“Okay, it’s yours.” I handed it to her. “I might be gone for a little while. I’ll leave you with Dave. The last time Nick watched you, Kim in the bar had to bring you back to the boat.”
I SHOWERED, FILLED Max's plastic bin with dry food and met Dave on his boat as Nick was climbing out of St. Michael like a hermit crab stepping from its shell. Nick approached us with a steaming mug of Greek coffee. “My hair hurts,” he mumbled.
Dave grinned. “Last we saw, you began snoring so loud, Ol Joe left for a quieter area of the dock.”
“That cat was back when I woke up ‘cause he knows I have fish heads to give him.” Nick sipped from the mug, then asked, “Where you going? I can tell you’re leaving ‘cause hotdog is sittin’ on Dave’s boat.”
“I’m going to visit some tattoo parlors.”
Nick squinted in the morning sun, the white of one eye strawberry red. “I need to sit.” We sat in deck chairs on Gibraltar and he said, “Let the cops do it, Sean.”
“I offered. There’s no sense of urgency, and I believe time is running out.”
Dave said, “Soto may be in Vegas by now for all we know.”
“Could be, but I doubt it. He seemed much too intent on the Monroe’s. What if the tattoo is of a woman Soto knows… or knew. If we find out where he got it, we might discover why he got it.”
“How do you mean?” Nick asked.
“Tattoo rooms are places people talk. It’s usually a shared experience between the person getting the ink and the tattoo artist doing it. The receiver most often talks about why he or she wants the tat, what the significance of it is, and describes how they’d like to see it drawn on them… or sometimes they choose from a picture in a book and the artist replicates or customizes it. But most people receiving ink for life want something unique, something they won’t see on the next guy.”
Nick said, “I don’t think the next guy’s gonna be wearing a fairy on his arm. Florida’s got a lot of tattoo parlors. Here in Daytona, they’re like tourist T-shirt shops, almost as many as McDonalds.”
Dave said, “If Soto was first spotted by Molly at the butterfly facility, maybe Gainesville or Ocala would be the best places to look for tattoo parlors.”
I stood and said, “That’s where I’m starting. I went online and printed some phone numbers and addresses. On the way there, I’ll use my cell to narrow down the search.”
Dave shook his head, his eyes watching a sailboat leaving, the diesel burping bubbles in the marina water. He said, “You were the good Samaritan. You protected the women once. It’s up to the cops to find Soto.”
“I hope they do. I’m just asking a few questions. May lead to nothing.”
Nick folded his hands behind his head. “With you, Sean, it always leads to something. I told you how shit happens, remember?”
SEVENTEEN
Luke Palmer sat on his haunches and boiled coffee on coals from a small campfire. He opened a can of spam for breakfast, waited for the morning dew to evaporate before packing his tent. He poured black coffee from the tiny pot into a tin mug and thought about the car he’d seen a half dozen times. Dark windows in the car. It came down the sand road early morning and before sunset.
He heard the sound of a diesel engine coming closer. Palmer stood and peered through the underbrush as a green forestry truck came toward his camp. He could run. Why? He hadn’t done anything illegal. But trouble has a way of raising its ugly head, he thought.
The truck came to a stop forty feet from his camp. The man who got out of the cab spoke into his radio, wore sunglasses and looked toward Palmer. Probably a gun in the truck, he figured. He recognized the man. He’d seen the ranger giving two hikers directions a few days ago. The ranger reminded Palmer of a screw he knew in San Quentin.
I SHOWERED, FILLED Max's plastic bin with dry food and met Dave on his boat as Nick was climbing out of St. Michael like a hermit crab stepping from its shell. Nick approached us with a steaming mug of Greek coffee. “My hair hurts,” he mumbled.
Dave grinned. “Last we saw, you began snoring so loud, Ol Joe left for a quieter area of the dock.”
“That cat was back when I woke up ‘cause he knows I have fish heads to give him.” Nick sipped from the mug, then asked, “Where you going? I can tell you’re leaving ‘cause hotdog is sittin’ on Dave’s boat.”
“I’m going to visit some tattoo parlors.”
Nick squinted in the morning sun, the white of one eye strawberry red. “I need to sit.” We sat in deck chairs on Gibraltar and he said, “Let the cops do it, Sean.”
“I offered. There’s no sense of urgency, and I believe time is running out.”
Dave said, “Soto may be in Vegas by now for all we know.”
“Could be, but I doubt it. He seemed much too intent on the Monroe’s. What if the tattoo is of a woman Soto knows… or knew. If we find out where he got it, we might discover why he got it.”
“How do you mean?” Nick asked.
“Tattoo rooms are places people talk. It’s usually a shared experience between the person getting the ink and the tattoo artist doing it. The receiver most often talks about why he or she wants the tat, what the significance of it is, and describes how they’d like to see it drawn on them… or sometimes they choose from a picture in a book and the artist replicates or customizes it. But most people receiving ink for life want something unique, something they won’t see on the next guy.”
Nick said, “I don’t think the next guy’s gonna be wearing a fairy on his arm. Florida’s got a lot of tattoo parlors. Here in Daytona, they’re like tourist T-shirt shops, almost as many as McDonalds.”
Dave said, “If Soto was first spotted by Molly at the butterfly facility, maybe Gainesville or Ocala would be the best places to look for tattoo parlors.”
I stood and said, “That’s where I’m starting. I went online and printed some phone numbers and addresses. On the way there, I’ll use my cell to narrow down the search.”
Dave shook his head, his eyes watching a sailboat leaving, the diesel burping bubbles in the marina water. He said, “You were the good Samaritan. You protected the women once. It’s up to the cops to find Soto.”
“I hope they do. I’m just asking a few questions. May lead to nothing.”
Nick folded his hands behind his head. “With you, Sean, it always leads to something. I told you how shit happens, remember?”
SEVENTEEN
Luke Palmer sat on his haunches and boiled coffee on coals from a small campfire. He opened a can of spam for breakfast, waited for the morning dew to evaporate before packing his tent. He poured black coffee from the tiny pot into a tin mug and thought about the car he’d seen a half dozen times. Dark windows in the car. It came down the sand road early morning and before sunset.
He heard the sound of a diesel engine coming closer. Palmer stood and peered through the underbrush as a green forestry truck came toward his camp. He could run. Why? He hadn’t done anything illegal. But trouble has a way of raising its ugly head, he thought.
The truck came to a stop forty feet from his camp. The man who got out of the cab spoke into his radio, wore sunglasses and looked toward Palmer. Probably a gun in the truck, he figured. He recognized the man. He’d seen the ranger giving two hikers directions a few days ago. The ranger reminded Palmer of a screw he knew in San Quentin.
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