Gordon bent low and, frowning, studied the picture carefully. ‘The guy drew this knows what he’s doing – definitely a pro. But I don’t get the inflammation. There’s no ink. The skin’s all swollen and rough. Real badly infected. And there’s no color. Did he use invisible ink?’

Sellitto thought Gordon was joking and said so. Gordon explained that some people didn’t want to make a commitment, so they were inked with special solutions that appeared invisible but showed up under blacklight.

‘The pussy-ball crowd.’

‘You got it, dude.’ A fist poked in Sellitto’s direction. The detective declined to bump. Then the artist frowned. ‘I got a feeling something else is going on, right?’

Sellitto nodded. They’d kept the poison out of the press; this was the sort of MO that might lead to copycatting. And if there were informants, or the perp himself decided to ring up City Hall and gloat, they’d need to know that the caller had access to the actual details of the killing.

Besides, as a general rule, Sellitto preferred to explain as little as possible when canvassing for witnesses or asking advice. In this case, though, he had no option. He needed Gordon’s help. And Sellitto decided he kind of liked the guy.

Dude …

‘The suspect we’re looking for, he used poison instead of ink.’

The artist’s eyes widened, the metal pins lifting dramatically. ‘Jesus. No! Jesus.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Ever hear about anybody doing that?’

‘No way.’ Gordon brushed the backs of his fingers across the complicated facial hair. ‘That’s just wrong. Man. See, we’re … what we do is we’re sort of this hybrid of artist and cosmetic surgeon – people put their trust in us. We’ve got a special relationship with people.’ Gordon’s voice grew taut. ‘Using inking to kill somebody. Oh, man.’

The parlor phone rang and Gordon ignored it. But a few moments later the heavy-set tat artist – working on the motorcycle – stuck his head through the curtain of beads.

‘Hey, TT.’ A nod to Sellitto.

‘What?’

‘Got a call. Can we ink a hundred-dollar bill on a guy’s neck?’ The accent was southern. Sellitto couldn’t place where.

‘A hundred? Yeah, why not?’

‘I mean, ain’t it illegal to reproduce money?’

Gordon rolled his eyes. ‘He’s not going to feed himself into any slots in Atlantic City.’

‘I’m just asking.’

‘It’s okay.’

The artist said into his phone, ‘Yessir, we’ll do it.’ Then disconnected. He started to turn but Gordon said, ‘Hold on a sec.’ To Sellitto he added, ‘Eddie’s been around. You might want to talk to him too.’

The detective nodded, and Gordon introduced them. ‘Eddie Beaufort, Detective Sellitto.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ A Mid-Atlantic Southern lilt, Sellitto decided. The man had a genial face, which didn’t fit with the elaborate sleeves – mostly of wild animals, it seemed. ‘Detective. Police. Hm.’