That Touch of Ink by Diane Vallere Page A

She was no more than five feet tall, but based solely from the look on her face, if they were to throw down, I’d put my money on her.
    “What the hell was that for?” Tex asked. “Who are you?”
    “I’m Connie. Aren’t you the ex from Madison’s past?”
    “No,” I said, stepping out of the doorway. “He’s the Tex from Madison’s past.”
    “What?” they said in unison.
    “Connie Duncan, meet Lt. Allen. Lieutenant, meet my client, Connie Duncan.”
    “Lieutenant?” Connie said, her eyes wide. “I assaulted a police officer?”
    “I don’t think the lieutenant is going to press charges, are you?” I asked Tex.
    “I haven’t decided,” he said.
    I ducked into my office, pulled a cold glass bottle of Coke from the mini-fridge, and returned to the studio. I handed the bottle to Tex, and he held it against his cheek.
    “Connie, can you give us a minute? Maybe take Rocky out for a walk?”
    “Sure. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t know—”
    “Forget about it.”
    Connie collected Rocky’s leash and clipped it onto his collar while Tex and I stood by my office door. After she left, he opened my office and set the Coke bottle on the edge of my desk. His eyes lingered on my outfit.
    “She thought you were Brad,” I said.
    His eyebrows went up.
    “I told her I spent the night here and she brought me a change of clothes.”
    “You spent the night here to avoid your ex?”
    “I don’t want to talk about my ex.”
    Tex followed me to the front door. I looked up and down the street and spotted Connie about half a block away, across the street from one of Greenville Avenue’s many Tex-Mex restaurants. Rocky trotted at a spirited pace, stopping occasionally to lift a leg and pee on a strip of crab grass that had sprouted up through one of the cracks on the sidewalk.
    “I never noticed what a sweet walk you have, Night,” Tex said.
    “It’s not me, it’s the skirt. For the record, I would not have picked this outfit out for myself.”
    “Connie’s responsible for this look? As far as I’m concerned, she’s forgiven.”
    “I don’t want to have to explain any of this to her. As far as she knows, I’m a successful interior decorator who may or may not be designing her new atomic kitchen.”
    “What’s an atomic kitchen?”
    “A colorful kitchen renovation re-imagined with the space-age, robotic influence of the fifties.”
    “Assuming that’s even possible, someone actually wants that?”
    “Mid-century decorating is a niche market, and I happen to be good at it.”
    He dropped his head and shook it from side to side. “Atomic kitchen. Crazy.”
    “Lieutenant, she doesn’t know what happened yesterday. Can we keep it that way?”
    “Sure. Why am I here again?”
    “I called you. I told you I needed to see you. That was like twenty minutes ago. Remember?”
    “Sorry. Once I saw you in that outfit, everything else went out the window.”
    “Maybe Connie was right to slap you.”
    “Maybe she was, but not because of this.”
    “So, how’s life, Lieutenant? Are you still seeing Officer Nasty?”
    “See, Madison, things were going perfectly fine until you brought her up.” He rubbed his forehead. “Donna and I have gone out a couple of times. It’s not like I asked her to wear my class ring.”
    I raised my eyebrows. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and forehead, then pushed his hair back and shrugged. “Feels like I’m driving Rizzo to Thunder Road with you sitting there looking like that.” He shook his head. “Donna’s fine. She’s better than fine. Only, she’s not like you.”
    Now there was an understatement.
    My first run-in with Officer Donna Nast was during the homicide investigation. Her nickname, “Nasty,” had been used by more than one officer, including Tex. She was a classic late-twenties bombshell, with long, chocolate brown hair, bottle-green eyes, and the kind of body that probably inspired a lot of wishful thinking. I’d bet that wishful thinking