The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(39)

According to the records, the kid had filed an application for the cards four weeks ago and received the new cards last week. He surveyed the purchases, and immediately red flags popped out at him. The kid had been buying items during the school day. Beer, wine, steaks. A tattoo parlor.

The principal said the kid didn’t miss school, so there’d have been no way he could have made these purchases thirty minutes from his school without someone noticing. He’d also have needed a fake ID to buy the booze.

He’d bet money Jimmy, freshly out of prison with no job, had stolen his son’s identity to get the credit cards. “Piece of work.”

His phone rang; it was Dr. Kincaid. “Doc, tell me you have news.”

“I don’t know if the news is good, but I have information. Blood work came back positive for high levels of barbiturates in your tattooed Jane Doe. There are also traces of propofol. She overdosed.”

His chair squeaked as he leaned back and processed the information. “Overdose.” The word always reminded him of Kara. And then he asked the question plaguing Roger, his mother, and him since his sister was found dead. “Propofol is administered by IV, so she couldn’t have given it to herself, correct?”

“That is right. There were no pills in her stomach, so the drugs had to have been delivered via an IV bag, thus the mark on her arm. I’m calling it a homicide, because even if it were some kind of game, whoever administered the drugs to her was the one responsible for her death.” Homicide literally meant the death of a human by another human’s hand. The ruling didn’t speak to premeditation or intent. The woman had died at another’s hands, but the homicide still could have been accidental.

“You said there might be a serial number on her breast implant.”

“There was, and I just got off the phone with the plastic surgeon’s office. Your Jane Doe has a name. Diane Richardson. According to her doctor, she had breast augmentation two years ago. He listed her address in the city’s Fan District on Monument Avenue.” She rattled off the house number.

Sharp pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and wrote down the address. “Doc, that’s great. Now that I have a name, I have a prayer of figuring this out. What about Julia Vargas? Have you notified her?”

“I have. She’ll be calling you to set up a meet today at the victim’s home.”

A critical piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. “Doc, you’re the best.”

“So I keep telling my staff, but no one seems to believe me.”

When he ended the call, he quickly rang Vargas, and the two agreed to meet at the Monument Avenue address as soon as he arranged for a search warrant. By ten he had a judge willing to review his case.

Knowing the review process could take a couple of hours, he decided to visit the tattoo shop where someone had bought a tattoo in Terrance’s name last week.

Less than a half hour later, Sharp entered the tattoo salon Ink Plus, located on Broad Street, a thoroughfare in the center of the urban campus of Virginia Commonwealth University. The school took up most of this section of Richmond and added to the hip vibe of the area.

The windows of the salon were covered with a collection of pictures showcasing the artists standing beside their customers sporting new ink.

Sharp had gotten four tattoos while in the marines. None of them were fancy or ornate like these. One was a simple saying, I WIN WHERE I FIGHT. The second read DUTY. HONOR. COURAGE. And the third, MY TIME IS AT HAND. And the last was a list of the five good men he’d lost in battle.

He moved through the front door. Bells overhead jingled. Jazz music played softly.

“Can I help you?”

The question came from a young woman behind the front counter. Thick dark hair skimmed her shoulders. She wore a gray tank top that left exposed sinewy arms and an ornate tattooed cuff ringing her right bicep.

“I hope so,” he said.

She eyed him, already had him figured for a cop. But her smile was genuine. “What can I do for you?”

He pulled out his badge and introduced himself. “And your name?”

If he hadn’t been paying attention, he’d have missed the micro hesitation and the wave of tension rippling through her. “Shay Profit. I’m the girl Friday here. If I’m not tattooing, I’m answering phones or working the front desk.”

“How long have you worked here?” he asked.

“About two months.”

He wasn’t interested in whatever she might be hiding. “I’m trying to track a guy who might have been through here about a month ago.”

Relief chased away the unease. “That’s a long time.”

“I have a credit card receipt if that will help.”

“Sure.” He showed her Terrance’s and Jimmy’s pictures as well as the printout of the credit card purchase. He didn’t say more, wanting her to fill in the gaps.

She took both pictures and studied them. She turned Terrance’s picture around. “That’s the kid who was killed. I saw his picture on the news this morning.”

“Good memory.”

Black nails tapped the edge of the photo. “I have a memory for faces.”

“What about the other guy?”

“He does look familiar. I want to say he got a tiger tattoo.” She keyed the date on the credit card receipt into her computer. “Yeah, he was here just as you said, but he got a tattoo of a lion on his right shoulder blade. I didn’t do the work, but Reggie did.”