‘The pussy-ball crowd.’
‘You got it, dude.’ A fist poked in Sellitto’s direction. The detective declined to bump. Then the artist frowned. ‘I got a feeling something else is going on, right?’
Sellitto nodded. They’d kept the poison out of the press; this was the sort of MO that might lead to copycatting. And if there were informants, or the perp himself decided to ring up City Hall and gloat, they’d need to know that the caller had access to the actual details of the killing.
Besides, as a general rule, Sellitto preferred to explain as little as possible when canvassing for witnesses or asking advice. In this case, though, he had no option. He needed Gordon’s help. And Sellitto decided he kind of liked the guy.
Dude …
‘The suspect we’re looking for, he used poison instead of ink.’
The artist’s eyes widened, the metal pins lifting dramatically. ‘Jesus. No! Jesus.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ever hear about anybody doing that?’
‘No way.’ Gordon brushed the backs of his fingers across the complicated facial hair. ‘That’s just wrong. Man. See, we’re … what we do is we’re sort of this hybrid of artist and cosmetic surgeon — people put their trust in us. We’ve got a special relationship with people.’ Gordon’s voice grew taut. ‘Using inking to kill somebody. Oh, man.’
The parlor phone rang and Gordon ignored it. But a few moments later the heavy-set tat artist — working on the motorcycle — stuck his head through the curtain of beads.
‘Hey, TT.’ A nod to Sellitto.
‘What?’
‘Got a call. Can we ink a hundred-dollar bill on a guy’s neck?’ The accent was southern. Sellitto couldn’t place where.
‘A hundred? Yeah, why not?’
‘I mean, ain’t it illegal to reproduce money?’
Gordon rolled his eyes. ‘He’s not going to feed himself into any slots in Atlantic City.’
‘I’m just asking.’
‘It’s okay.’
The artist said into his phone, ‘Yessir, we’ll do it.’ Then disconnected. He started to turn but Gordon said, ‘Hold on a sec.’ To Sellitto he added, ‘Eddie’s been around. You might want to talk to him too.’
The detective nodded, and Gordon introduced them. ‘Eddie Beaufort, Detective Sellitto.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ A Mid-Atlantic Southern lilt, Sellitto decided. The man had a genial face, which didn’t fit with the elaborate sleeves — mostly of wild animals, it seemed. ‘Detective. Police. Hm.’
‘Tell Eddie what you were telling me.’
Sellitto explained the situation to Beaufort, whose look of astonishment and dismay matched Gordon’s. The detective now asked, ‘You ever heard of anybody using ink or tattoo guns as a weapon? Poison or otherwise? Either of you?’
‘No,’ Beaufort whispered. ‘Never.’
Gordon said to his colleague, ‘Good inking.’
‘Yup. Man knows what he’s about. That’s poison, hm?’
‘That’s right.’
Gordon asked, ‘How’d he get her, I mean, how’d she stay still for that long?’
‘Knocked her out with drugs. But it didn’t take him very long. We think he did that tat in about fifteen minutes.’
‘Fifteen?’ Gordon asked, astonished.
‘That’s unusual?’
Beaufort said, ‘Unusual? Church, man. I don’t know anybody could lay a work like that in fifteen. It’d take an hour, at least.’
‘Yep,’ Gordon offered.
Beaufort nodded to the front of the shop. ‘Got a half-nekkid man. Better git.’
Sellitto nodded thanks. He asked Gordon, ‘Well, looking at that, is there anything you can tell me about the guy did it?’
Gordon leaned forward and examined the photos of the inking on Chloe Moore’s body. His brows V’ed together. ‘It’s not all that clear. Do you have anything closer up? Or in better definition?’
‘We can get it.’
‘I could come to the station. Heh. Always wanted to do that.’
‘We’re working out of a consultant’s office. We— Hold on.’ Sellitto’s phone was humming. He looked at the screen, read the text. Interesting. Responded briefly.
He turned to Gordon. ‘I’ve gotta be someplace but get over here.’ Sellitto wrote down Rhyme’s name and address. ‘That’s the consultant’s place. I’ve gotta stop by headquarters then I’ll meet you there.’
‘Okay. Like when?’
‘Like ASAP.’
‘Sure. Hey, you want a Glock or something?’
‘What?’ Sellitto screwed up his face.
‘I’ll ink you for free. A gun, a skull. Hey, how about an NYPD badge?’
‘No skulls, no badges.’ He jabbed his finger at the card, containing the Central Park address. ‘All I need is you to show up.’
‘ASAP.’
‘You got it, dude.’
CHAPTER 12
‘How’re we doing, rookie?’
Sitting on a stool in Rhyme’s parlor, Ron Pulaski was hunched over the computer keyboard. He was narrowing down the locations in the city from which the Inwood marble trace might have come. ‘Moving slow. It’s not just blasting for foundations. There’s a lot of demolition going on in the city too. And it’s November. In this weather. Who would’ve thought? I—’
A mobile phone buzzed. The young officer fished into his pocket and removed the unit. It was the prepaid.
The Watchmaker undercover assignment was heating up. Rhyme was encouraged that somebody had called the officer so quickly.
And what would the substance of the conversation be?
He heard some pleasantries. Then: ‘Yes, about the remains. Richard Logan. Right.’ He wandered off to the corner. Rhyme could hear no more.
But he noted Pulaski’s grave expression — a pun that Rhyme decided not to share, given that this assignment seemed to be weighing on the man.
After two or three minutes Pulaski disconnected and jotted notes.
‘And?’ Rhyme asked.
Pulaski said, ‘They transferred Logan’s body to the Berkowitz Funeral Home.’
‘Where?’ Rhyme asked. It sounded familiar.
‘Not far from here. Upper Broadway.’
‘A memorial service?’
‘No, just somebody’s coming to pick up his ashes on Thursday.’
Without looking up from the large computer monitor, Rhyme muttered, ‘Nothing from the FBI on sources for the poisons and not a goddamn thing about “the second”. Though I suppose we can’t be too optimistic about that. Who?’
Neither Pulaski nor Cooper responded. Sachs too was silent.
‘Well?’ Rhyme called.
‘Well what?’ From Cooper.
‘I’m asking Pulaski. Who’ll be where? To pick up Logan’s ashes? Did you ask the funeral director who’d be there?’
‘No.’
‘Well, why not?’
‘Because,’ the patrol officer replied, ‘it’d seem suspicious, don’t you think, Lincoln? What if it’s the Watchmaker’s silent partner coming to pay his last respects and the director casually mentions that somebody was curious who’s going to be there — which isn’t really a question you’d ask—’
‘All right. Made your point.’
‘A good point,’ Cooper said.
A fair point.
Then Rhyme was thinking again about the message of the tattoo on Chloe Moore’s body. He doubted that ‘the second’ was part of a findable quotation at all. Maybe it was something that the unsub had spontaneously chosen and couldn’t be tracked down. And maybe there was no meaning at all behind it.
A distraction, a misdirection.
Smoke and mirrors …
But if you do mean something, what could it be? Why are you playing your thoughts out like fishing line?