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“Describe him,” I demand, “in detail. Now.”
“He was tall, way over six feet, nearly seven, and he was wearing gray sweatpants with black and white paint splotches on them. He had a hoodie on so I couldn’t see his hair, but I saw his face, and it was normal.”
“Do better,” I demand.
“Uh, he was white, bulky, and his nose was definitely broken in the past—not a looker, if you know what I mean—oh, and he had a tattoo!”
“Draw it,” I snarl.
His hand shakes as he grabs a pen, flips over a receipt, and starts to scribble. He hands it over and I snatch it away, annoyed as I glance down. It’s distinct. Nodding at Cillian, I turn and start to walk away, leaving him to smooth everything over.
“Forget we were here. If he ever comes back, call us.” After delivering those parting words, he’s at my side. “Lead?” he asks when I say nothing.
“It’s a traditional tattoo, very distinct. I think if we show it to a few people, they will be able to direct us to where this person got it done and then to him.”
“Good idea.”
* * *
I was right. On our eighth shop, the eighty-year-old owner recognizes it. “Yep, I did that one many years ago. I don’t usually remember because I do so many, but I remember that fucker.”
“Why?” Cillian asks since I’m just glaring, hating being away from Reign for so long.
“Because he fucking skipped out on me. Here, I even have his picture in case he ever came back.” Stepping behind the glass display case, she rips one of the photos off the wall and hands it over. The shop is small and in a run-down section of town, but she can obviously handle herself.
I take a picture of it and hand it back. “Thanks.”
“He in trouble or something?” she asks.
“Or something,” I admit with a cruel grin.
“Good. The bastard was rude. Now, I have to get ready to open up. Show yourselves out.” She shuffles back to her station and we leave her to it, the bell ringing overhead as we head back up the concrete steps. The sign for Granny’s Ink flickers on above us.
My feet just hit the sidewalk when my phone chimes, letting me know I have a match from facial recognition.
Pulling it up, I scan the list. “Arrested four times, burglary, DUI, domestic abuse, and assault. Last address is listed. Name’s Michael Moore.”
“Doesn’t look the type, but then again, we are taught you can never be sure.” Cillian sighs. “He’s obviously a criminal.”
I shoot him a look.
“But they usually have some sort of background with this kind of thing, right? Like stalking? Maybe she’s his first victim. Fucker sure is smart though.”
I ponder his words as we head to the address.
It’s a run-down apartment building, and we get lucky. The bastard is smoking around back. It’s almost too easy as we approach, one from each side, cornering him.
“I got no dope,” he mutters, sparing us a look. The idiot is still in the same clothes.
Kicking out the bin he’s perched on, I watch him fall, and without another beat, I smash my foot into his face. He screams as I crouch next to him. “You really fucked with the wrong people,” I muse.
“I ain’t fucked with nobody, man!” he yells. “Please.” Cillian lifts him to his feet, only to drive his fist into his face and knock him back.
“You came after our girl,” Cil hisses as he punches him again.
I’ve never seen Cillian lose his temper before. He’s impressive.
“Fuck, Sandra was asking for it, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was married!” he cries.
