“Dixie Serratt. She’s on parole, by the way, so if she did the Chicos tats or knows who did, she might be persuaded to tell us.”

“Excellent.”

They were silent for a time, and then Croft sighed. “If you’re in a bad headspace right now, I need to know. We don’t know what we’re walking into. If you’re not sharp, you need to say so.”

Tom wanted to punch himself in the face. Liza deserved better than his anger, and Croft deserved a partner who had her back. “I’m good. Read me Dixie Serratt’s rap sheet.”

Croft complied, and hearing the severity and breadth of Dixie’s crimes helped Tom’s focus more than anything else. The fifty-five-year-old woman had committed everything from manslaughter and kidnapping to petty theft. There was a vehicular homicide in there, too.

“She’s a bad motherfucker,” Tom commented as they stopped outside Dixie’s studio.

“She really is. I’m glad you’re not a person who thinks that women can’t be evil.”

“Oh, I know they can. My aunt Dana had a female serial killer terrorize her women’s shelter, back when I was a teenager. That woman had no soul. She burned our house down and even hit my mother with a car, trying to kill her.”

“Oh my God! Was your mother okay?”

“Yes, thankfully. My mom is pretty resilient. You ready to talk to Dixie?”

“I’m ready to try. She may not talk to us if she’s been doing tats for the Chicos, as it would be a violation of her parole, but hopefully she’ll let something useful slip.”

The inside of the studio was what Tom expected. He’d never gotten a tattoo himself but had accompanied Liza when she’d gotten hers. This place was clean and the buzzing sound of the needles was almost soothing.

Behind the counter stood a man wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt and a paisley tie. Both forearms bore colorful sleeves. “Can I help you?” he asked, giving them a suspicious look.

“We’re here to see Dixie Serratt,” Croft said, without showing her badge.

The man sighed. “Dixie!” he called. “You got POs here again.” He looked back at them with a mild sneer. “You people just won’t leave her alone, will you?”

A tiny woman with tats covering nearly every inch of skin appeared from the back of the shop. “What?” she asked rudely. “Who are you? What happened to O’Leary?”

“We’re not parole officers,” Croft said. “I’m Special Agent Croft and this is Special Agent Hunter. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

Tom was watching Dixie carefully. She’d stiffened, her expression briefly telegraphing that she was considering running.

Croft tilted her head toward Tom. “He’ll just chase you, Miss Serratt. And he’s young enough and his legs are long enough to catch you.”

Dixie drew a breath and let it out. “Fine. We’re just talking, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom said. Unless you’ve done something illegal.

“Then come with me.” They followed her to one of the unoccupied rooms, where she gestured at the two chairs.