Ferrero smiled. “I’ll call if anything shows up.”
“Appreciate it.”
“You’re back.”
Avery smiled and reached out her arm. “I want a tattoo.”
Zelda smiled. “Do you have a drawing?”
Avery removed the design she had Monique make that morning. Avery was pretty sure the three art students were camped out at the coffee shop daily now that she was constantly handing out hundred-dollar bills like they were Monopoly money.
“Cool. Come on in the back.”
Avery followed her behind the desk and sat in the chair Zelda pointed to.
“Have you thought about your boyfriend’s artwork?”
Avery swallowed hard. “I think we broke up.”
“Oh. Is this a breakup tattoo? Because I have to caution you . . .”
“No. This is for me,” Avery quickly said.
“Good. Get comfortable. I’ll get the paperwork.”
It took Avery sitting on her hands that morning to not call Liam and apologize for being such an asshole. But to what end? They would be right back where they started. Him wanting to fix her problems and her not wanting him involved in however this ended up. Her life, her way, her demons. The therapist she’d seen all of four times after the incident had told her that no one could go through the emotional process for her. How right she was.
Less than thirty minutes later Zelda pushed her seat back with a satisfied smile. “What do you think?”
Avery looked down at her stinging arm. “I like it.”
“The spider dripping off the word is a nice touch.”
“I thought so, too.”
Zelda applied ointment and a bandage. “Tell me, is there a boyfriend who wants a spider tattoo?”
Avery looked at the top of Zelda’s head and thought . . . Why lie? Stop lying. “No.”
“That’s what I thought. So what was up with the art you showed me?”
“The guy with that tattoo jumped me in a garage on Fifth Avenue last year. Messed me up pretty bad. Up until last week I thought he was dead.”
Zelda once again pushed her rolling chair back. “That’s rough.”
“It hasn’t been easy.”
She nodded toward Avery’s forearm. “Obviously. You find that dude and then what?”
“I don’t know. Can’t say I’ve really thought it that far out. Chances of me really finding that guy aren’t looking very good.”
“In this city, it’s right up there with a needle in a haystack.”
Avery sat up and put on her jacket. “I still have to try.”
“I get that.”
As Avery paid the bill and pocketed her aftercare instructions for the tattoo, Zelda offered to ask around about Spider. Avery left her cell number before walking away.
Armed with a wad of ten-dollar bills, enough to buy anyone who would talk to her a beer, she set out for a sober bar crawl.
There was no point in trying to hide he was a cop, so Armstrong waltzed up to the tatted up clerk and dropped his badge on the counter. “How you doing today?” he asked the kid.
He glanced at the badge, smiled. “Fine. What can I do for you, Officer?”
“Detective.”
“Detective,” the clerk mimicked.
“I’m looking for someone who might have had a tattoo done here.”
The clerk grinned. Armstrong had seen that smile before. It said he wasn’t going to find anything. “Lots of people get tattoos here. It’s what we do.”
He removed the picture of Avery’s spider and turned it toward the clerk.
While the clerk glanced at the image, Armstrong studied the kid.
Recognition lit in his eyes. His breathing shifted pace, and a tiny twitch behind his left eye screamed BINGO.
“Van specializes in everything that crawls.”
“Have you seen the guy who has this tattoo?”
“No.” The clerk seemed amused with his denial.
“What’s so funny?”
“No wonder our tax dollars are so high.”
Armstrong rested both hands on the counter. The movement always opened his jacket, and anyone looking would see his concealed weapon. Outside of his tiny badge, it was often the only thing that reminded people he was a cop. “Mind explaining?”
“Sure. Your partner, she was already in here last week.”
“My partner?” She?
“Yeah. Showed me the exact picture and gave some bullshit story about wanting to get one for her boyfriend but didn’t want a similar tat out there. Had we done this one before? I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. Bugs, it’s what we do. Can’t say Van did that or didn’t. We don’t take pictures of all the art we do.”
Avery!
“This partner of mine . . . blonde, about yea tall?” He waved his hand in the air at about his shoulder height.
“Yeah.”
Armstrong pulled a picture of the suspect. “This guy? You see him?”
The clerk smiled. “Half a face. Could be anyone. He doesn’t look familiar.”
He shoved the papers back in his pocket after tossing a card on the desk. “You see this guy, call me.”
The clerk offered a short salute as Armstrong walked out.
Nothing good happens after midnight. Her mother’s voice rang in her head. On this, she had to agree with the woman.
Someone handed Avery a bag of ice. She placed it on the side of her face where her cheek had caught someone’s fist.
“What’s your name?” The police officer wrote in his tiny notepad while several of his brothers did the same with the half a dozen people gathered outside the club.
Avery glanced to her right and then the left. Yup. She was the only woman outside of the cocktail waitresses being questioned.
“How did this start?”
Avery pointed through the crowd. “That guy grabbed my ass.”
The officer stopped writing and looked at her outfit. “And you didn’t want that.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I removed his hand from my ass. Then I told him it wasn’t polite to touch unless invited.”
“How did you remove his hand from your ass?”
“Assertively.”
The officer questioning her smirked.
“And then what happened?”
“One of his friends, the guy in the jean jacket”—she pointed him out—“jumped in front of us and shoved me.”
“Uh-huh . . . and then?”
“Not really sure. I heard someone tell those two to pick a fight with a man instead of a woman. The next thing I know, chairs were skidding across the floor and people were throwing punches.”
“Right.” The officer was bored. “And did you throw punches?”
The side of her face started to sting. “I’m more of an elbow and knee girl when someone hits me first.”
Yep, the cop was smiling. “Well . . .” He glanced at her ID, which he had in his hand. “Avery Grant. Stay right here.”
Since he left with her ID, she didn’t really have a choice.
The bouncer, pure New Yorker, walked over. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What was that back in there?” he asked. “Some kind of martial arts?”
“Krav maga.”
He smiled, lifted his fist for a bump.
Avery obliged.
How things had changed. She used to visit clubs and gain the admiration of the bouncers, tip them heavily, and avoid comments when they stared. Now she earned it by defending herself.
The cop returned, looked at her ID again before handing it back. “Is that your current address?”
“Yes.”
“Are you visiting us or moving here?”
“Visiting.” Avery kept her answers short and didn’t elaborate. Somewhere in her years of friendship with Lori, she’d heard that offering information never boded well if there was a chance you could be charged with a crime.
“Where are you staying?”
“The Ritz-Carlton, Central Park.”
He paused. “Fancy hotel.”
She shrugged. “I’m a fancy girl.”
“What are you doing down here? In the less fancy part of town.”
Avery glanced up at the sign for the club. “I was thirsty.”
He wasn’t buying it. “I think the waitress has had more to drink tonight than you.”
She was getting cold now that the heat of the bar had left her skin and the night air had dipped into the high forties. “Am I being charged with anything, Officer?”
“Let’s see . . . could be assault, battery . . . inciting a riot.”
“I didn’t realize a bar fight was considered a riot.”
The officer stared at her as if contemplating the key to a Rubik’s Cube. “No one is going to jail tonight, Miss Grant. Only because the gentleman whose hand needed reminding not to wander isn’t pressing charges on you.”
That was rich. “And if I’d like to press charges on him?”
The officer put his hands in the air before returning them to his belt full of tools and a gun. “Then we can pull you both in and put you both through the process. Your call. I assure you, the Ritz has much better accommodations.”
Avery glanced over her shoulder to the fist-bumping bouncer.