“That song is carried by the brilliant guitar solo, my friend.”
He smiled. There wasn’t a musician on the planet who could shred a diminished chord in lowered fifth as drugging and eerie as Laz Bromwell. “Ah yes, the charms of the devil’s note.”
“And someday soon, women everywhere will cluster in overcrowded arenas chanting Bromwell note.” He cupped his mouth. “Raaaaah. Bromwell note. With their shirts off, of course.”
“Of course.”
They shared a look, one born in high school where they met over a clutter of scrawled lyrics in a clichéd garage. Neither of them hid their expressions, their smiles overflowing with equal measures of excitement and uncertainty.
The driver slowed the cab. “Kilroy Tattoo.”
Laz paid the fare and twisted on the seat to look him in the eye. “Let’s go get the girl. And try not to fuck it up.”
He gripped the door handle. “Tone down the battle cry. I’m pretty sure there’s a boyfriend.”
Laz smiled, all teeth and mischief. “There’s two of us and one of him. I’ll hold him while you show him how it’s going to be.”
Yeah, that would win the girl. “This is why I never ask you for advice.”
He jumped onto the sidewalk beneath the neon sign. A thrill fluttered through him and settled in his gut. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, sucked in a deep breath, and pulled the door knob. It didn’t budge.
A knot clotted in his throat. Maybe she took the day off. He peered through the dusty window between cupped hands.
No furniture. No supplies. No Charlee. His heart pounded and his stomach dropped. “She’s gone. Fuck, her shit’s gone.” His greatest fucking fear.
Laz mirrored his pose beside him. “What’s with the police tape?”
He followed Laz’s point at the floor just inside the door. Pieces of yellow tape stuck to the tiles and nearby wall. A suffocating dread fell over him. He couldn’t move. Laz was running his mouth, but his voice was so far away. What the fuck happened in there?
He unlocked his muscles and scanned the neighboring businesses. “There.” He jogged toward the bar across the street. A car honked. At him? At Laz? Who the fuck cared? He quickened his pace.
Inside, the woman behind the bar slung a towel over her shoulder. “Hey, boys. What can I get you?”
His body buzzed with adrenaline as he moved toward the bar on autopilot. “What happened at Kilroy Tattoo?”
Her brows knitted, and she looked out the front window.
“Sorry.” Laz shouldered past him. “My buddy left his manners in L.A. He’ll have Johnnie Walker Black. Neat with a water back. Same for me.”
She poured the whiskey. “So you’re from L.A.?”
Laz nodded as they settled on the stools at the counter.
“Then I guess you wouldn’t have seen it on the news. There was a shooting a couple months ago. Double murder. The owner and her boyfriend.”
A dark tunnel engulfed his vision. He flew to his feet, and the stool tipped back, crashing to the floor. “The owner? Who was the owner?”
“I-I don’t know. A young girl. Mid-twenties maybe. Real pretty—”
“Charlee?” A red hot burn kindled in his throat and choked his voice. “Was her name Charlee?”
“I’m sorry.” She licked the hoop piercing her lip. “I don’t know. She was a quiet little thing. Kept to herself.”
No, that didn’t sound like her. “Blue eyes? Hair cropped short?” He scrubbed a hand over his own short hair.
“Yeah, that was her.”
Was. The fire in his throat burst into an overwhelming helplessness that spread through his body, sent him pacing in a circle. He felt dizzy, sick. He was going to be sick.
“Jay. Jay, you need to sit down.” Laz stepped in front of him, tried to guide him to a stool without touching him.
“Sir, I don’t know if this would help, but one of the investigators left his contact info.” She pulled a business card from a drawer and slid it across the counter.
He fumbled his phone from his pocket, scanned the card for the number, and dialed.
“Winslow Investigations. Maurice Crane.”
He glanced at the card, his hand shaking violently. “I’m calling for Nathan Winslow.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Winslow is unreachable. Who’s calling?”
“I understand he was involved in the Kilroy case. I’m looking for one of the employees. Charlee…” He swallowed back the anxiety piled up in his throat. “I don’t…fuck I don’t know her last name.” The silence on the other end was stifling. He could’ve really used some fucking C-dust to clear his head. “You there?”
“Sarah Teves was the shop owner and only employee.”
He blew out a shuddering breath. “No, there was a tattoo artist there. Couple months ago. Name’s Charlee.”
“Who am I speaking with?”
“Jay. Jay Mayard.”
“How are you affiliated with Kilroy Tattoo, Mr. Mayard?”
“I’m a customer of Charlee’s. Is she okay? Where is she?”
“One moment. I’m connecting you with Mr. Winslow.”
Click. A long pause.