Pretty In Ink Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for the Novels of Karen E. Olson

  The Missing Ink

  “Karen E. Olson has launched a delightful new series with The Missing Ink, featuring tattooist Brett Kavanaugh. Brett is proud that she makes grown men cry. She also makes grown women laugh. I look forward to more adventures for this Las Vegas needle artist.”

  —Elaine Viets, author of the Dead-End Jobs Mysteries

  “In The Missing Ink, Karen E. Olson has penned a winner, full of crisp dialogue, a red-hot setting, and a smart, sassy tattooed protagonist. Viva Las Vegas!”

  —Susan McBride, author of the Debutante Dropout Mysteries

  “Has it all, with edgy characters and a tight plot.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “[A] pleasantly jargon-free themed mystery. . . . Readers need not be conversant with ‘street flash’ or other industry terms to enjoy the setting and follow Brett down a trail of needles and gloves to the dramatic finale.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Olson uses the fresh setting of an upscale Las Vegas tattoo shop . . . for a fast-moving tale with quirky but affectionately portrayed characters. Although stubborn, Brett never becomes too stupid to live in her determination to solve the mystery. The tension is kept at a high pitch.”

  —Romantic Times

  The Annie Seymour Mysteries

  Shot GirlShamus Award Nominee forBest Paperback Original

  “Olson excels at plotting—with liberal doses of humor—and Annie grows more fascinating, and more human, with each novel. This one’s a winner from page one.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Olson continues a winning streak with her latest Annie Seymour outing. . . . This first-rate mystery will not only keep you guessing; it will provide fun and laughter along the way.”

  —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “Olson . . . step[s] up to a new storytelling level.”

  —The Baltimore Sun

  “[Shot Girl] features the same clever plotting, great local color, and terrific personal touches that have been a hallmark of the series since it began.”

  —Connecticut Post

  Dead of the Day

  “Karen E. Olson knows this beat like the back of her hand. I really enjoyed Dead of the Day.”

  —Michael Connelly

  “Dead of the Day takes the Annie Seymour series to truly impressive territory. Absolutely everything a first-rate crime novel should be.”

  —Lee Child

  “Karen E. Olson draws on her experiences as a journalist to write an excellent series about Annie Seymour, a salty police reporter in New Haven, Connecticut. Dead of the Day is a fun mystery with just enough edge to make it sparkle.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Like an alchemist, Karen E. Olson blends together wildly disparate elements into pure gold. Dead of the Day is a delightful dance with the devil—dangerous, dark, and romantic.”

  —Reed Farrel Coleman, Shamus Award-winning author of The James Deans

  “A reporter and editor for Connecticut newspapers for twenty years, [Olson] brings a journalist’s eye for detail and immediacy to this series. You’ll want to give yourself an early deadline to read her latest story.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  Secondhand Smoke

  “Annie Seymour, a New Haven journalist who’s not quite as cynical as she thinks she is, is the real thing, an engaging and memorable character with the kind of complicated loyalties that make a series worth reading. Karen E. Olson is the real thing, too, a natural storyteller with a lucid style and a wonderful sense of place.”

  —Laura Lippman, New York Times bestselling author

  “Authentic urban atmosphere, generous wit, and winning characters lift Olson’s second outing. . . . Readers are sure to look forward to Annie’s further adventures.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Annie is a believable heroine whose sassy exploits and muddled love life should make for more exciting adventures.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Humor enlivens this first-person account. . . . This remains a series with considerable potential.”

  —Booklist

  “Olson’s characters are her own, and her fast-paced plot and great ending make it a perfect read for patrons who like a bit of humor in their mysteries.”

  —Library Journal

  “Olson knows exactly how to blend an appealing heroine, an intricate plot, and inventive humor. Annie’s is a story worth pursuing and a story well worth reading.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Humor, plenty of motives, and strong character development make this a fast, fun read.”—Monsters and Critics “Olson’s second mystery hits the mark with setting, plot, and character. . . . Her lovably imperfect heroine charms, and the antics of her coworkers and the residents of ‘da neighborhood’ will keep you intrigued and amused.”

  —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  Sacred Cows

  “A sharply written and beautifully plotted story.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Olson writes with a light touch that is the perfect complement for this charming mystery.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “In this just-the-facts-ma’am journalism procedural, Karen E. Olson plunges readers into the salty-tongued world of cynical reporter sleuth Annie Seymour. . . . [The story] spins from sinister to slapstick and back in the breadth of a page. Engaging.”

  —Denise Hamilton, bestselling author of Savage Garden

  “A boilermaker of a first novel. . . . Olson writes with great good humor, but Sacred Cows is also a roughhouse tale. Her appealing and intrepid protagonist and well-constructed plot make this book one of the best debut novels of the year.”

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  Also by Karen E. Olson

  Annie Seymour Mysteries

  Sacred Cows

  Secondhand Smoke

  Dead of the Day

  Shot Girl

  Tattoo Shop Mysteries

  The Missing Ink

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New Am
erican Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, March 2010

  Copyright Š Karen E. Olson, 2010

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18559-9

  All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  To my niece Anna Corr,who truly is pretty in ink

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Alison Gaylin, Cheryl Violante, and Angelo Pompano for their help with the manuscript. Brett Wilson and Kevin Martino were invaluable sources, letting me in on all their secrets. The First Offenders (Alison Gaylin, Lori Armstrong, Jeff Shelby, and Anthony Neil Smith) are incredibly supportive, as is the whole FO community. Abram Katz can always be counted on to come up with the perfect poison. Craig Phillips is a fantastic illustrator, and his cover art is spot on. Jack Scovil is agent extraordinaire. My editor, Becky Vinter, with her cheery enthusiasm and eye for detail, helped me push the envelope and make this a better book. Kristen Weber, who started me on this journey, is missed but left me in good hands. Thanks to all the staff at NAL, every bookseller, every reader. Finally, I wouldn’t be able to do any of this without the love and support from my wonderful husband, Chris, and daughter, Julia.

  Chapter 1

  If your name is Britney Brassieres, being taken down by a tsunami of champagne might seem only fitting.

  One minute she was belting out “Oops! . . . I Did It Again,” the next she was on the floor, her arms flailing as the Moët—not the really expensive kind, but that White Star you can get at a discount if you look hard enough—showered her.

  I know it was Moët because I saw the guy with the bottle. He’d come up to the edge of the stage near my table as Britney was singing, shook the bottle, then popped the cork, which was as loud as a gunshot as it went airborne and slammed right into Britney’s chest.

  Bull’s-eye.

  It wasn’t an accident, either. He’d aimed it at her.

  I jumped up on a gut reflex and impulsively shouted at the guy. “Hey!”

  After successfully hitting his target, he turned the bottle on me—confirming that he’d actually heard me—and everyone else in my vicinity.

  Unfortunately, it still had some oomph left, and liquid splashed across my face, getting into my eyes and dripping down my face onto my chest. I tried to blink, but it hurt, so I kept my eyes closed and listened to the pandemonium around me: chairs scraping as people scrambled to their feet, glass shattering. The vibration moved through my legs as the floor shook with the weight, the hurry to escape. I wanted to shout out that it was just champagne, but that cork explosion freaked everyone out, and when they saw Britney fall, they figured the worst.

  Bodies jostled me as they shoved past, and I struggled to keep my balance, holding out my arms like a trapeze walker and hitting someone who grunted but didn’t stop.

  “Joel?” I shouted above the din. “Joel?”

  An arm snaked around my waist. “I’m here, Brett. You okay?” His voice was soothing as his big belly pressed into my side, and for a second I relaxed before tensing up again.

  “Yeah, just got some champagne in my eyes. Is Britney okay?” I asked, trying to open my eyes, but they still stung and I shut them again.

  “She’s moving,” Joel said. “I think she’s okay. What happened?”

  “Guy with a champagne bottle. Where’d he go?” This time I forced my eyes open, blinking quickly a few times, clearing the fog. I scanned the dimly lit nightclub. There had been about a hundred people here for the show; most of them now were pushing one another toward the door; someone was screaming, someone else wailing.

  The scene on the stage looked like something from a Shakespearean tragedy: Britney, in her blue and white schoolgirl outfit and long blond tresses, was splayed across the floor as her fellow performers hovered over her, clucking like the mother hens they were. I spotted Charlotte with them, kneeling and stroking Britney’s forehead. Britney’s lips were moving, and her eyes were open.

  MissTique, who ran all the shows here at Chez Tango, flailed her arms as she teetered on six-inch clear plastic stilettos on the edge of the stage, not because she was going to fall, but because she was trying to calm everyone down. She shouted, “All right,” “Everything’s fine,” and “Get me a cocktail.” The last was to a young man with a remarkable physique who’d been dancing shirtless behind Britney before the champagne attack.

  “Where’s Bitsy?” I had to lean in toward Joel so he’d hear me as we took a couple of steps toward the stage.

  Bitsy is a little person, and it was easy to lose her in a crowd.

  Or bump into her.

  “Watch it!” I heard her say and looked down to see her rubbing her arm where I’d collided with her.

  I was about to apologize when it grew darker, sort of like a solar eclipse. But instead of the electricity going out, it was merely Miranda Rites blocking the light behind her. She looked like someone had dumped a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on her: a vision in pink sequins and a high bouffant of pink-accented orange hair, the multicolored butterfly tattoo I’d given her just a few weeks ago stretched between her shoulders just above the ample bosom. It was fake, of course. The bosom, I mean, not the ink.

  “She’s okay, right?” I asked Miranda, shouting, cocking my head toward the stage.

  The dark concrete walls didn’t swallow the din; it just bounced off them into my ears with a sort of echo effect.

  “I think she’s in shock.” To compensate for the noise, Miranda’s voice had reverted back to its husky tenor, giving her that Sybil split-personality thing: Is she a woman? Is she a man? Can she be both? “She hit her head, though. I saw it from backstage.”
/>   “Did you call an ambulance?”

  “They’re on their way. Cops, too.”