaum arrived. She requested him by name.”
I sighed. “So because of that, you suspect a little old lady who’s got to be pushing eighty of killing him and stuffing him in my trunk?”
“She had access to clip cords, too.”
True enough.
“What about the rat?” I asked, suddenly remembering it. “Why the rat?”
Flanigan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “We need to talk to her.”
“But she’s missing. Maybe whoever killed Lucci did something to her, too.” As I said it, I saw something cross his face, and I couldn’t breathe for a second. He thought that, too. He wasn’t trying to find Sylvia because he thought she and Bernie killed Lucci. He wanted to find them because he thought something had happened to them.
“You think they saw something, don’t you?” I asked softly. “You think they’re witnesses and that’s why they’re missing.”
From his expression, I could tell I was right.
“Mr. Sloane has identified a picture of Mr. Lucci as the person who posed as Dan Franklin,” Flanigan said. “And Miss Hendricks concurred. Miss Hendricks also gave me Mr. Franklin’s phone number. If you hear from Mr. Coleman again, I’d appreciate you emphasizing to him how important it is that he contact me.”
I nodded, and he stood there, staring at me.
“Is there something else?” I asked, his gaze unnerving me, as if he thought I was holding back on something. Which now, I really wasn’t.
“According to the time line you gave me yesterday, the Applebaums returned your car at three o’clock, and it was in the parking garage here until you left work. What time did you leave?”
We’d been over this, but I made a point to look at the appointment book so I could tell him the exact times of my clients and that I’d left an hour after my last one, at midnight.
“Were Miss Hendricks and Mr. Sloane still here?”
I’d cleaned up myself because they’d both left early. I told him so. “Ace left about half an hour before I did.”
“Ace?”
“Ace van Nes, my other tattooist.”
“And when you left, you took your car right home?”
I nodded.
“Can you show me where it was parked?”
I frowned. This seemed a bit odd. But who was I to tell the detective how to do his job? Bitsy was in the staff room, and I told her where I was going. She seemed curious, too, but didn’t say anything.
I usually parked on the sixth level, and that’s where Sylvia and Bernie left the car. Three spaces away from where I had parked the Jeep today.
“You’re sure about this location?” Flanigan asked, circling the Mercedes that was occupying the spot now.
I pointed to the row and level sign on the concrete post in front of the Mercedes. “This was it—I know from the sign,” I said.
Flanigan took out his little notebook and began to make notations. He stooped down, checked the ground, stuck his finger in a spot of oil, and then wiped it off on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
“Does anyone else have a key to your car?” he asked as he went around the front of the Mercedes, inspecting the concrete barrier in front of it.
“My brother has one,” I said. “But no one else.”
Finally, he closed the notebook and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He stood, facing me. “I appreciate your time, Miss Kavanaugh.”
“Brett. You can call me Brett.”
“Thank you, Miss Kavanaugh.” So much for that. “I’ll be in touch.”
And he walked over to the elevator, which had just opened, got in, and disappeared as the doors closed on him. What was that all about?
Considering how the day had started, it ended on a quiet note. I tried Jeff again, but now he wasn’t answering my calls, either. Joel brought back a huge burger from Johnny Rockets and ate it sans bun. I let Bitsy go home early and closed up the shop at eleven. The rest of the mall was shutting down, too—the gates pulled down over the store entrances, the gondolas docked and rocking slowly on the canal.
I didn’t much like driving Tim’s Jeep. The gearshift was stiff, and I had to press all the way down on the brakes to stop. The air-conditioning wasn’t all that great, either, although tonight it was cool, and I hugged my jean jacket around me as I got out of the Jeep and scurried up the steps to the house.
It was dark; I didn’t see any sign of Tim’s Impala, so I figured he was off doing cop stuff. I wanted to pick his brain about Flanigan, but it would have to wait.
I stuck the key in the door and pushed it open. Tim had left the screen door open to the back porch and the air inside was cooler than out. I shed my jacket, threw it over one of the kitchen chairs, and opened the refrigerator, looking for some seltzer and maybe a late-night snack. The Johnny Rockets burger was hours ago now.
I leaned into the fridge to grab the seltzer off the bottom shelf. As I stood back up, a hand reached around me and shut the door, trapping me against the counter.
Chapter 10
I
caught my breath and twisted around.
Jeff Coleman took the bottle from me.
“Nothing stronger, Kavanaugh?” he teased as he pulled a couple of glasses out of the cupboard.
“What are you doing in here? How did you get in?”
He handed me a glass of seltzer. “I have my ways.”
A few months ago he was going to pick a lock, but we got interrupted so I never saw him actually do it. But because I lived with a cop, I wouldn’t think it would be quite so easy for him to get into our house.
“What did you really do in the Marines?” I asked. “Were you some sort of covert operative?”