Crossroads of Bones (A Katie Bishop Novel Book 1) Read online

  Her brow arched. “Well, ain’t you a knight in shining armor, Sea Bass. Better not let Maggie get wind of you spending the night with the boss.”

  “He didn’t spend the night,” I corrected. “We had a little talk about how I didn’t need any babysitting, and I sent him on his way. Isn’t that right, Sea Bass?” I gave him a warning look, making it clear that he needed to keep his loose lips shut. Eventually I’d probably have to share my secret with Mouse, too, but we weren’t chummy enough for my dragon to feel protective of her just yet. Thank God for that.

  “Yep. No impropriety last night. Except for them underwear you was traipsing around in, and that skimpy tank top you had on.” A cocky grin climbed up the right side of his face as he poured a scoop of coffee grounds into a filter.

  “Yeah, in your dreams,” Mouse sneered. “Boss is way out of your league. For the life of me, I don’t know what women see in you. Big ol’ dumb-ass.”

  Sea Bass darted across the room and threw her over his shoulder, knowing damn well it would piss her off. Just another reminder of how small she was. He howled when she bit into the flesh of his back, and sent her crashing to the floor.

  “Goddamn Neanderthal!” she spat at him.

  “Well, you asked for it. Do that again and I’ll—”

  “For the love of God!” I stood between them and pointed to their stations. “Set up. We’ve got customers coming in.” Sometimes I wondered if they’d come from the same womb, genetically wired to fight like siblings. They’d known each other since they were kids, and I’d hired Mouse on Sea Bass’ recommendation.

  MagicInk had been open for barely four months. With enough money scraped together over the two years before moving down here, I was able to open the shop on a shoestring. I’d signed a lease on an old building that used to house a butcher shop. If you sniffed hard enough, I swear you could still detect the smell of meat embedded in the walls and old plank floors. With a few chairs and massage tables and the bare minimum in machinery and supplies, I had enough to open the doors in a less than ideal part of town. But people were finding us. In fact, the dive quality of our humble establishment seemed to add credibility for those who lived the ink culture. Tourists and suburban kids looking to piss off their parents usually headed for the other side of town.

  “Anyone heard from Abel?” I asked, referring to the absent fourth member of our team. Abel was the shop apprentice. Forty-six and looking for a career change, he’d spent the first twenty-two years of his professional life as a police officer for the Chatham County PD, but was forced into early retirement due to a medical condition that meant a life behind a desk. It was the perfect opportunity to finally pursue his artistic talents. That, and a recent divorce that freed him to do whatever the hell he wanted. A clean slate. No more wife telling him what was or wasn’t a respectable job, although his grown children reminded him frequently that he’d lost his ever-loving mind.

  The door opened before anyone could answer, and in walked my missing apprentice. “Sorry, Katie. Traffic is a bitch this morning. I need coffee. Bad.” He headed for the coffeemaker but stopped and shuddered when he saw it still dripping into the pot. “That’s just fucking great,” he grumbled.

  Abel was a man of average height, but he was thick like a wrestler with a bald head covered in ink. Until his recent exit from the police department, the tattoos had been hidden by a full head of hair, and the scattering of marks on his arms had been tolerated by the department. Now that he was free to do whatever he wanted with his skin, he was working on a full sleeve on each side.

  Two months earlier he walked into the shop and grabbed the APPRENTICE WANTED sign right out of the window. It felt kind of strange considering someone almost twice my age for a payless job that usually attracted youngsters. To be honest, I looked for every reason not to take him on, figuring he’d end up quitting once the novelty wore off. But he was convincing. Not willing to take no for an answer, he dropped to his skivvies to show me his art, explaining that while he hadn’t actually applied any of them to his own skin, he’d designed every last one. He was the real deal. A walking showcase of his artistic talent.

  “Rough morning?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you could say that. My kid decided to call me this morning to let me know she’s pregnant and quitting school. She’s been messing around with this married guy.” He shook his head and tugged a deep breath through his nose. “I wanna kill that—”

  “Nope. No, you don’t,” Sea Bass said, shaking his head. “In my experience, these things have a way of working themselves out. You ain’t gonna do your kid any good in jail.”

  I glanced at him, surprised. “In your experience? Since you’ve never been married I can only assume that she was?”

  “A lot of little Sea Basses swimming around out there,” Mouse chimed in. “That pecker is gonna get you killed someday.”

  Abel gave him a dirty look and then turned to me. “What’s on the calendar this morning?”

  “Sugar is scheduled for ten,” I said. “She wants that matching wing.”

  Lady Sugar was the reigning queen of the neighborhood. She was actually a he, but since she identified as a lady—and out of respect—the residents and merchants in the area referred to her by her preferred pronoun. Sugar was a performer at one of Savannah’s more colorful clubs and a bit of a legend in these parts. Of mixed parentage, she had cinnamon skin and striking hazel eyes that got your attention the minute she fixed them on you. She also happened to be the first customer who’d ever set foot in MagicInk. A picture of her Medusa tattoo was painted above the shop name on the window.

  Mouse grinned at Sea Bass. “Enjoy.”

  “Oh, I will,” he replied. “Her ass is a lot cleaner than most of the others that walk through that door.” Sugar was getting the matching butterfly wing on her right cheek. The left one had taken a good four hours to complete, so Sea Bass was about to have a long day staring at the lady’s behind. “Unless you’d like to do it.”

  “You know she won’t let anyone but you touch her skin,” Mouse snorted. “She’s the only woman lusting after you that Maggie won’t try to kill.”

  Right on schedule, Lady Sugar waltzed through the front door. She was dressed in a unisex pantsuit that looked like it just stepped out of the seventies, with a pair of stacked shoes reminiscent of Saturday Night Fever. No wig today, just a scarf wrapped over her head of black hair and a face full of heavy makeup that made you question her true gender. Her stature tipped her toward the male side.

  “Hey, Sugar. You doing all right this morning?” In just six months I’d started picking up a bit of a southern accent. It surprised me every time I opened my mouth.

  “Right as rain, baby. You?”

  “Shop’s still open, and I’m eating,” I said. “Could be a lot worse.”

  “I hear that. Best to be poor before you strike it rich. Makes it that much sweeter when you hit the lottery.” She tossed her purse on a chair. “And I intend to win that damn Mega Millions someday.”

  Sea Bass greeted his client with a cup of our world-class coffee and patted the table. “Ready for a little pain, Sugar?”

  “Well, honey, you know what they say about pleasure and pain. You just take your sweet time and make sure them wings match. I wanna be flying off this table by my ass when it’s done.”

  He laughed and headed for the autoclave to retrieve his sterilized equipment, while Sugar dropped her pants without warning and climbed onto the table facedown. On his way back, Sea Bass stopped and looked toward the window. I followed his eyes and watched a man on the sidewalk stare at the shop sign painted on the glass. He kept shaking his head and talking to himself as if debating whether he should enter.

  Mouse walked over to the front door and cracked it open. “You want to come inside and decide if you want that tattoo? It’s all right if you change your mind, but at least you won’t wear out the sidewalk any more than you already have.”

  With a disoriented expression, he to
ok the offer and came inside the shop. His eyes went from Mouse to Sea Bass. Then he glanced at Abel. “I know you. You’re a cop.”

  “Not anymore,” Abel said. “How do we know each other?”

  The man shook his head as his eyebrows drew together in a confused knot. “What? I don’t know you.”

  Sugar pushed up on her elbows and examined the stranger. “Honey, you okay? You acting a little strange.”

  He looked at the half-naked man covered in thick makeup, his eyes flying wide as he stumbled backward. The entire room seemed to lunge for the teetering stranger, but before he hit the ground he regained his footing and adjusted his displaced belt that had slipped lower on his hips.

  “Good morning,” he said in a smooth voice unlike the one he’d entered with, seeming to have his reset button pushed. “My name is Victor Tuse. I’d like a tattoo, please.”

  “Okay, this man just ain’t right,” Sugar muttered, glancing at me as if to say, You got no business putting ink on a man who ain’t right.

  I hated to walk away from a paying customer, but I also happened to agree with Sugar. “You sure about that, Mister?” I asked, giving him an out. “Because a minute ago you didn’t seem too sure about putting a permanent piece of art on your skin.”

  “My apologies for coming across a little uncertain.” He glanced at Sugar, who was giving him the stink eye. “I’ve been a little under the weather this morning, but my decision to get a tattoo has been solidified for some time now. In fact, it’s already been started, as you’ll see for yourself. Unfortunately, the artist only applied part of the outline in the first session before dying in an unfortunate accident. So you see, you’d simply be completing it.”

  “Solidified,” Sugar repeated under her breath.

  Victor Tuse pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his shirt. He unfolded the drawing that looked to be as long and wide as the 8 x 11-inch paper it was drawn on, and handed it to me. “I’d like this tattooed in the center of my back. The size and color are very precise. It must be applied exactly as it appears on that paper. No deviations.”

  I nearly dropped the paper when I looked at it. The design was no small task, intricate and detailed, and large enough to keep him on the table all day. The image was outlined in black lines filled with vibrant shades of red and blue, just as it had been in my dream. It was the exact tattoo that had kept me awake at night, the one on the back of a dead man who seemed to wake up just before I did.

  Victor Tuse was staring at me intently when I looked back up at him, a smile forming on his face.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked, handing the drawing back to him.

  He ignored my hand, seeming surprised by the question. “I drew it. It came to me in a dream.”

  I took a step closer and tracked his eyes. “That’s interesting, Mr. Tuse. It came to me in a dream, too.” My eyes burned as the dragon stirred.

  “What?” Sea Bass said. “That’s the one you been dream—”

  I silenced him with my raised hand. Up to this point, my life had been pretty mundane since coming to Savannah. It was only a matter of time before the strange caught up to me, followed that trail of breadcrumbs I’d left on my way down from New York. “Okay. Have a seat.” I motioned to a station. “Fifteen hundred.” That would get rid of him.

  “Fine,” he agreed without flinching.

  “Well, damn!” exclaimed Sea Bass.

  “Mouse? You don’t have any clients until later this afternoon, do you?” I asked without taking my eyes off the stranger. I didn’t want any part of that tattoo. In fact, the sight of it made me feel a little sick to my stomach, just like it had in my dream. We’d oblige a paying customer, but someone else had to do it.

  Her face lit up at the thought of all that money. “My pleasure, Mr. Tuse. Just give me a few minutes to make a transfer and we’ll get started.”

  Tuse’s smile vanished. “No. Miss Bishop must do it.”

  Mouse’s subdued excitement deflated instantly. It wasn’t personal, but I could see the disappointment on her face. She needed that money. We all needed that money.

  “How do you know my name?”

  His grin hitched as his mind went to work. “I’ve inquired about your work, Miss Bishop. You are the owner, correct?”

  “Fine,” I said without answering his question. “I’ll do it.” I agreed against the instincts in my gut telling me to show Victor Tuse to the door.

  He removed his shirt and lay on the table with his arms folded under his chin. I examined his bare skin. “I’m guessing you don’t have any other tattoos hidden under your clothes, do you? This will be your first?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Remember, Miss Bishop, no deviations.”

  It took nearly six hours to complete, but I refused to schedule a second session to finish the tattoo. I cleaned Victor Tuse’s reddened skin and applied a clear bandage. During the hours under the needle he barely flinched, even when I came close to the bone. I’d offered him a mirror to have a look before I covered it, but he refused and told me he knew it was perfect. When it was time to pay up, I almost felt guilty about accepting his fifteen hundred dollars, seeing how the price was meant to scare him off and not actually gouge him. But I had a feeling he could afford it, and in some way I’d earned my inflated pay.

  “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Bishop.” He shook my hand and headed for the door, but before walking through it he said, “You’ve earned a new customer. I’ll be back for more, no doubt.”

  As soon as he was out of sight Mouse, Sea Bass, and Abel gathered around me and waited for an explanation about my earlier comment, the one about a complete stranger’s drawing coming to me in a dream. And I’m sure they were all wondering if I’d lost my marbles—and my integrity—by quoting the guy fifteen hundred dollars for a four-hundred-dollar tattoo. Sea Bass would understand, but Mouse and Abel weren’t privy to my secret.

  I was about to fabricate a story when the front door opened. A tall man in his mid to late forties, wearing a pricey looking suit and a pair of black snakeskin boots walked into the shop, filling the space with an undeniable presence that commanded the attention of everyone in the room. He wore no tie with his gray shirt and smelled of cigars mixed with a hint of aftershave. Without a greeting, he removed his jacket and tossed it on a chair, taking a seat and crossing his boot over his knee. Then he exhaled a deep breath while combing his long fingers over the top of his head and asked, “Which one of you just gave Victor Tuse that tattoo?”

  A short laugh burst from my mouth. Considering all the absurd shit I’d dealt with over the past twenty-four hours, my patience and manners were worn clean through. “Who the hell are you?”

  His sharp eyes did a walk around the room before settling back on mine. “Well, I guess that would be you,” he said with a touch of contempt in his voice. “I’m the man who’s gonna fix the shitstorm you just started.”

  3

  Finley Cooper was his name. Mr. Cooper walked into my shop and proceeded to grill me about the customer who’d just paid fifteen hundred green American dollars for a tattoo. Or rather, he proceeded to educated me.

  “Call me Fin,” he said. “The only person who called me Finley was my Aunt Rebecca, and she’s been dead for over twenty years.”

  “Mr. Cooper,” I began, “why don’t you start by telling us who you really are and what you want.”

  “He’s the fat cat who owns a good chunk of this town.” We all looked up as Sugar came strolling back through the front door. “Isn’t that right, Fin?”

  “Sugar,” Fin acknowledge with a drawl, uncrossing his legs but remaining in his seat. “How long’s it been?”

  Her eyes rolled over his torso. “Oh, at least two days. Wasn’t that you up in the club the other night?”

  Without waiting for his response, she came closer and fiddled with a stray strand of black hair resting on the side of my face. “Sugar just wanted to check up on you to make sure that strang
e man you was tending to earlier didn’t do something unsavory. But I see everyone is in one piece.” She glanced at Sea Bass, giving him a soft stare and a half pucker. “Can’t have no harm come to my boy.” Sea Bass flushed and turned his eyes back on Cooper.

  “You were telling us why you’re here,” I prompted.

  “Sugar’s right. I own a good part of this town.”

  Abel chimed in. “You’re a real upstanding citizen, aren’t you Mr. Cooper? How long’s it been since the CCPD paid you a visit?”

  “Moonlighting, Officer Ferguson? I thought the Chatham County Police Department frowned on that sort of thing.” He glanced around the shop again, taking in the walls and all the hard work we’d done to convert an old butcher shop into a respectable tattoo parlor. “Why, I believe I own this very building. I see you’ve managed to cover up all the old bloodstains nicely.”

  “So, you’re my landlord,” I said. Until now the face behind that check I wrote every month was the woman at the property management company. I never imagined my landlord as a Southern gentleman with a strange but undeniable charisma. But even a snake is capable of charming its next meal, and my instincts told me to never turn my back on a man like Finley Cooper.

  “That is correct. It’s Miss. Bishop, right? I do hope you’re getting your money’s worth, seeing how the rent I’m charging you is reasonably low.”

  Since he’d finally had the courtesy to stop by and introduce himself—after four months—I figured I’d take advantage of the opportunity. “Since you asked, Mr. Cooper, I’ve got a list of things that need fixing. I’ll give it to you on your way out.”

  He was standing now, staring out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. We all waited for his next move, but he just stood there silently gazing up and down the street like he was waiting for someone to come walking down the sidewalk. When he finally turned around to look at me, his face had gone from relaxed to grave. “Miss Bishop, why are you in my town?”