Licensed for Trouble (15 page)

PJ looked at her outfit—a pair of jeans, a plain brown T-shirt, a jean jacket. She
was
wearing her high-top patchwork Converse. “It's easier to blend if I don't look like I'm about to knife somebody.”

Stacey grinned. “Yeah, I s'pose. Who's the hottie?”

Max shifted behind her. PJ turned and hooked him around the arm. “He's my show-and-tell. I show—you tell.” She urged him toward Stacey. “Ever seen a tat like this before?” She turned Max, who took off his jacket and hiked up his sleeve.

Stacey removed her safety goggles. Peered at it. “It's a phoenix.”

“Right.”

“Well, that means rebirth. And the arrows—I've seen those on soldiers who earn medals. They don't wear them, so they get them tattooed.” She replaced her glasses. “I have a guy you should talk to. He's sort of my mentor. Jinx Jenkins runs a shop near the U in Dinkytown. Tell him I sent you.” She gave PJ the address and turned back to her client. “You know, that offer of free ink—a real tat—is still open. Maybe make a little flower or something to cover up the one you already have?”

Out of the corner of her eye, PJ saw Max's eyes flicker to her, and she suddenly wanted to put up her hand to cover—or protect?—Boone's scripted name on her arm. Thankfully, she wore a jacket. But she dredged up a breezy smile. “Nah. I'm not ready for that yet.”

“Really,” Stacey said, knowledge in her voice. “You come back to me when you are.”

Max waited until they were out on the street before he spoke. “You have a tattoo?”

PJ unlocked the Vic lounging against the curb. “I have a memory.”

He muttered something about her being the lucky one as they climbed into the car and headed for Dinkytown.

Big Ten Tattoos looked like a place that catered to the college set, with many of their designs featuring local fraternities or sororities. Jinx—or Marlon Jenkins, whose name PJ read off the certificate by the front door—came from the back, looking like a man who knew his trade.

Every inch of him was marked. An epic medieval battle played out in his vibrant sleeves all the way down his wrists, and even the back of his hand bore a black-and-white emblem, something Celtic-looking. A maroon baseball hat bearing a Minnesota gopher capped what looked like a bald head, and she supposed he might even have a tat under there. He set down a tray of instruments—a gun, some ink, a package of black surgical gloves. “Are you my three o'clock?”

“Nope. Stacey over at Happy Tats sent us. My friend here has a tat that we're trying to figure out the meaning of.”

He glanced at Max. “What—you don't know what you got?”

“He doesn't remember getting it.”

Jinx frowned. “Were you drunk? on shore leave?”

“Do I look like a soldier to you?”

Jinx sat down on the stool, crossing his colorful arms so the thick muscles bulged. “Yep.”

Max glanced at PJ and she nodded. “Will you take a look at it?”

Jinx gestured him over. Max again removed his coat, pulled up his shirtsleeve.

Jinx studied it a moment. “Do I know you?”

Max looked at him. “I don't know—do you?”

Even from three feet away, PJ could sense Max's quickening heartbeat, his intake of breath, the hope on his face.

“I've seen this tat before. I inked it on a guy a few years back.”

“Was it me?”

Jinx seemed to be searching Max's face. “Nah, it wasn't you. But I do have a picture of the tat.”

He reached under the counter and pulled out a three-ring binder, flipping through it until he found a Polaroid of a man's shoulder, including a shot of his torso.

“Fine piece of artistry, if you ask me.”

“Is there a name with it?”

“Nope. I only keep records back for a year.”

Max stared at it. PJ leaned over his arm. “That's not you, my friend. Sorry.”

“How do you know?”

She pointed to the picture. “It's different from yours—it's missing the fire yours has around the phoenix. This one is more plain.” She glanced at Jinx. “But still very artistic.”

Jinx studied Max's arm for a moment. “You're right. It looks like the work of a friend of mine. He had a shop down the street. I do remember quite a few soldiers coming by at the time.”

“Do you have his name?” Max asked.

“Yep. But it's not going to help you.” He closed the book. “Guy was killed in a bar fight about a year ago.”

PJ could feel Max's hope deflate beside her.

Jinx focused on Max's face as if probing for guile. “You really don't remember getting this?”

“I wish I did.”

“Well, soldier, maybe you shouldn't. I've seen variations of this tat around on a few men. They all have one thing in common.”

“What's that?” PJ didn't know why, but her hand found its way to Max's forearm as if to steady him.

Good thing, too, because as soon as the words left Jinx's mouth, Max stiffened and inhaled hard.

“Guys that have these usually survived being prisoners of war.”

Chapter Nine

“He was a POW?”

Boone couldn't erase the note of surprise—PJ would even label it admiration—from his voice as they sat overlooking the veranda at Sunsets Supper Club. The night hovered beyond the splash of setting sun on the waves, and a family of Canadian honkers had stopped and bedded down on the beach on their journey south.

“That's what the tattoo guy said. And that probably accounts for the scar on his chest. And two more—one on his calf and the other under his jaw—that he showed me when we returned to the house.” PJ finally took a bite of cold steak. She chased it with her Diet Coke.

“Stop right there. That's too much information for me, PJ. Even if we aren't dating.”

Inside the supper club, she knew a few eyes had turned on them as they walked in—and what girl wouldn't enjoy the prestige of dining out with Detective Boone Buckam, dressed to kill in a green button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. But she wasn't Boone's girl anymore, even if that left her feeling a little like Dog next to him, homeless and without a clear identity.

At least she didn't look like a vagrant, thanks to Connie's jacket and a white dress shirt. Connie had been stirring up a batch of brownies, Davy seated at the counter licking the wooden spoon, when PJ stopped by.

“Auntie PJ!” He flung himself into her arms, and she gave him an extra twirl, not caring that he smeared her jacket with brownie goo.

She wiped it off with a sponge and stayed to visit for a while, snagging a couple of late-afternoon brownies on her way out.

Which probably accounted for why she was swimming her flank steak through the mushroom sauce, replaying Max's reaction to Jinx's proclamation. She'd called Jeremy and left a message, asking him to send Max's picture to his contacts in the military.

“That's some pretty good legwork,” Boone said, finishing off the last bite of his salmon.

“See, I am a private investigator.”

“Oh, I've never doubted your ability to uncover the truth.” Boone smiled over his glass. “Just the wisdom of it.” He set down his glass. “Which reminds me . . .” He reached into his suit coat and pulled out an envelope. Set it on the table.

“What's this?” PJ reached for the envelope. It contained two sheets of paper.

“One is a copy of the police report on the night Max washed up onshore. I'll sum it up for you.” Boone signaled to the waiter. “The Kellogg hobo found Max Smith around midnight four years ago in October. He was floating in the water, and the hobo pulled him ashore. The report lists the statement and Max's injuries.”

“I can't believe the Kellogg hobo is still around. He's been homeless in Kellogg since . . . well, since we were kids. But I did see him recently—he actually gave me a handkerchief a couple months ago.” The night Connie had thrown her out on the street, to be exact.

“His name's Murph, by the way. At least, that's what he calls himself. He's still homeless, although believe me, efforts have been made to get him into a shelter. He always seems to bounce out—as if he doesn't want the help. Then he disappears for a while, only to pop up again after a couple months. I think he must make a circuit around the lake. The good news is that I saw him not long ago, camped out under the Maximilian Bay Bridge, not far from where he pulled Max out of the water.”

“Maybe I could talk to him, see what he remembers.”

Boone winced. “I'm not sure that's the best idea. Besides, what is he going to remember?”

“I don't know—but shouldn't I follow up every lead?”

The waiter came over, and Boone gestured to PJ's plate. “Her dinner is cold—can you reheat it?”

The waiter picked it up. “Right away, sir.” He took it away as PJ tried to catch up.

“How'd you know my steak was cold?”

Boone shot her an I-know-you; don't-be-stupid look. “The only thing you eat cold is pizza. And you've been pushing your food around your plate for a half hour. What are you thinking about?”

“Max. And Joy Kellogg. And a guy named Hugh. And this strange locket Max found.”

“Who's Hugh?”

“I don't know. His name was on the back of a picture in the locket.”

Boone wiped his mouth. “Which brings me to the next page.” He reached over and tugged out the bottom sheet. “I wrote up a little summary of the police report on Joy.”

PJ stared at his hand-scrawled summary. “You did this for me?”

“The case files belong to the Kellogg police. And although the file is cold, it's still open. I can't take it out of the station. I only took Max's because he's given his tacit permission.”

PJ tried to scan the page, but Boone curled his hand over the top, folding it. “Here's the gist—Joy Kellogg was trouble. She ran away from home when she was a teenager, and when she returned, she had a baby girl with her. Then, suddenly, she married Clay—you know, his father owned the sailboat place? Things weren't always pretty between Clay and Joy. According to the maid's account, they fought a lot and especially the night she went missing. Apparently Joy and Clay got into a ringer, and she stormed out of the house. They found her the next morning, facedown in the pond. Clay was at home all night—he has an alibi, verified by the maid. And there was no real sign of foul play. It could have been an accident—”

“I thought you said she was murdered?”

“Rumors around the station. But nothing was ever proven. So?” He lifted a shoulder.

PJ put the summary in the envelope just as her plate of food returned. She dug into it. “I want to go talk to the hobo after dinner. Do you think we can find him?”

Boone pressed his lips together. “Peej—we need to talk.”

Her appetite left her, despite the sizzling steak. Now he would ask her to reconsider their breakup, and he'd do it by smiling softly, that tease in his blue eyes that could make her brain turn to mush. And if he took her hand while he did it, ran his thumb over the top if it, then she just might say—

“I met someone.”

She stilled, her fork unmoving in her grip. He gave her a grim smile. “She works for the paper, someone I've been friends with for a while. We saw each other again at the Harvest Festival, and . . . well, I just wanted you to know before . . .” He swallowed. “Before you saw us around town or something.”

Which she easily read as a thinly veiled reference to the fact that he'd walked straight in on her and Jeremy in a lip-lock. The thought of Boone pulling another woman into his arms . . .

Yes, she'd definitely lost her appetite. She set down her fork, put her hands in her lap. Breathed. Smiled.

“Oh. That's. Nice.” That wasn't really her voice, was it? She sounded pitiful. She tried again. “I . . . I'm happy for you.”

She should just give up now. But Boone was buying it—or at least acting like it—because he sighed, something like relief washing over his face. “I'm glad. I wanted us to be friends, but I wasn't sure how, and I think this is a good place to begin. Like a fresh start for both of us. You with . . . Jeremy, and me with Lindy.”

Lindy?
As in Lindy the photographer? Perfect.

She forced a smile through her teeth, trying oh so hard to unclench them. Connie's words came back to her. So maybe this was what it looked like to be friends with Boone. She'd just breathe through it. “Yes . . . good for us. Or you. I'm not exactly with Jeremy.”

He leaned forward. “Really? Is everything okay?” His move didn't seem proprietary as much as something, indeed, a friend might say to another friend. Like two mature adults.

Her eyes burned. She was so not talking to her ex-flame about her confusing non–love life with the mysterious Jeremy Kane, when she right now had the overwhelming urge to grab his hand, force him to race with her out to his Mustang, and head for the border.

And what was that? Leftover pride? The remains of their affection?

She took a breath as she stared at her food.

“PJ, are you really okay?”

She closed her eyes. Oh, please, please, she didn't want to cry. She broke up with Boone for good reasons, like the fact that he couldn't see the woman she wanted to become, or that they had both vastly changed since high school. But . . .

She got up, feeling a little woozy.

“PJ?”

“I need some air.” She pasted something that might have been a smile on her face, strode through the restaurant, and pushed straight out into the cool night. The rich fragrance of fall, the stirring of the wind in the trees trickling leaves at her feet and sweeping the waves onto the shore—it all jolted her, and she gulped in a breath. Another.

But she needed more than air. She needed her brain clear, her heart free.

A fresh start.

But—and the truth lunged at her, took hold even as she stalked out to the beach—she didn't want one. She did like being Nothing but Trouble, the girl for whom Boone had pined ten years. She wanted him to carry a torch for her. She loved the thought of falling effortlessly back into his arms.