Tattooed (20 page)

No. She should stay and act as if nothing had changed. And take her scheduled flight back to New York on Monday.

“Yes, of course. Just add your client to my schedule.”

“Arigato,”
he said, his voice soft. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.” Kenzie exhaled.

Speaking with Yoshi had its usual calming effect. She had panicked when she saw McNally, maybe because she was used to being in control.

She stripped off her clothes and ran the bath.

The warmth of the water relaxed her. As did her ritual of gently washing her tattoos. Each one on her leg was a token that had been earned, a reminder of what she had lost or gained.

When she decided to train in
tebori
and learn the secrets of Japanese
horimono
from the masters, she devoted her upper body to Japanese designs. The image of the koi had spoken to her the moment she saw it. A symbol of transformation in Japanese and Chinese mythology, the koi represented wisdom, knowledge and loyalty. In the traditional fable, a koi traveling up a waterfall symbolized courage and an aspiration to overcome life’s obstacles. If it reached the Dragon’s Gate, it would transform into a dragon—a most powerful symbol.

Kenzie had no desire to become a dragon. For her, life was about change and fluidity. Horifuyu, one of the great masters, tattooed the koi on her upper body. It began under her left breast, traveled diagonally across her chest, until the head of the fish curled around the right side of her neck.

Every time she looked at it, she felt a sense of accomplishment. She had grunted away for years as an apprentice, honing her craft, deflecting the occasional sexist attitude of her coworkers or clients, and clawed her way to artistic prominence. She had picked up the pieces of her shattered life and made something of herself.

She worked hard to remove any reminder of the girl she had been in Halifax. Including the tattoo McNally had inked just below the back of her neck.

Yoshi had created a most exquisite peony over it.

Calmer now, she stepped out of the bath.

Just four days of scaling this waterfall.

She had been through worse.

You are a wily old carp, Kenzie.

22

M
cNally had parked behind a large SUV, farther down the street. His camera sat on the seat beside him.

Tall, slim, her brown hair pulled into a ponytail, Kate Lange was so much
more
than he remembered. Perhaps because Imogen had been the one that people had gravitated toward. Imogen, with her laughing brown eyes, her impish smile. She had captured the light; Kate had moved with the shadows.

That had been seventeen years ago. Somewhere along the way, Kate Lange had torn through the tightly woven chrysalis of her younger insecurities. She had emerged strong. Feisty. A monarch of monarchs.

For her, a butterfly tattoo would be appropriate. In bold orange and black.

Although he could imagine a tiger in the same colors, crawling along her back, ready to pounce on any man who was not her match. Yes, a tiger tattoo would be most fitting for Ms. Lange.

It was funny—he had thought the same thing about Kenzie when he first met her. With her deep red hair and glittering eyes, she had immediately reminded him of a predatory cat.

Kate’s coloring was more subdued, although her eyes had an amber glint to them that was most definitely feline.

But it was more than outward appearances. Or even the way she moved.

There was something in her—a tightly suppressed energy, a suggestion that those lithe legs could uncoil at any moment—that was feral.

Powerful.

Exciting.

She was way too confident, way too proud.

She probably thought she was hot stuff, killing a serial killer.

It was time to give her a taste of what was to come.

He slipped a rope over her head, flipping her brown locks tenderly out of the way. He slid the knot until it was snug against her throat. She gazed at him, eyes defiant, lips curled in a snarl, her body twitching. He held up the other end of the rope until her eyes shone with anger. With fear.

“Nice kitty,” he said.

John McNally was back.

* * *

Ethan rubbed his hair dry with a towel and threw it on his bed. He had done a quick workout on the treadmill after supper, and then had taken a shower, just in case… .

He had watched Kate on the supper-time news with her client Frances Sloane. Most people wouldn’t have caught it, but he had seen the distress lurking behind her steady gaze as she discussed why surviving the Body Butcher attack had made her an advocate for assisted suicide.

He turned away from his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He needed to talk to her. He couldn’t stand it any longer. The frustration. The longing. The pain.

Especially when he was so sure it didn’t have to be that way.

He picked up the phone.

Just do it, Drake.

His fingers had never forgotten Kate’s number. He dialed it quickly, not letting himself think about what would happen if she hung up on him.

She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Kate?”

He felt her shock of recognition bounce through the cellular waves. “It’s Ethan.”

* * *

Kate dropped the newspaper she had been reading when she heard Ethan’s voice.

“Hi.”

“How are you?” Ethan asked, concern in his voice. “I saw your interview on TV earlier. I wanted to make sure you were okay. The media are all over the Body Butcher anniversary.”

Kate glanced down at the papers that straggled by her feet. As if the media hadn’t had their cup overflowing with the bog body investigation, this week heralded the anniversary of the Body Butcher’s death—by her hand. The front page was devoted to the bog body murder and the Body Butcher anniversary, of course seeking to tie them to one another. She had skimmed those sections. But she had faltered when she read the victims’ families’ recollections. Especially those of her grief-stricken former client Marion MacAdam, whose granddaughter had been the Body Butcher’s first obvious victim. A photo of Lisa, whom Kate had never met but would never forget, had been tucked into the body of the article. “Lisa’s death has left a large hole in my life. She didn’t deserve to die like that,” Marion had told the paper.

No. She did not.

“I’m okay.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I knew the papers would mark the occasion, but I hadn’t realized they’d put it on the front page.”

“Listen,” Ethan said. “Do you want to go grab a coffee tonight and catch up?”

Whoa.
She hadn’t expected that.

She shifted, the newspapers collapsing around her feet.

What the hell.
It sure beat thinking about how she had failed Marion MacAdam a year ago. Or worrying that she was failing Frances Sloane. And it would take her mind off Enid. “Sure.”

“Great.” He sounded a bit surprised. She was surprised, too, at the alacrity with which she accepted his invitation. “How about Starbucks in half an hour?”

“See you then.”

Kate hung up the phone and ran upstairs, the newspapers still lying haphazardly on the floor.

She knew if she stopped to think about it, she’d wish she had said no.

So she didn’t stop.

23

A
knock on the door jolted Kenzie.

“Room service!” a man’s voice called.

Foo began to bark.

Room service?

She hadn’t ordered room service.

She forced herself not to panic. McNally wouldn’t be that stupid.

Would he?

Foo’s barking intensified.

“Hey, Foo, calm down,” the voice on the other side of the door said. “Kenzie, it’s me, Finn. I was just joking.”

She pulled the belt of her robe tighter, and hurried to the door. A peek through the peephole confirmed it was, indeed, her client of today. He smiled, aware of her scrutiny.

Damn.

She was not in the mood for casual conversation.

On the other hand, after McNally’s surprise visit today, maybe having a guy around would keep McNally at a distance. She had seen the look of fury in his eyes when she drove away.

She unlocked the door. “Finn, hi.”

“Hi. I left you a message… .” He shrugged. “I know you are only in town for a few days, so I was hoping I could take you out for dinner.”

“Oh.” She drew the robe closer around her throat. “I suppose so.”

“Hey, if this is a bad time…”

“No! No, not at all.” She stepped away from the door. “Come on in. I’ll throw some clothes on.”

Foo jumped on the bed while she dressed. He watched her, his brow furrowed. Her unease worsened. What if McNally found her room and broke in? What if he found Foo?

She knew it wasn’t very probable—but then, neither was the discovery of Heather Rigby’s remains, or of McNally seeking her out on her second full day in Halifax.

She scooped up Foo and strode into the living area of her suite. Finn sat on the edge of the sofa, his hands casually clasped between his knees. He wore jeans and a fresh T-shirt. When he saw her, he smiled. “You look great.”

She felt a bit of the day’s tension ease in the glow of his appreciation. “Look, I was wondering…could we order room service? I’m beat. I just arrived yesterday and had a crazy busy day today… .”

“Sure, no problem.” He picked up the hotel menus from the coffee table. “I’m always a sucker for room service.”

“Me, too.” She grinned and sat down next to him.

His warm, solid presence eased the cold lump in her chest.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to tattoos. The power of the medium. The reasons for people getting them. Some of Kenzie’s more bizarre requests. Their food arrived and they dug in.

Then Finn said, “Did you know that tattoos can last beyond the grave?”

A chill skittered down her arms. “What do you mean?”

“I heard on the news today that the dead girl they found in the bog had a tattoo. The police were actually able to re-create it.”

Kenzie bent over to sip her water, letting her hair fall over her face.

Shock ran in icy waves through her body.

No.

God, no.

“What did it look like?” she managed to ask.

“It was a bird. A crow or something.” He shook his head. “It was creepy looking.”

“I’ll bet. Nothing looks good on you when you’re dead.”

Or in jail.
She could not believe that the police had identified Heather’s tattoo. Could they link it back to her?

Anxiety dispelled Kenzie’s enjoyment. She desperately wanted to search the news reports online about the tattoo discovery on Heather’s body. She glanced at her watch. “Oh, Finn, I’m beat. I’ve got an early start tomorrow… .”

He took the hint with good grace. “Me, too.”

He left, giving her a warm kiss on the mouth.

Under different circumstances, she would have taken it further.

But instead, she locked the door behind him and spent the next hour searching the internet. It didn’t offer more than Finn had told her. She crawled into bed.

Thank God the tattoo that McNally gave her was covered up.

They can’t connect me to Heather Rigby.

I can stay away from McNally until Monday.

Everything will be fine.

Just four days of surviving the waterfall, Kenzie.

But then the thought wormed into her head: Had Imogen Lange’s sister—her mother’s lawyer and the girl who had once hated her guts—recognized the tattoo as the same one her dead sister had gotten before she died?

* * *

Kate turned the corner and approached her neighborhood Starbucks. She had decided to walk, needing the cool air to clear her head. But the fog had crept in. It was more than cool, it was downright chilly. She pulled up the collar of her fleece jacket and wished she hadn’t agreed to come.

Why had Ethan called her?

And, more important, why had she accepted?

She hurried up the stairs into the coffee shop. It was warm. It was dry. And Ethan was already there.

He sat at a table by the window. She walked over, aware of his gaze on her.

Every step felt awkward.

He rose when she approached the table. “Kate.”

His blue eyes searched hers.

A light flush warmed her neck.
God.
This was awkward.

Why had she come?

“Hi.” She stood by the table.

He pulled out a chair for her. She lowered herself into it, aware of his hand behind her back. “I can’t stay too long,” she said. “Enid is in the hospital.”

The dismay on his face warmed her. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s her heart. They think they can stabilize it. But it will take a few days.”

“That’s a relief.” He gestured to the large drink menu above the counter. “What can I get you?” He smiled.

She hadn’t seen Ethan smile at her in, oh, about a year and a half. It was a strange sensation. As if they were on a first date. Instead of…whatever this was.

She returned the smile. “A decaf café latte would be lovely.”

“A classic.” He knew she loved those.

He stood in line. She slid off her coat, studying his back. His hair was shorter. A crisp, clean cut. It suited him. She recognized his jacket. She knew how it felt under her fingers… .

He returned with two lattes. “They’re both decaf, although a little caffeine wouldn’t be bad right now.”

She sipped the foam on her drink. “Are you burning the midnight oil on the bog body case?”

He nodded. “Yes. We’ve had a big break.” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “After seventeen years, we might actually get justice for Heather’s killer.”

Heather’s killer. The way he said it, it sounded as if he knew her. “That’s great news.” She was happy for him. He needed success at his job. There had been too many disappointments.

“How about you? How’s the assisted suicide campaign going?”

Kate’s eyes searched his face, trying to gauge his feelings. This could be a land mine. Ethan had fought a very public battle with Randall Barrett over Don Clarkson’s euthanasia case. “So far, so good.” She hoped.

“Good for you, Kate.” The warmth in his voice was unmistakable.

She sipped her latte. “Why do you say that? I didn’t think you were in favor of it.”

He cradled his cup in his hands and gazed at the foam. “I’d like some control over how I ended my life. I guess it’s an occupational hazard. I see so many people who are killed.” He glanced up at her. “My grandmother had terrible dementia at the end. Running down the street with no clothes on, forgetting to put in her false teeth. This was a woman who was very religious—had almost become a nun in her youth—and extremely modest. If she had had a choice, I think she would have chosen to end her life sooner.”

“It’s more difficult when cognitive function is impaired. It’s hard to know what they would choose.” Kate’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Do you realize we are taking the opposing views to what we’ve said in our professional capacity?”

Ethan grinned. “I guess that’s why it’s a slippery slope. It isn’t clear where the boundaries should be drawn. There are always extenuating circumstances.”

“That’s why Harry Owen doesn’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole. But he might feel differently if he knew he would die a terrible death.” Her tone was bitter.

She gazed down into her latte. Frances Sloane’s case had stirred her fears about CJD. But people died from terrible diseases every day. Why should she be spared?

“It’s not a done deal that you’ll get CJD, Kate,” Ethan said, his tone gentle.

Kate stared at him. How did he know that she was thinking about it?

She forced a nonchalance she did not feel. “You’re right. I can’t let that worry me. Who knows what will happen.”

“That’s why I called you.” Ethan’s gaze caught hers. Kate had almost forgotten how blue his eyes were. Dark blue with black eyelashes.

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t know what could happen. Life is so unpredictable.” He paused. “I almost lost you twice, Kate.” His voice was soft.

I would have had to be yours to lose.
The thought jumped into her head.

And with it, Randall’s face, after they had survived chasing down Elise’s killer. His expression was of terror that he had almost lost her, thankfulness that he hadn’t. And Kate had glimpsed love in his eyes.

But then he moved out of the country… .

This is wrong, Kate.

Wasn’t it?

Talk about a slippery slope
. She pushed back her chair. “Ethan, I’m not sure what we’re doing. I think I’d better go.”

He placed his hand over hers. His palm was warm, dry, capable. She remembered how he used those hands to knead pasta or grate chocolate—and sometimes used them to make her forget about everything but his hands. “I know what we’re doing.” His thumb brushed over hers. “We are trying to make up for lost time.”

She eased her hand from his and slipped on her jacket. “A lot has happened since last year, Ethan.” She struggled for words, because she really didn’t know what to say. “I enjoyed seeing you, but…”

“But?” His eyes searched hers.

“But I don’t know if I am ready for this.” Her smile was crooked. “Whatever
this
is. I thought you wanted to be friends.”

“I do. Best friends. Confidants.” His voice sank. “I want us to be like we were when we first met.”

She had been tying her shoelace in the park. He ran by. Their gazes met. The charge of attraction was so strong, so exhilarating, that she had to look away. Or he would see the hunger in her eyes.