Jeff took the mirror and gazed at the tattoo.
“You know, Kavanaugh, you could have a good career for yourself if you play your cards right.”
I turned to put the machine on the shelf.
I felt his hand on the back of my neck. “Thanks,” he whispered, all teasing gone now.
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to see that I’d teared up. I nodded as I heard him slide off the chair. I reached over and grabbed a tube of ointment.
He stood, shrugging on his shirt.
“You better put this on first,” I said, indicating the salve.
He grinned and winked. “You do it.”
I rolled my eyes at him, ran my fingers through the ointment, and touched it to the new tattoo, red around the edges, slightly inflamed.
“That’s Amore.”
detective. I had a bad feeling about this.
“You hear about Dee Carmichael?” He didn’t mince words.
“Watching it on TV right now. What happened?”
“That’s what I’d like to ask you.”
I stopped breathing for a second. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve got a witness who says she saw a tall redhead leaving the hotel room about two hours ago.” He paused, and even if my mouth hadn’t felt as though it were filled with sand, I knew he wasn’t done yet. I waited as I curled one of my own red locks around my finger.
“We found some ink pots and tattoo needles in the trash.”
Karen E. Olson
