Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (25 page)

you off the case because of me.”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. Those

guys would’ve found another reason to take me off the

case. Happens all the time. Big case like this, they want to

run the investigation.”

“Do you think they’ll solve it?”

The waiter set the soda in front of Jack and he took a deep

drink before answering. “Eventually.”

“But?”

“But bureaucracy is slow. And sometimes when the state

and federal agencies step in, the perp escalates.”

“Because the case is more high profile?”

He nodded. “Al serial kil ers are egomaniacs at heart.”

She looked away. Randolph certainly was an egomaniac.

“So…are you going to tel me why you’ve been avoiding my

cal s?”

She looked back and found Jack studying her. She

considered tel ing him about the connection Peter had

made between her father and Alicia Sil s. But even if Jack

wasn’t officially on the case, he’d be honor-bound to share

that tidbit with the state agents.

Before she could manufacture a response, her cel phone

rang. She pul ed it out and saw Wesley’s name on the

caller ID. “It’s Wes, I should get it.”

Jack nodded and tackled the rest of the sandwich.

She connected the call. “Wesley? What’s up?”

“Thought you might want to know—there’s another victim

of The Charmed Kil er.”

She reached forward to touch Jack’s arm. “Another victim?

Where? When?”

Jack’s expression hardened.

“It was a run I made yesterday with Kendall in Col ege

Park. The M.E. thought the woman had passed out and

suffocated, but the charm was found in her stomach

during the autopsy.”

“She’d swallowed it?”

What kind? Jack mouthed.

“What kind of charm was it?”

“Kendall said it looked like a keg, or maybe a barrel.”

“A keg or a barrel.”

Jack took out his pen and wrote on a napkin. NAME?

“Wesley, do you remember the victim’s name?”

“Alderman was the last name, I don’t remember the first

name.”

“Last name Alderman,” she repeated, and Jack wrote it

down.

“She was a middle-school teacher,” Wesley offered. “Her

teenage son found her at home.”

She made a mournful noise. The situation must’ve affected

Wesley if he was bringing it up. He sounded different.

Yesterday he had slurred his words, but today he sounded

antsy, and a little out of breath.

Jack wrote ADDRESS?

“Do you remember the street address?”

“Yeah—it was Rever, or Revere, one or the other.”

“Rever or Revere.”

“Are you with somebody?” Wesley asked.

Since Jack wasn’t supposed to be on the case, she decided

it was best not to say anything. “No…just me. I’m keeping

track of as many details as possible.”

Jack indicated that was all he needed for now.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said. “Let me know if you

hear anything else.”

“Sure thing. Tel Jack hel o for me.”

She frowned into the phone and disconnected the call.

“He said they picked up the body yesterday. It looked as if

the woman had passed out and suffocated, but the charm

was found during the autopsy.”

“That’s different,” Jack said. “It means she was alive when

he put it in her mouth, poor thing.”

Jack flagged the waiter for the bil , then handed him cash

and pushed to his feet. “Come on, I’ll fol ow you back to

Ashford’s.”

She gave him a wry smile. “Yes, I’m ready to leave, thank

you for asking.”

Jack gave her a pointed look. “And Carlotta—whatever

you’re keeping from me? Eventually I’l find out.”

She wet her lips, thinking how secretive Jack could be

when it came to personal details. “Right back at you, Jack.”

22

“I’m nervous, dude. What if she doesn’t like me?”

Wesley pul ed his thoughts away from his own problems

and turned his head to look at Chance, who was holding

the steering wheel of the BMW like a driver’s ed student.

“Relax, man. Hannah can’t stand you. Which means you

can only improve in her eyes.”

Chance pursed his mouth and nodded. “I never thought

about it like that.”

“Besides, how can she resist the shirt?”

Chance smoothed a hand over his All This and a Big Dick,

Too T-shirt and grinned. “You’re right.”

Wesley shook his head and looked back to the road.

“There’s the tattoo parlor on the left. And that’s Hannah’s

van in the parking lot.” They watched as Hannah, tall and

solid and wearing more leather than a cow, emerged from

the van.

“Just look at her,” Chance said in awe. “I’m already

sporting wood.”

“Down, boy. You’re going to have to work for this one.”

Chance’s chest puffed up. “I’m the man for the job.”

Wes smothered a smile. This ought to be good.

Chance parked the car next to the van and they got out.

Hannah stood, arms crossed, glowering at them, her eyes

ringed with kohl, her lips bloodred. “You’re late.”

“Five minutes,” Wesley said. “Is that a new eyebrow

piercing?”

“Yeah. Come on, I don’t want to miss my appointment.”

She headed toward the entrance of the tattoo parlor.

“Hannah, you remember my buddy Chance Hol ander,”

Wesley offered, fol owing her.

“Hi, Hannah,” Chance said, his face shiny and hopeful.

Without breaking stride, Hannah looked him over, then

snorted at the shirt. “Better watch out. Someone wil

arrest your fat ass for false advertising.”

Undaunted, Chance trotted to keep up with her. “So this is

where you get your tats?”

“Inkwell is the best tattoo parlor in town,” Hannah said.

“My artist, Axle, has tattooed Tommy Lee.”

“No shit?” Chance said. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“I don’t know. After a while they all kind of run together.

But he’s been working on my torso for over a year now.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Chance said.

Hannah glared. “Axle doesn’t work cheap. Are you sure

you can pay for this?”

Chance pul ed out a wad of cash rol ed with rubber bands.

“Wil this cover it?”

Hannah nodded, her mouth pursed. “Carlotta said you

traffic porn, is that right?”

“That’s one of my businesses.”

“Cool,” she said.

Chance grunted and Wesley wondered if his friend had

just come in his pants.

They walked into the tattoo parlor, a converted Victorian

house that was rife with dark brocade wallpaper and

chandeliers. The female receptionist sat behind a rol top

desk, reading Prick magazine. She was bald, with yel ow

cornrows tattooed onto her head. She looked up and

smiled.

“Hi, Hannah.”

“Hi, Sela.”

“You’re here to see Axle?”

“Yeah, I have an appointment.” She gestured to Wesley

and Chance. “I know these weirdos. They’re going to sit

in.”

“You guys looking to get inked?” the girl asked.

“Uh, maybe,” Chance said.

Wesley rol ed his eyes. He didn’t think so. Chance was a

wuss when it came to pain.

“Go ahead,” Sela said.

Hannah led the way up a wide wooden stairway, her boots

clomping on every step. The landing on the second floor

was fil ed with T-shirts and tattoo lore. As they walked

down the hall, Wesley looked around. The rooms retained

high ceilings and original moldings, but had been

converted into spaces that resembled doctors’

examination rooms, with barber chairs and tables for

clients to accommodate whatever part of the body was

being worked on, and glass cabinets of supplies like

antiseptic and gauze.

Inside one room, a tattoo artist was working on a guy’s

beefy arm. In another, a woman was having her ankle

tattooed. About halfway down the hallway, Hannah

walked into a room and high-fived a stocky guy she

introduced as Axle. Axle wore jeans and a polo-style shirt,

and his only visible tattoo was the wraparound black text

on his neck. Wesley squinted to read it. Say something

nobody understands and they’l do practical y anything

you want them to. He recognized it as a quote from one of

his favorite books, The Catcher in the Rye.

“Hannah, good to see you,” Axle said. “I’m glad you

decided to finish your back before the rest of the art

faded.”

“Tattoos fade?” Wes asked.

Axle nodded. “Over time, and faster if they’re exposed to

the sun.”

“This is Wesley…and his helper,” Hannah added in a bored

tone. “I told them they could watch.”

“Nice to know you,” Axle said. “I don’t mind an audience if

Hannah doesn’t. Let’s get started.” He looked at Wesley.

“Wil you get the door?”

Wes closed the door and looked around the room at

pictures of tattooed individuals, some of them celebrities,

obviously clients of Axle’s. Axle moved to his tattooing

machine, which looked like a mobile vacuum. At the end of

a long plastic tube was the needling tool. Chance hovered

close to Hannah, who had her back to Wesley. She

shrugged out of her black leather vest, then lifted the hem

of her tank top and pul ed it off, revealing her bare back,

partially tattooed.

Chance was standing in front of Hannah and stared

openmouthed.

“Whoa,” Wesley said, then spun around to face the door.

“Uh, no offense, Hannah, but I don’t want to see you

naked.”

“Then you’d better get out, squirt.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. He slipped out the door

and into the hallway, then walked to the room at the end

which had once been a living or dining room but was now

a waiting room with vending machines and a television. A

long coffee table featured thick photo albums of

customers in all their tattooed glory. He flipped through

the gallery, morbidly fascinated by the people who went

to such great lengths to turn their bodies into canvases,

bil boards and soapboxes. Some of the results were

winceworthy, some were comical, and some, stunning.

There were also tattoo-design books that looked like clip

art. He flipped to the religious-symbols section of several

books and perused pages of cross patterns, but didn’t see

one that matched the image on the paper in his pocket.

Notes printed in the page footers stated the designs were

merely suggested images, and that each tattoo artist

owned the copyright to the unique designs they tattooed

onto a person’s body. Which meant he might not be able

to match the design from the headless corpse that Coop

had recreated unless he stumbled across the exact artist

who’d inked the tattoo.

A proverbial needle in a haystack.

A spike-haired guy in skinny black jeans and a T-shirt

walked in and fed coins into the soda machine. “Are you

being helped?” he asked.

Wesley scratched his temple. “I’m trying to find a guy

based on his tattoo.”

Spike retrieved his soda and cracked it open. “That could

be a bitch. What kind of tat?”

Wesley pul ed out the piece of paper with the printed

design and unfolded it. “He had it lasered off.”

The guy took the paper and squinted. “If you don’t know

the guy, how did you get a picture of his tat?”

“Um…the guy’s a John Doe in a coma.”

“So you’re working for the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

Spike frowned and handed back the paper. “Get a better

story, dude.”

Wesley sighed and looked around to make sure no one

else was within earshot. “Okay, look—you don’t want to

know the details, trust me. I got two hundred bucks in my

wallet. It’s yours if you can find out anything.”

The guy considered Wesley, then took a sip of his soda. “Is

the guy going to come after me?”

“Negatory. He’s dead.”

Spike nodded. “Three hundred.”

“Two hundred now, another two if you get me a name.”

“All this for a dead guy? Why do you care?”

Wesley set his jaw. He’d do anything to make the

nightmares go away. “Do we have a deal or don’t we?”

“Okay. It’s your coinage.”

Wesley nodded. And his sanity.

23

At the end of her shift, Carlotta waved goodbye to Herb

the security guard and called Hannah’s number as she left

the employee break room. She frowned when she got her

friend’s voice mail…again. She conceded Hannah could’ve

had a dozen things to do on a Saturday afternoon, but she

hoped her friend wasn’t ignoring her because she blamed

Carlotta for getting her fired from the catering company.

Giving in to another growing concern, she punched in

Coop’s number. When his phone also rol ed over to voice

mail, she sighed. Two for two.

Frustration wel ed in her chest. Wesley and Jack said that

Coop was fine, but it bothered her that he hadn’t returned

any of her calls. On their last body run together, she’d

found a pint of vodka under the seat of Coop’s van. She

hadn’t mentioned it to him—or to anyone—hoping that he

was the kind of recovering alcoholic who needed to keep

temptation within reach to prove to himself that he could

resist.

That was the night they had been called to the home of

Shawna Whitt, the first-known victim of The Charmed