Page 61 of Not Our Daughter

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because he’s a big deal. He’s the attorney currently representing Peter Nelson at the Senate confirmation hearings back in DC. According to our records, the calls between Lester and Fisk picked up speed when we left DC for Denver yesterday.”

Burns cursed. “Brock Gunner. Peter Nelson. It’s all somehow connected.”

“That would appear to be the case, sir.”

Davis’s phone buzzed. He quickly pulled it out, answered it. His eyes widened.

“Where?” he said, and listened. “Text me the exact location.”

He hung up, looked at Burns. “Police just found the stolen Ford Explorer. Four blocks from here on Sixth Street. An officer reported a woman and a teenage girl fleeing the scene on foot only a few moments ago.”

“Let’s get over there!”

Forty-Eight

Jack Harlen was a skinny guy with short black hair, black-rimmed glasses, and surprisingly few tattoos. He wore a short-sleeved blue polo, jeans, and white Converse shoes. In many ways, he looked more like a bank teller than a tattoo artist. He introduced himself and then led Cole down the hallway to a small private studio with huge mirrors on the walls, a counter with all kinds of tools, a fancy black reclining chair, and a black cushioned table.

“Have a seat,” Jack said. “What friend did you say recommended me?”

“Marcus Byers,” Cole lied.

Jack tilted his head. “Don’t remember that name. How long ago?”

“About a year ago.”

“What kind of artwork?”

“Picture of his girlfriend. It was uncanny.”

Jack laughed. “I do a lot of those. And then I have a lot of repeat customers who come back after they break up hoping I can make something new out of it.”

Cole forced his own laugh. “I bet. I hope this doesn’t offend you, but you don’t look like the stereotypical tattoo artist.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. This is kind of a second career.”

“What was the first?”

“Technology startups. Software. Finance. Boring stuff like that. I burned out quickly. Wanted to explore my creative side.” He sat on the stool. “So what are you thinking?”

Cole was prepped for this moment. He pulled out his phone, brought up a photograph of Candace McGee, and showed it to him. “Her face on the inside of my left wrist.”

The sight of Candace clearly jarred Jack. He jerked back a little in his chair, studied the picture, blinking several times, as if to make sure his eyes were working correctly. Then he brought his eyes from the phone back over to Cole.

“What the hell is this?” he said, his tone darker. “Who are you?”

“Someone searching for the truth. And I need your help.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed on him more closely. “Wait ... you’re the guy—”

“I’m not dangerous, Jack. I’m someone who’s risking everything in order to find out who really killed Candace thirteen years ago. So just be cool, okay?”

Jack calmly turned, opened a drawer below the counter, and pulled out a small handgun. Cole felt his nerves spike. Had this been a huge mistake? To his credit, Jack didn’t point the gun at him. He just casually held it in his lap.

“For the record, I’m unarmed,” Cole said.

“The FBI is looking for you, right? I’ve been watching the news.”

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