Ink Flamingos Read Online Free Page A

possible Ainsley Wainwright was a redhead. There hadn’t been a picture of her with her bio on the blog site. Thus the confusion about her gender.
    I had to stop thinking about it. I pushed all thoughts aside and began to concentrate more closely on Patty’s tattoo. My hand was curled around the tattoo machine, its weight familiar and comfortable. My professors at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia would probably shake their heads with disapproval that this machine had taken the place of my traditional paintbrush.
    It wouldn’t be such a bad idea, though, to actually teach a class in body art. Tattoos have become so mainstream, and the art has a long history that would be worth studying.
    Who was I kidding? Tattooists wouldn’t be considered serious artists, which was why my employee Ace van Nes felt so frustrated. He’d never felt that he was being appreciated and considered his time at the shop temporary, even though he’d been here five years now. He painted comic book versions of classic paintings, and we sold them in the shop—yet another frustration for him because he wanted to show his work in a real gallery. Right now we had Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People , Ingres’s Grande Odalisque , and Millet’s The Gleaners on the walls out front. Since we weren’t allowed to have the word “tattoo” anywhere on our door—a little concession to having a tattoo shop in such an upscale place—many people wandered in thinking we really were a gallery, a point that Bitsy, Joel, and I kept trying to hammer home to Ace.
    Although you’d be surprised how many of those people actually made appointments for tattoos once they stepped through the door, something that did not go unnoticed by Ace and didn’t help our cause.
    The intricacies of Patty’s tattoo meant that when I was finally done, over an hour had passed. I set down the machine, wiped the last of the ink and blood off Patty’s lower back, gave her a hand mirror, and sent her off to the full-length mirror in the back of the shop so she could admire her new tattoo.
    I’d started throwing away the ink pots and wiping down my counter when Bitsy appeared in the doorway.
    “He’s here,” she said, as if she were announcing the Prince of Wales.
    Detective Kevin Flanigan hovered behind her, and I was glad he couldn’t see the look of disdain on her face. I plastered a smile on mine.
    “Nice to see you again, Detective.”
    Flanigan had always been a dapper dresser, but it seemed that perhaps he’d gone even classier with the Armani suit that hugged his narrow shoulders. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back neatly, not a tendril out of place. A few wrinkles around his eyes proved that perhaps he did smile now and then, but usually not when he spoke to me.
    His mouth was set in a grim line, so I supposed he wasn’t going to break his record today.
    Patty tapped him on the shoulder, and Flanigan stepped aside to let her into the room. She handed me the mirror with a broad grin and said, “It’s fantastic.”
    I saw Flanigan’s eyes move down to her lower back. Her T-shirt was rolled up just under her breasts and her sweatpants had been lowered slightly so they wouldn’t smudge the tattoo. A flicker of a smile, just a flicker, and then it was gone. So he was human after all. Just not with me.
    I cocked my head toward him. “Can you wait just a few? I have to finish up here. Bitsy can show you the schedule; you know the drill.” He’d come around checking on me before.
    Without a word, Flanigan gave a short nod, and Bitsy led him to the front desk while I gave Patty her instructions for aftercare of the tattoo. I smoothed some Tattoo Goo on it, then covered it with a large bandage so her pants wouldn’t chafe it. When we were done, I followed her out to the sleek mahogany desk where Bitsy would take her payment.
    I indicated Flanigan should follow me back down the hall to the office across from the staff room. Once there, I shut the