Now
So. It’s after 10 p.m. I have staggered to my feet. The bump on my head is still bleeding, and my hair is matted with the stuff. I’m not worried – scalp wounds bleed like a bastard, but usually look worse than they are.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I trot as fast as my wobbly legs will take me in the direction of Franny’s. I can hear the wail of sirens nearby. Ken McGowan must have started the blue light ball rolling.
He’d called me back straight away, and I’d explained my theory as best I could with a broken head. It might have sounded mad coming from anyone else – in fact it was mad. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know, the ache in my brain was telling me. But I’d known Ken for years, and while we didn’t exactly send each other Christmas cards or Skype each other every day, we were friendly enough when our paths did cross – especially when I had some information for him.
Tish’s phone call had cast the Case of the Missing Chihuahua in a slightly different light. I’d fought against the wind to make it back to my office, and grabbed hold of the photo as soon as my fingers were defrosted.
I had stared at it for a moment, looking at Billy’s beautifully made up face. And looking at the face that was inches away from his. And wondering, wondering, wondering who it was – because I was convinced I knew him. I took a magnifying glass from my desk draw – where I keep it alongside my deerstalker and my violin – and took a closer look.
The mystery Marilyn was wearing a white frock that left little to the imagination. It also had a low cut neckline that plunged to what I presumed was a fake cleavage. Above the right boob, right on the cusp of the collarbone, I could see something – something dark. I used the glass, and stared, hard.
It was a tattoo. A tattoo of a word. Probably a very short word, maybe four or five letters. I couldn’t quite make out the letters individually, but I’d stake my life on what it said.
Coco.