Pretty in Ink (Voretti Family Book 3) (2 page)

She opened it. The plastic-covered pages held hundreds of designs. Most were sketched on paper, but a few…

She sucked in a breath.

A few were pictures of tattoos directly on a customer’s skin, the hint of red surrounding the ink an indication of how recently the needles had done their work.

There was a mechanical whirr from the back room. The tattoo machine.
 

She’d seen a picture of one on the internet, and now she couldn’t get it out of her head. The shiny metal. The sharp angles. Those long needles that would inject dye under her skin.
 

Sweat pooled under her arms. She’d designed her peasant blouse to billow out, but she was so sweaty the cotton clung to her skin. She swallowed once, then again, but her stomach refused to settle.

The door to the back opened, and there was a woman’s cheerful voice. “Can I help you?”

Liv clutched the counter so tightly, the edge of the glass bit into her palm. The world swirled unevenly around her.

Something jabbed into her side. CJ’s elbow.

“Are you okay?” The woman sounded concerned now. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“She’s fine. She’s just wimping out. Like I knew she would.”

“I am not.” The words sounded faint and tinny, even to her own ears. “I was thinking about what design I want.”
 

“Yeah?” CJ sounded skeptical.

She stabbed her finger in the direction of a butterfly. Or maybe it was a flower. Everything was blurry, so it was hard to say. In any case, it was small.
 

Small and tasteful—that was what she wanted. Something that would express her individuality, but that could be easily covered in case she needed to ask her parents for a loan to cover the rent next month. “That one.”

“You sure?” CJ sounded faintly alarmed, like he hadn’t really expected her to go through with it. “Maybe you should think it over.”

“He’s right,” the woman said. “You don’t want to rush into anything.”

Her mother’s voice echoed inside her head.
Are you sure you want to wear that? You’re showing a lot of skin.

Her sister Annabelle.
You can’t blow off the interview. Even if it’s not your dream job, it’s a foot in the door.

Her brother Alex.
You’re an adult now, Livvy. You have responsibilities.

Caleb.
Don’t do anything stupid.

“I’m sure.” The words came out strong and clear.
 

After that, things happened quickly. There were papers to sign and deep breaths to take, and then she found herself in one of the back rooms with CJ,
 
waiting for the tattoo artist.

“You gonna sit?” CJ gestured toward the chair in the center of the small room—the one that looked like it belonged in a dentists’ office or torture chamber.

She wanted to run, but she refused to give in to her stupid phobia.
Sit
. That was a good idea. If she could lay back and stretch her legs, her body would be
forced
to relax. “Yeah. Okay.”

But no sooner had her butt met the vinyl than her muscles twitched, already anxious to escape. The tattoo machine sat on a small counter next to her, metal glinting under the overhead lights. A sealed packet sat next to it, holding an attachment with needles.

She averted her eyes, but she could still see the needles—why did the thing need so many needles?—like they had imprinted themselves on her retinas.
 

She couldn’t do this. She had to get out of here.
 

“Chill, babe.” CJ eased her back into the chair she’d been half way out of. He held her hand, weaving his fingers through hers the way he used to when they first started dating, and she told herself, for the thirty-eighth time, that everything was going to be fine. Of course it was.
 

“Close your eyes,” CJ said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

T
HE
INTERROGATION
ROOM
door closed behind Caleb, and his muscles unclenched, glad to be back where he belonged. Inside these four white walls, he was in control. It didn’t matter that it had only been six weeks since he’d been promoted to detective. When someone was guilty, he could smell it. And guilt was wafting off the man sitting at the battered metal table, like putrescine vaporizing off a corpse.

Polke’s vulture eyes locked onto him. Caleb kept his expression carefully blank. No reason to scare the man yet.
 

After a quick glance at the wall-mounted cameras to make sure they were on, Caleb sat across from Polke. “Mr. Polke. I’m Detective Ward. I know you gave Officer Conrad your official statement two weeks ago, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to you that night. So take me through the events one more time. You got home from work, walked into the apartment, and…”

Polke heaved out a long, slow breath, like he was a put-upon mourner instead of a lying slime who’d been cheating on his wife. The same wife who’d mysteriously ODed on an antidepressant she hadn’t had a prescription for.
 

Finally, like he was doing Caleb a big favor, Polke launched into his story. “Soon as I got home, I went to the kitchen to get a beer. But there was no Bud in the fridge. Kim was supposed to go to the grocery store, but she didn’t. So I went looking for her. As soon as I found her in the bedroom, I called the ambulance, but, you know… With all the pills she took, it was too late.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Polke.”

“Yeah.” The guy glanced at the wall-mounted clock. “Thanks.”

He wasn’t sad. He didn’t have that detached, robotic look of someone in shock.
 

He was bored.

“Just one thing I want to clear up. How did you know Kim was home?”

“Huh?” Polke’s gaze jumped from the clock back to Caleb, finally picking up on the fact that his second visit to the station was more than a formality.

“You said she was supposed to go to the grocery store. Didn’t you think she might be there?”

A glare flickered through Polke’s polite facade, then disappeared. “No. Her car was in the lot.”

“And when was the last time you saw your wife alive?”

“The morning before I found her.”

“What time?”

“Right before I left for work. Around eight.”

“What were her plans for the day?”

“I don’t know.” Polke crossed his arms over his chest, and Caleb flashed back onto CJ outside
Permanent Ink
, oozing that same don’t-mess-with-me vibe.

“I don’t keep track of her social calendar,” Polke said.

Caleb slammed his mental doors hard—he had work to do and he didn’t need distractions—but the hipster asshole stuck his foot in the jamb.
 

Fine. Caleb would simply ignore him. “But you knew she was going grocery shopping.”

“Only because I told her to. Woman hadn’t been out of the house in weeks.”

There
was the opening he’d been looking for. Caleb leaned back in his chair, but his gaze didn’t stray from Polke. “How many weeks?”

“Two? Three? I wasn’t keeping track.”

“She must’ve left the house to see her doctor.”

“What the hell for? Woman was in perfect health. Except for being crazy.”

“So she wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist?”

“You kidding me?” Polke had the nerve to smirk. “If she’d gotten her ass to the shrink, she wouldn’t’ve offed herself, would she?”

“Did you ever try to get her to see someone?”

In the ensuing silence, Caleb could practically hear the gears in Polke’s mind grinding together, trying to manufacture the right response. If he said no he was a bad husband. But if he said yes…

“Of course I did,” Polke blustered. “I even found one for her, but she wouldn’t make an appointment with the guy.”

Bingo
. That last, lingering worry about CJ disappeared. There was only the man in front of him. The one who was writing himself a one-way ticket to prison without even knowing it. “How did you find the doctor? Did someone recommend him?”

“Yeah.” Polke hesitated. “A friend of mine.”

“And this friend can confirm?”

“I thought you were trying to find out what happened to my wife. Not shopping for a shrink.”

“I’m just trying to establish your wife’s mental state at the time of her death.”

“Crazy. So crazy she wouldn’t even see a doctor!”

“I need the name of your friend so I can follow up.”

Again, Polke hesitated.

“I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Polke, and I don’t want to keep you here all day, but—”

“Sandra Kelly. We done now?”

Satisfaction surged through Caleb.
Sandra Kelly.
Polke’s mistress. “Not quite. Since we’ve established that your wife wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist, where did she get it?”

“Get what?”

“Your wife had a month’s supply of dosulepin in her system.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“It’s a tricyclic antidepressant. If a doctor didn’t prescribe it, where’d she get it?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Polke growled.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking a question.”

“How the hell should I know where she got the pills? Coulda been anywhere. Some shady website. A street dealer.”

“It would’ve been a lot easier for someone with clear symptoms of clinical depression to go to the doctor and get a prescription,” Caleb said lightly.

Polke’s voice went loud. “Well, she wasn’t thinking real clear, was she? Given she offed herself.”

“Calm down, Mr. Polke.”
 

“Mind your own fucking business!”

The sentence blared inside Caleb’s head like a bad song on repeat. Except, instead of hearing it in Polke’s cigarette-rough voice, he heard CJ’s nasally whine.
 

His fists clenched. That asshole could be touching Liv right now. Kissing her. And there was nothing Caleb could do about it, because CJ had been right. Liv
wasn’t
any of Caleb’s business.

“My wife died!” Polke shouted. “I should be grieving in the privacy of my own home, but instead I’m being interrogated! Why don’t you find some real criminals, huh?”
 

“This is all part of the process,” Caleb managed.

“Bullshit!” Polke jumped to his feet, almost turning over the table. “You have no right to harass innocent citizens!”
 

Before he knew what was happening, Caleb found himself on his feet too.
 

Focus, Ward.
“It’s my job to determine the cause of your wife’s death.”

“She killed herself! Even a dumbass like you should be able to figure that out.”

A strand of spit hit Caleb under the eye, and that fragile hold on his self-control snapped. He leaned across the table, getting right in Polke’s face. “Sit down!”
 

Polke slid back into his seat, glowering at Caleb resentfully.
 

Shit
. Caleb had been ready to throw down, and for what? Because Polke had called him a name? Polke was an emotional toddler who’d never learned he was the boss of his feelings instead of the other way around. Caleb was better than that.

He took a deep breath, but it was going to take more than one hit of oxygen to calm him down. There was too much adrenaline swimming through his system.
 

“Don’t move.” One glare, and Polke slid back into the chair he’d been inching out of for the second time. “I’ll be back.”

Caleb made it to the deserted hallway. He sank to the floor, his back against the cool cement wall.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In and out. No thoughts except emptying his lungs and then filling them up again.
 

Slowly but steadily, the adrenaline drained from his system, leaving him tired but calm. He opened his eyes and pushed to his feet. He felt normal.

Of course he did. This had been a fluke. An aberration. He was still adjusting to dealing with murderers instead of petty criminals, and he’d already been worked up from his confrontation with CJ. He wouldn’t let it happen again. He couldn’t let his emotions get in the way of his job.

He had his hand on the doorknob, ready to go back in, when his Lieutenant came around the corner.
 

“Sorry to ruin your fun,” Rich said, “but we have the final report back from the medical examiner. Cause of death is an overdose, like we thought, but the ME can’t make a call on manner of death. Could be a homicide, could be a suicide. So I’m pulling everyone off the case. We can’t afford to waste any more resources.”

No way. Caleb wasn’t gonna let Polke walk out of the station like nothing had happened. “The husband killed her, Rich. I can feel it.”

“Yeah? Well, unless you can work your Murder Whisperer magic and get a confession, we’re screwed, because we can’t even show a crime was committed in the first place. Meanwhile, I’ve got ten other open cases I need you on.”

“Polke confirmed that his wife didn’t have a prescription for dosulepin. Said she wasn’t even seeing a psychiatrist. But guess who was?” Caleb didn’t wait for a response. “Sandra Kelly.”

“Polke’s fuck buddy?” Rich asked, reluctantly interested.

“The same. That should be enough to get us a warrant to search her place for the drugs.”

Rich sighed. “I can probably catch Judge Keating and push the warrant through. Then I’ll send Tommy over for a quick look at the house.” He held one hand up, blocking Caleb’s path to the interrogation room. “But if this search doesn’t pan out, that’s it.”

“It will.”

Rich shook his head, but he was already punching a number into his phone. As he took off down the hall, Caleb heard him talking to the judge.
 

Polke was waiting in the interrogation room, but Caleb decided to let him stew. He wanted to know what Tommy found before he took another crack at Polke. Or maybe he was afraid the sight of Polke would set him off again.

He wasn’t sure how long he paced in front of the door, checking his phone every five seconds, before Rich returned.

“We got him.” An uncharacteristic grin tugged at Rich’s lips. “You were right. Sandra had a bottle of dosulepin in the bathroom vanity. We still have to take her official statement, but the woman was telling Tommy how Polke talked her into supplying the drugs before he could even get the cuffs on. Looks like the bad guys might actually go to prison this time.”