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Inky Octopus
Tuesday, September 4
10:21 a.m.
Wilmington was more vibrant with tourists than Blue Harbor, which—barring gruesome murders—was a quiet, charming seaside town. One Tiberius could imagine settling down in, if he wasn’t doing this gig.
The wind off the Cape Fear river blew his hair. Next to him, Owen gawked at seagulls skulking around the Riverwalk Landing near South Water Street. A string of shops, restaurants and boutiques lined the river, but mostly it was rows of condos. At night it was probably hoppin’ with nightlife. The smell of beef grilling, funnel cakes and the brine from the river infused him with memories of vacations and leisure days.
Nothing about this morning was leisure.
“I can’t believe we’re going to have to cut Skipper and Patrick Swain loose. I’m telling you, Swain is dirty.” Ty shucked his suit jacket as they made their way down the boardwalk to the Inky Octopus, a tattoo shop that might give them some answers about the original tattoos on two of their vics. The killer might have inked them, then talked them into another, only to trap them and tattoo the flowers.
“You think Selah and Asa will find anything?” Ty asked.
“In the home or the location perimeter?” Owen sniffed and paused. “Let’s eat lunch here after. It smells good. I could go for red meat.”
Ty could care less where they ate. “Geofence.” Geofencing was the frontier of investigation these days, thanks to technology. They could get a warrant for a certain geographical perimeter, then sift the iCloud for photos and videos within that perimeter, if they’d been set to public. Or it would also give them phone user names so they could reach out and personally speak to the person who posted the image.
Now they’d been given a warrant to search the night the photos were taken of Patrick Swain, their two victims and the missing Jenny Davis. Somebody took that photo, and they needed to know who so they could talk to him or her. With a warrant, they could search that date with the geographic location and find anyone who had used their phones within those parameters. It was also something Selah could do—or any good hacker—without a warrant, but if they wanted an arrest, they had to go through proper channels.
“I don’t know.” Owen shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded at the two brunettes walking toward them. The woman on the left held Owen’s gaze until she passed.
“Let me guess, you want to find her afterward too.” Ty remembered when he could still have a little fun on cases. Joke around while getting the job done. But not this case. He was bound to this one. Like quicksand pulling him under faster than he could catch his breath.
“Nah. I want to find this killer and get my friend back.”
“You got a friend in me...” he sang half-heartedly to prove he was still himself, but the upbeat song fell flat.
Owen shook his head. “Lame.” He pointed. “That’s the place.” They climbed the wooden stairs and entered the Inky Octopus, a modern shop with sleek metal and black-painted open ductwork. The lingering scent of cheap marijuana couldn’t be masked with the incense. While the building appeared clean and sleek, seedy vibes crawled under Ty’s skin.
Behind a black half-circle desk stood two women in their mid-to late-twenties. One was clearly into the gothic look, like the actress in NCIS, and the other was all bohemian. “How can we help you, Suit?” She pointed to Owen’s fancy get-up.
Owen went with the flow, gracing her with his signature grin that usually won him digits. “Can we talk to the manager?”
“Tarique isn’t in. Won’t be until Friday. Do you have an appointment?” she asked. “A name?”
“Agent Barkley.” He showed his creds, and her interest dimmed. Guess she thought he was a flashy businessman. He definitely dressed the part. “We have a few photos of tattoos that we’re trying to connect to the artist.” The ones they had done here and also the ones the killer designed. Maybe they’d get a twofer.
The other woman’s green eyes grew to the size of hubcaps. “Those women they found dead in the Outer Banks? I saw that on TV. Aniyah, they’re here about the Lighthouse Killer.”
“The who?” Aniyah asked, clearly not one to be into the news.
Green Eyes waved her off. “I’m Kate. We have two artists in today. Tweak and Buzz. Buzz is with a client, but Tweak’s available, and he’s been here since the place opened. Hold up.” She left behind a gray door.
“Who did your ink?” Owen asked Aniyah.
“Everyone here pretty much, and my brother did the old-school ones. As for the piercing—” she made a grand display of her very flat midriff “—Kate did it. She does a lot of piercings.” She pointed to the gold marijuana leaf jewel in her navel.
“Nice,” Owen said, and then glanced up as Kate returned with a scruffy dude with more ink than skin. Long hair hung in a braid down his back and a toothpick hung from his lips.
“Kate says you’re here about the ink on the women killed at the lighthouses.” He extended his hand. “I’m William Tweakton, but folks call me Tweak. I do a lot of touch-ups, cover-ups and the like. Follow me back to my station.”
They went through a different gray door, the sound of a tattoo gun buzzing as they passed a station, and then turned right. Standard tat equipment setup. Ty laid out the photos on the table, and Tweak winced slightly. “Can I pick ’em up?”
“Sure.”
He held up a photo. Amy-Rose Rydell. Pulling down a magnifier and adjusting the lamp, he studied the tattoos more closely. “Definitely professional. I haven’t seen shading and line work this good in a while. It’s a serious level of talent.”
