Duckworth slipped the phone back into his jacket and got out of the car. Mike’s Tattoos was open, and he went straight inside. Mike was sitting at the main desk.

“Hey, you again,” he said. “You catch who stole my tattoo gun?”

Duckworth shook his head. “Sorry.”

Mike smiled. “Just kidding. I knew the police wouldn’t give a shit about that. As you can see by the fact that I’m sitting here, I am a little short-handed today. Which is just as well, since I don’t have any appointments in the book until later this afternoon. Unless, of course, you’re here to get a tattoo of Columbo tattooed on your chest.”

“No.” Duckworth cocked his head to one side. “Anybody ever actually get one of those? A Columbo tattoo?”

“Nope, although one time I was in this really cool bookstore in Belfast that had a painting of him on the ceiling. Only crime fighter I’ve ever inked onto anybody is Batman. Done his face on a couple people, but the logo, you know, the bat with the circle around it, is more popular. Also, the big S from Superman. Had a few of those over the years. So if you haven’t found my stolen equipment, what brings you back?”

“I noticed Dolores isn’t here.”

Mike raised his arms in a hopeless gesture. “A no-show today. Didn’t even have the courtesy to phone in.”

“What’s Dolores’s last name?”

“Guntner.”

“Do you have an address for her?”

“There a problem?”

“An address would be helpful.”

Mike opened a drawer in the desk and rifled through some papers. “Here we go.” He grabbed a scrap of paper, scribbled on it, and handed it to Duckworth. “It’s actually a farmhouse that belonged to her parents. They’re in a nursing home now, I think, and she lives there by herself.”

“A nursing home? In Promise Falls?”

“Yeah. Davidson House, I think.”

“I know it.” Duckworth glanced at the piece of paper Mike had handed him. Dolores had lived at 27 Eastern Avenue. He pocketed the paper. “Thanks.”

“If you want to talk to her here, she might show up later. It’s not like it’s the first time she’s been late. She might have partied a little too hard last night. Try after lunch. She might be in then.”

“I don’t think so,” Duckworth said.

Mike’s face darkened. “What do you mean?”

“A woman tentatively identified as Dolores was found dead this morning.”

“Fuck, no,” he said, standing. “What are you talking about? Dolly’s dead?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about her.”

“Hold on,” Mike blustered. “What happened to her?” His mouth open, he put his hand to his forehead. “Jesus, did she kill herself?”

“Would that not surprise you?” Duckworth asked.

“Well, I mean, she’s kind of a flake. Was kind of a flake. God, I can’t believe it.”