The Missing Ink by Karen E. Olson Page A

heard the cops found my fingerprints in that car, the rental car. Couldn’t have. I haven’t seen Kelly. Didn’t know she was in town.”
    “I believe you, Jeff.” I didn’t know what else to say. And strangely enough, I did believe him.
    “There’s something else, Kavanaugh.”
    I didn’t like it that he called me by my last name, but he was a man on the run, so could I take that away from him?
    “What is it?”
    “That rich bitch? Guess the cops also want to talk to me about her.”
    “But I thought you hadn’t met her.”
    “They found her driver’s license with Kelly.”
    “I saw that on the news.”
    “What’s going on, Kavanaugh? You show up at my shop last night and my whole world collapses. You’re bad news.”
    “It’s not my fault,” I insisted. “Listen, Jeff, what can I do to help? Want me to talk to Tim? Where are you?”
    He was so quiet I’d thought he hung up for a second, then, “There might be something you can do. But it’s not talking to the cops.”
    I was afraid to press him, to find out what he wanted me to do. I shouldn’t have been so generous, but it just slipped out. The sisters had taught us to be magnanimous to those who were in need.
    Sister Mary Eucharista would’ve taken one look at Jeff Coleman and let me off the hook.
    He wasn’t about to let me off the hook, however.
    “I need you to cover for me.”
    I wasn’t liking the idea of this.
    “Cover what?” I asked when he hesitated.
    “I’ve got a high-profile client who won’t come to the shop. He wants Mick Jagger’s tongue on his ass. I’m supposed to be there at three. For obvious reasons, Kavanaugh, I can’t be. But you can. I’ll split the fee with you fifty-fifty.”
    “Why don’t you just cancel?” Seemed reasonable to me.
    “You don’t cancel this guy. He won’t call again if I do. He’s paying a cool grand. It’s easy money, Kavanaugh.”
    “Jeff, that’s highway robbery. That Rolling Stones logo’s got to be one of the easiest tats ever.”
    “He doesn’t care. So I don’t care. Will you do it?”
    “Why me? Why not one of your staff?”
    “Because the cops are watching the shop. I don’t want them following anyone to this guy.”
    My curiosity was piqued. “Who is he? Howard Hughes?”
    When Jeff told me who it was, a shiver ran up my spine. But not in a bad way. I couldn’t say no.
    “Where and when?”
    He chuckled. “Knew you’d do it. Versailles. That new resort, the big one.”
    “I know it.”
    “The Marie Antoinette Suite. Three o’clock.”
    I hadn’t taken my equipment anywhere in a long time and wondered whether I had a proper case for it. “Sure, okay,” I said. “Can I just go up there?”
    “He’ll be expecting you. Just tell the guy at the desk that you’re Minnie to see Mickey.”
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    “Serious as murder.”
    I cringed, but didn’t argue. “Will you be okay?” I asked.
    “Sure, don’t worry. And thanks, Kavanaugh. I knew I could count on you.”
    He hung up without saying good-bye.
    Bitsy was staring at me.
    “Who was that?”
    “Jeff Coleman.”
    “That scumbag?”
    “His ex-wife was Kelly Masters.”
    Bitsy’s mouth formed a perfect “O.” I touched her chin and pushed up, closing her mouth.
    “Why’s he calling you?” Bitsy wanted to know.
    I didn’t want to tell her that I’d made a visit to Jeff’s shop last night. “He knows Tim’s a cop. He wanted to know if I had any inside scoop on her murder.” As I said it, I wished I did. “Oh, by the way, do we have any sort of bag or case I can use for my equipment? Got a house call at three.”
    Bitsy’s eyebrows shot so far up her forehead I thought they’d go into orbit. “What? I don’t know anything about that.”
    “A friend of a friend,” I lied easily. “Sorry, forgot to tell you.”
    Ace overheard our conversation. “I’ve got a case you can use,” he said. “Used to do parties. It’s under my table. I’ll get it for you.”
    He