He drove by three tattoo shops, saw nothing but guys, and kept going. Then he found a shop with two women inside, one of them working on the other. He stopped across the street, wrote down the license plate numbers of the two cars in front of the shop, and then pulled in and killed the engine.
Rap music filled the air.
When he walked in, the woman giving the tattoo looked up.
“Hi, I’m Mia,” she said. “Go ahead and look around. If you got any questions just holler.”
She fit the bill, perfectly-Hispanic, mid-twenties, with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a tank top with no bra, showing off strong arms covered in ink. The woman getting the tattoo would work too, although she would be second choice. She was getting the new artwork on her left breast, a small rose or flower of some sort.
“Just looking,” he said.
“Besides the stuff on the walls,” she said, “there’s books on the desk, too. We can make anything any size you want. We can change the colors, customize them however you want.”
“Great,” he said.
Pattern pictures covered the walls, hundreds of them.
He walked around.
Keeping one eye on the women.
Trying to not be obvious.
Then something weird happened.
He spotted a pattern he actually liked.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing.
Mia stopped working and turned her cute little face toward him. “That’s an Indian war symbol,” she said.
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I want it.”
She nodded. “That’ll look good on you. I’ll be about another half hour here, then you’re up.”
Perfect.
“Say, would you mind if I watched, and see how you do it? I’ve never had one of these things before.”
The two women looked at each other.
Neither cared.
So he pulled up a chair and watched.
As they chatted he found out all kinds of useful little facts. The woman giving the tattoo-Mia Avila-owned and operated the shop. She opened it two years ago at age twenty-two after coming out of the wrong end of a marriage. The woman in the chair-Isella Ramirez-was married with two kids. The ink on her tit was a birthday present from hubby-face.
Mia Avila would be the one he’d take.
Assuming the opportunity presented itself.
Back at headquarters, Teffinger sat through a series of afternoon meetings drinking decaf while his thoughts wandered to Davica. He liked her eyes, her voice, and the way she tossed her hair.
He needed to see her again, soon.
If not again today, then tomorrow for sure.
There was something between them, unspoken but yet tangible. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman’s pull had so strong a grip on him, especially right from the start.
After the last meeting, he swung by Sydney Heatherwood’s desk. At age twenty-seven, she was the newest detective in the Unit, personally stolen by Teffinger from vice a year ago. But she had already cut her teeth on two of the scariest guys to ever hit Denver.
“Want to take a ride?” he asked.
She looked relieved at the opportunity.
They were headed to the stairwell, almost past the elevators, when Sydney jumped in front of him waving a bill.
“Ten dollars if you take the elevator,” she said.
He stopped.
“Why?”
“Just to see if you’re capable.”
“I am,” he said, trying to walk around her.
She blocked him again.
“Ten bucks says you’re not,” she said.
He studied her.
“Remember, I’m the cheapest guy on the face of the earth,” he said.
“I already know that.”
He grabbed the bill and pressed the down button. When the elevator doors opened, he hesitated, then stepped inside and pressed the button for the parking garage. Sydney-visibly startled-stepped inside with him.
Before the doors shut he jumped out.
He returned the bill down in the parking garage.
“Try me again tomorrow with a twenty,” he said.
They headed north on Broadway in his Tundra, with the windows cracked just enough to let in air but not noise. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect, eighty and sunny. He flicked the radio stations, finally stopping at “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.”
“Does this car even get black music?” Sydney asked.
He raised an eyebrow and realized that sometimes he actually forgot that she was African American, born and raised in Five-Points.
“What? You don’t like Meat Loaf?”
“No, I like steak,” she said.
He smiled and added, “He was in Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
“Who?”
“Meat Loaf. He was in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
“What’s that?”
“What do you mean-what’s that? You never saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show?”
“No, what is it?”
“Have you ever danced the Time Warp?”
She looked at him weird. “No more coffee for you,” she said. “Tell me about your meeting with Davica Holland this morning.”
He did.
Leaving out the bedroom scene.
“She did everything she could to incriminate herself,” he said. “Either because she’s innocent and doesn’t care what we find, or because she’s guilty and wants to appear so innocent that she doesn’t care what we find.”
“So which is it?”
“I don’t know. I need more time with her.”