“What gives it away that I’m a cop?” Duckworth asked.

“You just have the look,” the man said.

“Come on, Cory, it’s not that obvious,” the woman said.

Cory shook his head. “First of all, you don’t look like someone who’s here for a tattoo.”

Duckworth nodded. “You’re right about that.” He smiled. “And you don’t look to me like a guy who’d make his living as a tattoo artist.”

Cory grinned. “You got me.” He stood back and crossed his arms, as though issuing a challenge. “What do you think I do?”

Duckworth thought a moment. “Computer programmer.”

Cory’s mouth dropped. “Whoa, that’s not bad. I mean, that’s not what I do, but I spend a lot of time on the computer.”

“What do you do?” Duckworth asked.

“I guess I’m what you’d call a social activist,” Cory said. “Causes and stuff.”

“Good for you,” Duckworth said.

The girl behind the desk said, “Cory, for the love of God, stop talking. Can I help you, Mr. Policeman?”

Duckworth said, “What’s your name?”

“Dolores. Like from Seinfeld.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. The girl whose name rhymes with a female body part.”

Duckworth said, “I never watched that show.”

“Seriously?” said Cory.

“Seriously.”

“Wow. I didn’t think there was anyone who hadn’t seen it,” Dolores said. “I mean, I was barely born when it came on, but even I’ve seen all the episodes. Anyway, my friends call me Dolly.”

“Hi, Dolly.”

“So what can I do for you?”

Duckworth pointed up at the Mike’s Tattoos sign. “I’d like to see Mike.”

“Hang on.”

She disappeared through a door into a back room where the buzzing noise was coming from. The tattoo gun ceased making a noise, and Dolly said, “Hey, Mike, there’s a cop here who’s never seen Seinfeld who wants to talk to you.”

“Sure,” a man said. “Send him round.”

Dolly reappeared and waved Duckworth in her direction. “The doctor will see you now,” she said, smirking.

Cory gave Dolly a wave and said, “See ya.” Then, to Duckworth, “Good luck catching the bad guys.”

Duckworth gave him an upturned thumb as Cory left the shop, then followed Dolly into the back of the store. Mike, a thin, bearded man in his thirties wearing a pair of magnifying goggles, was hunched over a heavyset guy about twice that age sitting in what looked like a barber’s chair. It was leaned back to about forty-five degrees to allow Mike to work comfortably on the man’s upper arm. The tattoo was a nice rendering of a waterfall—about three inches long—and below it, the numbers 5-23-16.

Below that, the words: I SURVIVED.

“Hey,” Mike said, not taking his eyes off his work.

Duckworth said, “Hi.” Then, “That’s some tattoo.” There was no approval in his voice.

The man in the chair smiled. “You get it, right?”

“I get it,” Duckworth said.

“May twenty-third of last year,” he said. “I didn’t drink the water.”

“Lucky you.”

Dolly pointed to the tattoo. “Jeez, Mike, shouldn’t the 23 be first, and then the 5?”