Murder Notes (Lilah Love 1)

I approach the front door to find a less-than-impressive operation, especially after some of the high-end, salon-style places I’ve visited. The front desk that was a shiny gray horseshoe number at the last place is a simple, glass-encased cabinet not more than ten feet long here. Behind it, four reclining leather chairs are occupied while artists work on customers, while a fifth sits empty. The walls are papered with overlapping, thumbtacked, eight-by-eleven-inch sheets with tattoo designs on them.

A twentysomething chick with bright-purple hair and a nose ring and ink everywhere on her pale skin approaches the counter to greet me. “What’s up?” she asks, giving my Chanel coat, a choice I’ve regretted more than once since hitting the parlors, a once-over. I have, however, made it work for me.

I approach the counter and smile. “I’m nervous,” I say when I’ve never been nervous a day in my life. “I’m a tattoo virgin.”

“No kidding?” she says, smacking her gum.

“I’m ready to dive in, though. Be a rebel. That kind of thing.”

“Yeah. Well, rebel that you are. We have a three-month wait.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay. They say you should wait for the best and all, but I just want to find the right artist. I heard there was a guy named Mel that’s really good.”

“Mel!” she shouts so damn loud I cringe. “Mel!”

“Jesus,” a tall, fortysomething man with blond dreadlocks says, appearing beside her. “Mel isn’t here. How have you been here all day and don’t know that?”

“Sorry, Reggie.”

“Oh,” I say. “You’re Reggie.”

“I am, sweetheart. What can I do you for?”

“I heard Mel does amazing Virgin Mary tattoos. Does he have samples you might show me?”

“Any tat he’s done is duplicated on one of those pages on the wall. His is the last booth. Feel free to give his work a look.” He motions me behind the counter, and I waste no time darting around the counter and making my way to that corner. I start scanning artwork, lifting pages, and searching high and low, but I cannot find a Virgin Mary.

“You can look at this book, too,” Reggie says, walking over to me and setting a binder down. “You might find it there.”

He walks away, and I pick up the book and start flipping pages. Halfway through the book, I glance up to find an old man with long, gray braids and sunburned skin standing against the far wall, his gaze locked on me. “Why do you want a Virgin Mary?” he asks.

“It means something to me.”

“What does it mean?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does she bleed for you when no one else does?” He smirks and then turns away, disappearing down a hallway.

Adrenaline surges through me and I stand up, setting down the book to follow him down that hallway. I round the corner just in time to watch the alleyway door open and shut. I rush toward it but when I push the door, it jams, like it’s being held from the other side. “Damn it,” I say, rushing back into the salon. “Who was that man?”

“Who?” Reggie asks, looking up from a tattoo he’s giving.

“The old guy with the braids,” I say.

“Didn’t see him.”

“Anyone know him?” I ask.

They all give me blank stares. I rush out the front door and cut right, turning down the tiny walkway leading to the back of the building and rushing toward the back alley. Pausing before I round the corner, I remove my weapon from my ankle holster and insert it into my coat pocket. Cautiously, I turn the corner, my path now illuminated by a streetlight and paved with uneven stones, a dumpster to the left.

I start walking, making my way toward a connecting alleyway, cautiously approaching that dumpster and then another, when suddenly the old man steps out from behind it. “You want me?”

My hand flexes on my weapon. “Yes. I do. What do you know about that tattoo?”

“It’s a blood tattoo. It bleeds because you bleed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It bleeds because they are dangerous.”

“Who?”

“The people they work for.”

“What people?”

“Go home before you bleed. Before your family bleeds.”

He turns and starts to run away. I start running after him, but we both stop abruptly when a black sedan squeals to a halt in the roadway in front of us and just beyond the alleyway. In a blink, two men are out of the passenger-side doors, both in ski masks and all black. Both pointing guns at me.

“Get in the car,” one of the masked men grunts at the older man, who does as he’s told, while my hand closes around my gun and I hope for an opportunity that never comes. The two masked men back away and slide into the car, which starts moving before one of the doors is even shut. I race after it, determined to get a license number, and round the corner in time to watch it speed away, but there is no plate on the bumper.

The old man’s words replay in my mind: It’s a blood tattoo. It bleeds because you bleed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I walk the streets after that old man disappeared, going from establishment to establishment, asking questions, trying to figure out who he was, and come up with a big, whopping zero at every turn. By the time I accept temporary defeat and hail a cab, I’m ready to be out of this city. I’m just about to slide into a car when my cell phone rings, and a glance at the caller ID tells me it’s Alexandra. “I need a moment,” I tell the driver, who scowls. “Hey,” I say. “I tip huge. I’m worth the wait. Or I can give it to someone else. What’ll it be?”

“I’ll wait.”

I nod and shut the door, leaning on the car and hitting the Answer button. “Alexandra,” I say.

“I would have called sooner, but I’ve been in court today.”

“That’s why I return calls on the way to court,” I say.

“I was prepping. Do we have to do this awkward thing we’re doing?”

“Yes,” I say. “We do. Why would Woods call you of all people?”

“It had to be random. Maybe he picked the only female at the DA’s office. It’s very odd and frankly, scary.”