“Is Daisy FBI?” Sergio asked suspiciously.

Liza had to chuckle. “No. I don’t think that the FBI would survive Daisy. Can she come in?”

“What about the FBI agent?” Sergio asked nervously.

“The off-duty FBI agent is going to stay outside,” Liza replied. “Partly out of respect for you and partly to make sure that the people who want to hurt our family don’t catch us unaware. They didn’t follow us here, so you’re safe. But Gideon is super careful about our safety.”

Sergio drew a breath. “Yes, Miss Dawson may come in.”

“I’ll let her know.” Liza sent a text, then withdrew her sketch from her handbag. “So you don’t worry about me blocking out your afternoon, I really do want a tattoo. I wasn’t being deceitful. I loved the detail you achieved on the angel feathers on the tattoo we’re asking about.”

Sergio studied her sketch. “A memorial tattoo?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “For people who were my family over there.”

“I can do this,” he said. “When we are finished talking, I will work up a design. When you are satisfied, we can begin. You will probably need a second session. Maybe a third.”

“I figured as much. I thought maybe you could just outline it today.”

His lips curved. “Not your first tattoo, I take it?”

“No. Not even my first memorial tattoo.”

He sobered. “Then you have known much loss.”

She was saved a reply by Daisy’s entrance. Daisy was her typical self, striding forward, hand outstretched. “Sergio. So nice to meet you in person. I’m Daisy.”

“Please, sit. The studio is empty, so no one will hear us talking here. Shall we begin?”

FOURTEEN

MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 3:20 P.M.

Sergio Iglesias studied the photo of the Eden tattoo for a long moment. “My wife set up my Instagram account a few years ago. She went through all the photos I’d kept since I started tattooing and picked the ones she liked. This was one she liked.”

“It’s beautiful work,” Liza murmured.

He dipped his head once. “Thank you.”

“Do you remember the subject?” Daisy asked.

“I didn’t when you first contacted me, Daisy. I had to go back into my files to jog my memory. Once I saw the file, though, I remembered him well.”

The photo was of the tattoo itself, so only the person’s left pectoral was visible. It had the grainy quality of a photo taken with a cheap camera, then scanned.

“When did you ink this tattoo?” Daisy asked.

“Eighteen years ago.”

Liza was surprised. “You keep your files that long?”

“I do. I’ve kept them all, a file for every tattoo I’ve ever done, including signed documents stating that they are not intoxicated, and that they approve my design. It was the way I was taught by my mentor, almost twenty years ago.”

“Why do you remember him specifically?” Daisy asked.

“Partly because it was one of my first, and I was really proud of how it turned out. But mostly because I almost didn’t do this tattoo. He seemed really young and immature, which was funny, because we were about the same age. The day he came in was his eighteenth birthday and I’d had mine only a few weeks before. But he had ID and there wasn’t anything offensive about the design, so I did it.” He hesitated. “Why do you want to find him?”