The Missing Ink (3 page)

I couldn’t decide what I wanted to watch, so I ended up on CNN. The volume was low, so I wouldn’t bother Tim, and Lou Dobbs was going on about illegal immigration for the umpteenth time. It was white noise while I ate.

I was about to bring my empty dish to the sink when the top news stories of the day flashed on the screen.

One of them caught my eye.

Missing woman traced to Las Vegas.

I put my plate back on the coffee table and turned the sound up as the two anchors began their reports. I had to wait until after a story about a tornado somewhere in Arkansas and another about the housing crisis.

Finally: “A woman reported missing three days ago by her fiancé was spotted in a Las Vegas casino. Elise Lyon of Philadelphia had an airline ticket to Los Angeles on Tuesday, but she never boarded the plane. Her car was found in long-term parking at Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C.”

Somehow she’d gotten to Las Vegas, and if she flew any sort of commercial airline it was likely she used the same name she’d given me—Kelly Masters—rather than her own; otherwise they would’ve tracked her down by now.

It was hard these days to get through airport security, however. They checked photo IDs against boarding passes. I wondered about fake IDs. With technology available today to anyone, it wouldn’t be hard to produce something passable.

Or maybe she chartered a flight. Or took the train. Or a bus. Scratch that. The chartered flight, maybe, but totally not a bus. She didn’t have that look about her.

Tim’s call to the department about her name obviously wasn’t on the media’s radar yet.

“The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow in Philadelphia at her parents’ estate, but it looks as if the bride will leave the groom at the altar.”

That was harsh. I felt for Matthew—I could only be on a first-name basis with him, because that was all I knew of him.

“Elise Lyon’s parents are not speaking to the media, but we have her future father-in-law, developer Bruce Manning, via satellite.”

Bruce Manning? Wow. Now that was a household name. He made Donald Trump look like a bag person. Manning owned properties all over the country, and he’d just opened a swanky new resort and casino on the Strip. He called it Versailles, and having been to the real one, I could vouch for how authentic it looked. It was that Vegas illusion again.

“What do you think happened to your future daughter-in-law, Mr. Manning?”

“We just want to make sure she’s safe.” Manning’s bright white hair was perfectly coiffed, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked directly at the camera as he spoke, his words measured and firm.

I leaned forward in my seat as if I’d miss something if I didn’t.

“My son has been devastated by Elise’s disappearance. None of us believes she would leave of her own accord.”

“Do you believe foul play is involved?”

“You have to talk to the police about that.”

“But you believe she was taken to Las Vegas against her will?”

This was better than the soaps. Although my encounter with Kelly, or Elise, or whatever she was calling herself today, didn’t indicate she was someone who’d been kidnapped. She’d been a little nervous, but no one else was hovering around. She was alone. And if someone had kidnapped her, why would she be allowed to go to a tattoo parlor for devotion ink? She’d said it was a surprise for her fiancé.

Maybe she just took a quick trip here before the wedding to unwind, get the tat, go home, and get hitched. She could easily turn up tomorrow in Philadelphia in her white dress and pearls.

I wondered why her parents weren’t going public. Did they think that having Bruce Manning on the air would be enough to generate interest and, thus, lead police to their daughter? And what about the groom? Where was he?

I’d been so engrossed in my own thoughts that I didn’t hear the rest of the interview with Bruce Manning. But I was paying attention when the two anchors grimly discussed the report afterward:

“Bruce Manning has just opened Versailles, the newest, most extravagant Las Vegas resort. His son, Bruce Manning Jr., who goes by the nickname Chip, is dividing his time between his father’s New York City development offices and the new resort. He and Elise Lyon have planned to move into a penthouse in one of his father’s buildings on the Upper West Side in Manhattan after their wedding. We can only hope Elise Lyon is found safe. Anyone with any information about her should contact the local police department immediately.”

I saw right through the picture of Kelly/Elise as it popped up on the screen. My brain was a few sentences back.

Kelly/Elise had wanted her devotion tat to say “Matthew.”

Her fiancé’s name was Chip, or Bruce.

Who was Matthew?

Chapter 4

Tim was gone when I got up, but the note I’d left him saying Kelly wanted her ink to say “Matthew” was no longer on the kitchen table. As I fired up the engine in my Mustang Bullitt—I’ve got a thing for Steve McQueen; what woman doesn’t?—I was a little resentful that I was doing his job for him and he still wouldn’t tell me anything.

I was getting obsessed with Kelly/Elise. It was the most interesting thing that had happened for a while.

I slipped on my sunglasses and pulled out of the driveway.

Henderson to the Strip isn’t too far, just a straight shot on 215. But there’s traffic. Always traffic. Vegas has grown even in the short time I’ve been here, and between the residential population and the tourists and gas prices, well, it made me start thinking seriously about public transportation. The only thing I didn’t like was that I worked until midnight most nights, and taking a bus that late meant dealing with a lot more than just greenhouse gases.

Anyway, if I took the bus, I wouldn’t be able to crank Springsteen, who was singing about the Badlands.

I wasn’t putting the top down today, though. The desert in June is like an oven, and don’t get me started on that “it’s a dry heat” crap. Heat is heat, whether it’s wet or dry. The sun is searing, and even after only three years, the red tile roof on our house had faded to a pale pink.

In the distance, the mountains beckoned me. A hike at Red Rock Canyon, just outside the city and a world away, would balance my chi, but with the temperature hovering above a hundred, I’d risk more than just a bad mood. I didn’t much believe in Chinese hocus-pocus—the sisters had instilled a lifetime of the fear of God in me—but I knew when I was feeling a little off.

I had a cheap pass for the Henderson outdoor competition pool—that was my summer exercise. It didn’t have the same powers as Red Rock, but gliding through the water, the rhythmic breathing, the emptying of my mind as I counted each stroke, each lap, centered me in a different way. Sometimes Tim came with me, arriving at the pool at six a.m., and we’d swim side by side. We’ve been mistaken for synchronized swimmers because we look so much alike. We were both on our high school team, but he’s five years older.

As I approached, I saw the Strip’s lights were off, the glitz diminished by the glare of the sun. The magic just wasn’t there in the daytime. From a distance, it looked like a kid had dropped a bunch of toys in one spot and hadn’t bothered to straighten them out: a castle, the Statue of Liberty, a golden lion, the Eiffel Tower, an Egyptian pyramid, a Space Needle. A playground for adults, where no one can really win, but the illusion puts blinders on.

Instead of driving up Las Vegas Boulevard, I veered off onto Koval Lane, which runs parallel and behind the MGM, Flamingo, Paris, and the Venetian. Strip traffic isn’t so bad in the mornings, but the lights are too long and I get too frustrated.

While prices in Vegas have gone up—impossible to get that $2.99 breakfast buffet, unless you’re far off the Strip—parking can still be free. I turned left into the Venetian’s driveway and then right into the self-parking garage. I drove up to the sixth level and eased the Mustang into a spot. I slung my black messenger bag over my shoulder, adjusting it so the strap crossed over my chest. I wore my usual tank top—fuchsia, today—and a billowy cotton hippie skirt with an Indian print. My Tevas kept me from towering too tall, but I still topped out at five-nine.

Getting out of the car, I felt like I’d stepped into the center of a volcano; the heat was trapped in the garage, and it closed in around me. I hightailed it to the elevator, hitting the button too many times, like that would make the doors open faster. Once it got to the third level, where the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes were, I went back out into the heat and looped around up to the walkway. The automatic doors slid open, the cold, air-conditioned breeze washing over me. I sighed with relief.

Springsteen warbled “Born to Run” in my bag. I reached in for my cell phone.

You can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t take Jersey out of the girl.

The caller ID said,
Restricted
. I flipped the cover, asked a tentative, “Hello?”

“Brett?”

It was Tim. “Yeah?”

“Couple of quick questions. When Elise Lyon came into your shop, what was she wearing?”

I described her outfit. “Why do you need to know that?”

He ignored me. “Did she seem frightened?”

He’d asked me that last night. “No.” My voice echoed through the phone. “Hey, am I on speaker?”

A woman brushed past me, glaring at the phone in my ear. I made a face at her and leaned against the wall.

“Was she with anyone?”

“I told you, she was alone. She didn’t seem afraid, except maybe a little nervous about the idea of a tat.”

“How nervous?”

“As nervous as someone who’s never gotten one before.” I paused. “It hurts. And it’s permanent. People know that coming in.”

“But she still wanted to go through with it?”

“We might never know, will we?” Immediately I was sorry I’d been so flip, but sometimes I speak without thinking.

“I’ll probably be over there in an hour or so to talk to Bitsy. See if she noticed anything else.”

“She’ll be at the shop all day,” I said. “Anytime.”

“Okay, see you in a bit.” He ended the call.

I closed the phone and stared at it a second. Maybe Bitsy and I
were
the last ones to speak to Kelly/Elise.

A quick stop at the kiosk for a bottle of water, and I contemplated the two paths I could take to my shop.

The right one went past Kenneth Cole, so I took that one, stopping to check out a great pair of black patent-leather pumps with peep toes rimmed in red. I’d been eyeing them for days now. I could see myself in those shoes, already had an outfit picked out in my head.

As I was daydreaming, I suddenly had the feeling I was being watched. I didn’t turn around, but tried to see in the reflection in the store window if anyone was behind me. It was still early; the mall crowd was sparse.

I spotted him a few yards away, across the canal, the light hitting him just right so I could see him clearly.

He was taller than me—I put him at about six-four—and well built. The tattoos that bled down his face and under his T-shirt and onto his arms might have been considered uncomfortably excessive by someone not in the business. They didn’t bother me.

What bothered me was the way he was staring at me.

He saw me staring back. He raised his hand, making the sign of a gun with his thumb and forefinger. With a small
pop
movement of his lips, he moved his hand to make it look as though he shot at me.

And then he nodded and walked away.

Chapter 5

For a few seconds I was frozen as if my feet had grown roots, my Tevas clutching the mall floor so tightly I couldn’t let go.

He walked into St. Mark’s Square, along the other side of the canal.

I noticed little things, like how he was wearing a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off, a Harley logo on the back. His legs were slightly bowed, and he had an exaggerated cowboy saunter. He wasn’t in a hurry; his stride was slow, methodical. Like he was giving me a chance to come after him.

But truth be told, I didn’t really want to.

I waited until he passed the footbridge before I finally took my first step, gradually speeding up and power walking in the same direction he’d gone. By now, however, I was too far behind and I’d lost sight of him as he turned the corner.

Joel Sloane, one of my tattooists, was coming toward me. He was carrying a big soft pretzel and a coffee. Breakfast of champions.

I waved, a frantic,
I’m a little crazy
kind of wave. I was still creeped out, even though the guy had disappeared.

Joel saw me, grinned, and stopped, raising the pretzel in a greeting.

The woman walking behind Joel crashed into him. Not difficult, since Joel weighs about three hundred pounds and could stop a freight train, and the woman probably weighed ninety pounds wet.

I was close enough now to hear the woman telling Joel how rude he was, how could he just stop in the middle of a walkway? Joel’s face was red with embarrassment as he apologized profusely. When I reached him, I touched his arm in support, and he nodded at me.

The woman must have been in her sixties, according to the skin on her neck, chest, and hands, but her face was smooth as silk. Either exceptional Botox or a fantastic face-lift. Maybe both. Her hands clutched several shopping bags, and she flipped her hair back over her shoulder as she stared at my arm, taking in the whole garden scene, her expression showing disgust. She looked from me to Joel, noticing now the Betty Boop intertwined with a black-and-red geometric design on his left arm, the skeleton and hatchet prominent in the sleeve on his right, and the barbed-wire tat around his neck.

“Be more careful next time,” she said to Joel, flouncing past.

Joel chuckled. “She needs to loosen up,” he said when she was out of earshot.

“Maybe we should give her some tats on the house,” I suggested. “Hey, did you notice that big guy with all the ink? He was across the canal.” The canal wasn’t that wide; it was a mini-illusion. How else would it fit in a mall?