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With her fingers on the phone’s screen she zoomed in on the photo.
“Wait,” she said. Standing over her shoulder now, Johnny saw what she was focusing on. A tattoo on the man’s left arm. He’d barely noticed it.
“Did Mark have a tattoo?” he asked. She’d never mentioned it. But then, there’d been other things she’d failed to tell him. Hence, their list-building plan for that night.
“No,” she said, and he frowned. “Look at this,” she said, zooming in closer so only the tattoo showed on the man’s arm.
“It’s a lily,” he said.
“Yes, but see this...” She zoomed in even farther. Pointed at what looked like dots, or flakes of dust all over the flower. “It’s scabbing and dry skin is flaking off,” she said. “It’s the second stage of tat healing. A nurse I work with got one and this stage drove her nuts. They tell you not to scratch, since new tats are at risk of infection.”
“So it’s new.”
“Yes.” She looked up at him, and the glow in her eyes made him want to kiss her. “And the lily? It was Mark’s mom’s favorite flower.”
Again, he wanted to kiss her. Instead, he put the phone away, loaded the dishwasher and sat down with his partner to make lists.
While she was still at Johnny’s place, she had a call from Detective Bentley. Matt Jamison appeared to be exactly who he said he was. His car was registered, a prior address had come up and checked out as far as the police computer was concerned. A birth date and social security number were listed. He’d never been arrested. There were no fingerprints on file.
They hadn’t found a birth certificate for Jason, but for that, they needed to narrow the search to a particular county. He had someone going through the counties in California, one by one.
Johnny hadn’t been surprised by any of it, but at Tabitha’s fallen expression he told her he’d get Alistair to take a deeper look at the information the police had given them. Not that they’d shared any specifics. They couldn’t. But Alistair had ways of finding out things. Johnny called him before she went home.
* * *
Friday night dinner had been at Tabitha’s place. He’d made a bourbon-based pork au jus, with shredded cauliflower soufflé and snow peas, which he’d carried over from his kitchen when he saw her pull in after work. She’d asked for seconds. And their list had grown. She’d also given him a house key so he could cook in her kitchen—after he’d refused to back down on his insistence that after a long day’s work, she needed to be able to come home, shower, get comfy and just relax in her own space.
He knew he’d been right to stand up to her. She was pushing herself too hard. And there was no one around but him to see that.
Or do anything about it.
Alistair had found out that Matt Jamison had no formal certification as a personal trainer, at least none that was easy to find. And Alistair couldn’t find any college information on him, either.
Again, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It wasn’t like you could type in Joe Blow’s name and find out what college he’d attended, unless he’d put something on social media.
Jamison had no social media accounts that could be traced back to him.
Johnny called Tabitha at work as soon as he heard from the investigator. She’d taken hope, as he’d feared she would.
And she told him that Detective Bentley had called to say no birth certificate had shown up yet for Jason.
She’d also said she was tired and looking forward to dinner. Mentioned that she’d forgotten to take out a fresh roll of paper towels and where she stored them.
Still, it was odd, to say the least, being in her home on a Saturday afternoon without her there. He was preparing the lasagna he’d chosen after remembering how, on their travels, her first choice for dinner was always Italian, followed quickly by Mexican, and that, when Italian won, she usually ordered the dish. He was accompanying it with salad greens with homemade croutons and his own version of a Caesar dressing.
For dessert he’d bought a white cake with buttercream icing—the same kind that she’d brought over for his birthday. She’d apologized—sort of—for the fact that it was store-bought, but said it was her absolute favorite so she never made cakes.
The lasagna was in the oven, the greens washed and prepared and the cake covered and on the counter. He’d set the dining room table where they’d been working rather than the two-seater in the bay window nook at the other end of her kitchen. But he thought the little table might have been nicer. More intimate.
He thought about the wine he’d purchased and retrieved a couple of glasses from the cupboard.
He looked again at the hallway leading to her bedroom. He could walk down there. Take a peek inside. Just to know if she had a king or queen. See the things that surrounded her when she slept. If she was a bed-maker or not.
No—going inside her bedroom would be an invasion of privacy. Johnny went to check the lasagna, then set the timer on his phone and let himself out.
He’d go home, call his folks, catch up on everyone in his real life. Ask about the family business, maybe have some files sent over...maybe even take on a case or two. See if he could get through an entire hour without thinking about making love with Tabitha.
And that night, after working on the list, maybe he’d head over to his side of town, to an upscale bar he knew. Meet someone who’d still want to be in his life three months from now. Someone who’d be part of the life he’d be resuming. Start getting to know her.
