The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(41)

Sharp tucked the phone back in his pocket. “No. She was found dead in a park recently.”

“Who is she?” Shay asked. “Some kind of performance artist?”

“I’m not really sure.” He wasn’t ready to share case details at this point.

Reggie shrugged. “We make no judgments here. Art has different meanings to each individual. Look, if you have more questions, send Shay in to get me, but I’m on the clock and have to get this job done.”

Sharp nodded to Reggie. “Sure, thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

Sharp followed Shay to the front. “What about the other guy hanging out with Jimmy in the back room. Does he have a name?”

“I can look up the name in the appointment book,” Shay said.

She pulled up the day Jimmy Dillon had visited the salon. “There were three guys in here about then. But I think the one you’re looking for was named David. Like I said, he paid in cash. Most of our customers pay cash. Reggie charges 20 percent more for credit cards.”

“What kind of tattoo did David get?”

“I do remember that. It was a woman’s face.”

“Did he happen to mention who the woman was?”

“Said it was his girlfriend. People get their significant other inked on their skin all the time. Half the time they’re back a year later getting it covered or removed.”

“And the other two men?”

She pulled up their names and read them off to Sharp. One got his baby’s name inked on his arm, and the other client had SHE’S WITH STUPID stenciled on his left breast.

He noted the first client’s information. “You stared at the picture of the woman on my phone long and hard. Did you see any detail you didn’t want to mention in front of Reggie?”

She hesitated. “Like I said, the work is just incredibly detailed. I doubt there are more than a handful of artists in the region able to create such fine work.”

“You have any names?”

She met his gaze briefly but couldn’t hold it. “Not off the top of my head, but I can ask around.”

He wasn’t sure if she was nervous by nature or hiding something. He took a risk and fed her a detail. “The woman in the picture is dead. And the work on her face was done in the last month. I’m trying to piece together her last weeks.”

Her face paled. “I never met her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you have an idea who might have done the work?”

“No. I really don’t. But I can ask around. This guy has an obsession with dolls?”

“I believe so.” He handed her a business card. “Please call me if you hear of any helpful information.”

“Sure.” She studied the card a beat. “How does the work done on her face relate to her death?”

He had already tossed her a couple of morsels of information, but no more. “Can’t say. Keep in touch. Thanks.”




Sharp and Vargas arrived at Diane Richardson’s Monument Avenue house just after two. The historic redbrick town house had been built circa 1912 and had floor-to-ceiling front windows as well as a wide front porch stretching the length of the house. A large planter on the porch was filled with dried and withered marigolds.

Vargas touched a brittle blossom. “My plants look like this, though I’ll bet she didn’t forget to water hers.”

“How long does it take for a plant like this to die?” Sharp asked.

“Under a covered porch like this in mild weather? A couple of weeks.”

Sharp nodded. “Did you speak to Diane Richardson’s parents?”

“I did as soon as the doctor identified her. They’re shattered. They couldn’t talk and asked that I come back. They’re expecting me this afternoon.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sharp said.

“Sure.”

Sharp studied the building’s brick exterior and looked inside the brass mail slot centered in the front door. “There are no signs of forced entry on the lock. A month’s worth of mail is scattered on the floor inside. No newspapers.”

“Not too many people get the newspaper delivered anymore.”

Sharp checked his watch. “When is the leasing agent going to be here?”

“Any second.”

The sound of high heels clicking on the sidewalk had them both turning to find a neatly dressed woman in a dark A-line skirt, white blouse, and red heels. Her blond hair was twisted into a knot, and gold hoop earrings dangled. Keys jangled in her hand as she hurried up the brick front steps.

“You must be with the police,” she said. Expensive perfume wafted as she brushed bangs from her eyes.

“I’m Agent Sharp with the Virginia State Police, and this is Agent Vargas. We’re here to see Diane Richardson’s place.”

“I’m Gina Heath, the property manager.” She thumbed through a ring of keys. “I understand you have a search warrant.”

Sharp reached in his notebook and pulled it out. “Would you like to read it?”

“Yes. I need to justify your entry just in case I have an issue with Ms. Richardson or her family.”

“Ms. Richardson is dead,” Vargas said.

Frowning, the woman scanned the paper. “My maintenance man said her mother called him a couple of hours ago and wanted to get into the apartment. He said she sounded upset.”