Poppy Harmon and the Pillow Talk Killer by Lee Hollis (most read book in the world .txt) 📕

think somebody up there doesn’t like me,” Matt joked before turning to Poppy. “Thanks for coming to my rescue. You’re a real badass, Poppy Harmon.”

Poppy brushed him off with a wave of her hand. She was far more concerned with discovering the identity of this brutal thug with the arm tattoo, and if his violent attack on Matt had any connection to the murders of Danika Delgado and Fabian Granger. Was this some kind of warning? Or was the bushwhacker intent on a more permanent result, like wanting to make sure when he was done, Matt Flowers would be dead?

Chapter 37

“It had this triangle in space with a rainbow off to the side that you could see through some kind of brick wall that had been partially torn down,” Matt described to Wyatt, who sat at his computer in the Desert Flowers office, intently digitally re-creating the image from Matt’s memory on his screen.

“The triangle was a little smaller,” Matt said as Wyatt began shrinking the image. “Yeah, that’s more like it.”

“That looks ridiculous!” Iris snorted. “Who would be dumb enough to have that put on his arm?”

“Whoever attacked me must be a Pink Floyd fan, too. That looks like some kind of odd mash-up of two of their most popular albums, Dark Side of the Moon and The Wall,” Matt said.

Wyatt added a few finishing touches and then wheeled back in his office chair so they could all get a good look. “How’s that?”

“Perfect,” Matt beamed. “Kid, you’re a genius.”

“Now that we have the tattoo, what do we do with it?” Violet asked.

“I can run a Google image search to see if any tattoo shops in the area have that same design or something similar on their Web site. It’s pretty elaborate and well done, so I’m hoping an artist would like to showcase it. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Give me a few minutes,” Wyatt said, swiveling back around to get started.

“I’m just so proud of him,” Violet gushed.

“We have a devotee to seventies psychedelic rock. Well, I suppose that’s something,” Poppy sighed. “At least it’s more than we had last night.”

Violet put on a pot of coffee and the team took a break as Wyatt worked furiously to come up with some useful information. Before she even had a chance to pour cream into Iris’s cup, Wyatt was spinning back around in his chair, a triumphant look on his face.

“Off-Melrose Tattoo Shop,” he cried.

“Where’s that?” Violet asked, handing Iris her coffee.

“Off Melrose!” Iris snapped. “Where do you think?”

Violet narrowed her eyes, perturbed. “I mean, what city?”

“I’m assuming LA,” Matt answered.

Wyatt nodded. “I traced the image and found maybe six or seven shops in the country that specialize in that signature style, but only one located in California. And the shop in LA is the only one with the exact same image, triangle, rainbow, wall and all.”

“That’s got to be the place!” Matt said, clapping his hands together.

“The owner of the shop who does most of the tattoo designs is a woman named Kale,” Wyatt said, bringing up an image of a raven-haired, ghostly pale creature with heavy mascara and a lip ring, wearing a black tank top and sporting arm sleeves of tattoos from her shoulder blades to her wrists.

“Kale? That’s a name?” Iris laughed. “What are the names of her parents, Romaine and Butter?”

Matt, leaning over Wyatt to read the text underneath her photo on the shop’s Web site, said, “Apparently she’s quite well respected in the tattoo community.” He whipped around to Poppy. “You up for another road trip to LA?”

Poppy did not even have to answer him. She just grabbed her purse and they hurried out, promising to be back by mid-afternoon. Traffic was light on the 10 freeway, and when they arrived in Los Angeles, and parked on a side street across from the Off-Melrose Tattoo Shop, it was just opening for the day. Poppy checked her watch. It was going on noon. Artists, from her experience, were rarely early risers.

Poppy and Matt scurried across the street and entered the ramshackle store to find Kale sweeping the floor with a broom and dustpan. She didn’t even look up at them. “Have a seat, I’ll be right with you.”

Poppy and Matt plopped down in a pair of rickety plastic chairs and perused photos of Kale’s past work hanging on the walls. Matt spotted a framed photo of the Pink Floyd–inspired design toward the end of the wall near the restroom and nudged Poppy, gesturing toward it.

Kale took her sweet time. After dumping the dust bunnies in a bin, she disappeared inside her office to make a phone call. The front door swung open and a young man in his early twenties, rail thin, drawn face, tired eyes, with spiky blond hair and a ring of thorns tattooed around both biceps, ambled in, carrying a Starbucks cup. He glanced at Poppy and Matt. “Kale here?”

“Yes, she’s in the back,” Poppy said politely. “She told us to wait.”

The young man nodded, then strolled past them and down to the office. Poppy assumed he must work at the shop. She managed to pick up bits and pieces of the conversation between Kale and this kid, recounting their previous evening, hanging at some dive bar, partying too much, Kale complaining of a massive hangover. Poppy impatiently checked her watch, but Matt gently placed a hand over her wrist, signaling her that Kale was finally coming out to deal with them. The kid stayed in the office.

“Which one of you is here for a tattoo?” Kale asked.

Poppy stood up. “Actually, neither of us. We were wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

“And who are you?” Kale asked suspiciously.

“Poppy Harmon. This is Matt Flowers. We’re from the Desert Flowers Detective Agency.”

Kale was suddenly on guard. “Detectives?”

“Yes,” Poppy said, pulling the printed image of the tattoo Wyatt had re-created out of her purse. “We were hoping you could tell us who—”

“I’m backed up with appointments today so I’m sorry I