“Randy and I had quite an active sex life,” Tracy Donovan said after a moment. “At least compared to what the girls at the country club tell me about their husbands. Usually two or three times a week. There are some DVDs back at the house in his top dresser. After Amber was born, we went through a bit of a dry spell, and it was Randy who suggested that we watch the DVDs to spice things up. All guy-girl stuff with the obligatory lesbian scenes thrown in for good measure. It seemed to do the trick; he was really into them at first and always got off pretty quickly. But we hadn’t watched them in years. No need to, quite frankly. No, in the last few years Randy was, well, pretty randy, if you’ll forgive the pun. Does that satisfy you?”
“And never once in your relationship did you ever suspect your husband might be a homosexual? Might be having an affair with another man, perhaps?”
“Randy was very neat around the house,” she said dryly. “Was a snappy dresser and did sing the occasional show tune. He even teared up the first time he watched Disney’s Tarzan with the kids—the part where Tarzan’s ape mother dies. So I guess you’re right. A raging queen my husband was, yes.”
Markham looked away into the rain, and Tracy Donovan took another drag from her cigarette—let the ash fall on her bosom and absently brushed it away.
“For the record,” she said after a heavy silence. “I loved being married to Randall Donovan. He was a good husband, a good father who always made time for his family.” Her voice began to break. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him, no matter what you and the fucking press might think.”
Another woman with blond hair stepped out onto the porch. Tracy Donovan’s sister. Markham recognized her from the photos.
“You all right, T?” she asked. “Anything I can get you?”
Her sister shook her head, snuffed her cigarette into the ashtray, and stood up.
“I have family inside,” Tracy Donovan said. “The funeral is on Saturday. All I ask is that you let us alone until then to grieve in peace.”
She made to leave, then stopped at the front door and turned back.
“One more thing,” she said. “If it’s your intention to slander my husband’s name in the press any further, I suggest you think twice before leveling accusations about his private life in public. Randall Donovan wasn’t the only Donovan in this family to pass the bar in North Carolina.”
The women disappeared inside—slammed the front door loudly and left Sam Markham alone on the porch with only the rain for company.
Chapter 21
Markham hung up with Schaap and parked his Trail-Blazer in the loading area behind the shopping plaza. He sat there for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the rain. Schaap had just told him the results from Quantico had come back negative; no discernable correlation between the constellations and the coordinates of the murder sites. There were patterns that jibed between individual stars, but that was to be expected, Markham thought. Schaap would forward everything to their man at NC State, of course, but Markham felt in his gut that it was all just another dead end. Just like Tracy Donovan. Either she was totally clueless, he thought, or her husband was not a homosexual.
Markham opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and made a dash for the back door of the tattoo parlor—BILLY’S, someone had written on it in black Magic Marker. Driving through the parking lot, he’d noticed a Chinese restaurant at the opposite end of the shopping plaza. He could smell it now through the rain, and promised himself he’d get something to eat there later. He was starving, hadn’t eaten a thing all day—
Anything but beef teriyaki, said a voice in his head. You’ve had enough skewered meat to last you a lifetime, eh Sammy boy?
Markham sighed and inserted the key into the lock. It was sticky, and he had to turn it a couple of times before the door finally gave. He stepped inside, felt for the light switch, and flicked it. He was in the back office. Homicide had removed all the business records and some other evidence the month before, but turned everything over (including the key) to the FBI upon the positive ID from Canning’s lover. The business records were scarce, but Schaap’s team would take care of the follow-up. That part of the investigation wouldn’t take long. There simply wasn’t much to look at.
Markham gave the office a quick once-over and stepped out into the studio.
Billy’s Tattoo Parlor was a small, one-man operation with a large plate-glass window and an L-shaped display counter full of cheap, sterling-silver jewelry. There was a couch and a Barcalounger toward the front, and behind the counter, along with a pair of chairs and a padded table, was Canning’s equipment. None of that stuff had been touched since the day he disappeared, Dorsey had told the FBI in a stream of tears, and Markham could clearly see the marks the forensic team had made in the dust upon their initial sweep of the parlor earlier that afternoon.
He wandered about looking at the images on the walls—thousands of drawings grouped by subject matter. He paused briefly at the signs of the zodiac, then came upon the letters and symbols—the obligatory Chinese and Japanese, of course, but also Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, even Egyptian. There were countless others, too, but no Babylonian cuneiform from what he could see, and certainly no arrangement of letters that even remotely approached the markings found on Donovan and Canning.
Markham worked his way in a horseshoe around the par- lor and came to the section devoted to photographs of Billy Canning’s work: a large, six-by-six-foot bulletin board covered in Polaroids of tattooed flesh—arms and legs and chests and backs, a couple of necks and a pair of breasts here and there. There were hundreds of them, and Markham’s eyes darted about the photos haphazardly.
Canning was good, he had to admit, and the Polaroids were obviously of some of the artist’s best work. His eyes came to rest on a large back tattoo of a pair of sword-dueling ninjas. He thought of Jackson Briggs—removed the picture and stared at it for a long time.
The superposition principle, said the voice in his head. The ninjas are speaking to you, telling you to look closely, telling you not to miss anything. Like that time in the martial arts studio. Briggs was coming for your head with his ninja sword. Would have lopped it off like a pineapple if you hadn’t stopped to look in the mirror.
Markham’s left shoulder began to tingle. He quickly skirted around the counter, grabbed one of the chairs, and sat down in front of the bulletin board. He let his eyes wander slowly across the collage of jumbled body parts, scanning back and forth in a manner that reminded him for some reason of Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. There had to be a thousand pictures, he thought, going back many years.
Markham’s eyes began to ache with fatigue. What the hell was he looking for? The writing on Donovan and Canning? Was it possible Vlad had Canning tattoo the same thing on his chest? But surely Vlad wouldn’t have been so stupid as to let him take a Polaroid of it.
He gazed down at the photo of the dueling ninjas in his hand. The size, the detail, the color—how long would it take Canning to do a tattoo like that?
Vlad kept Canning longer than the others, Markham thought suddenly. Almost two and a half weeks. The hair growth. What if the autopsy comes back and says Canning was alive for most of that time? What if Vlad had his own private tattoo session with Canning before he impaled him?
Pure supposition, Markham thought—but something about the image of the faceless Vlad forcing Canning to tattoo him gnawed at his gut.