Free The Missing Ink by Karen E. Olson Page B

hot rays. I was glad my new blouse was sleeveless.
    Bitsy coordinated it all. Ace, Joel, and I hovered in the background. Until the producer shouted, “Brett Kavanaugh? Who is Brett?”
    I raised my hand like I was in fourth grade, and he came over to me. “This segment will be taped, and we’ll air it tonight. Understand?”
    I nodded.
    “We need to mike you.”
    I indicated Bitsy, who I could see was chomping at the bit. “She was here, too. Her name is Bitsy Hendricks; she talked to Kelly—I mean Elise—too.”
    The producer glanced at Bitsy, and while I didn’t see his expression change, I felt a distinct chill in the air. “We only have two minutes on air. We only have time for one of you.”
    He held the mike, which was attached to a small black box by a long wire. I put my hand on it and shoved it toward him. “Then interview Bitsy, okay?”
    He didn’t even look at Bitsy. “No. You. You’re the owner.” Like that made me the only grown-up in the room. I could see by the set of his mouth that he wasn’t going to argue this with me, that he was right and I was wrong, so I nodded, shrugging at Bitsy, who looked like she was getting ready to call her lawyer to file a discrimination suit against ABC. I wouldn’t put it past her.
    The producer fastened the black box on the back of my trousers. “I’m going to feed the wire up through your shirt. Can you grab it and bring it up around to your collar?”
    He got it halfway up without even touching my skin, and I managed to pull it up and out near my neck. He fastened the mike on my blouse and started to lead me toward the sofa when the door opened.
    The Asian woman who glided into the room was half a foot shorter than I was, with sleek black hair pulled into a tight chignon at the back of her head. Her handshake was firm.
    “Alison Cho, 20/20 ,” she said. “Where are we doing this?” She fingered the long strand of pearls that rested gently against a filmy cream-colored silk blouse. She may have been short, but she had a certain presence, a charisma about her that no doubt would be picked up by the camera.
    “Where’s Diane Sawyer?” Bitsy’s voice echoed across the shop and bounced off the wall.
    A flash of something—annoyance—was gone in a second before Alison Cho turned to Bitsy and smiled. “I’m doing the interview,” she said firmly, ignoring Bitsy’s expression, which clearly relayed that this was unacceptable, and turned to Joel and Ace, shaking their hands. Someone handed her a water, but she didn’t open it.
    They’d set up a chair for her across from the couch, and I settled in, jostling the black box at my waist a little. I shifted so I wouldn’t lean against it, acutely aware that I couldn’t slouch, trying to keep my back ramrod straight.
    “Don’t look directly into the camera,” she advised.
    I had no intention of looking at it at all.
    Alison Cho had no issues with looking at the camera, though.
    “Today we’re speaking with Brett Kavanaugh, owner of The Painted Lady tattoo shop in Las Vegas, where Elise Lyon was last seen alive.”
    I hadn’t thought of it that way, and it made me shiver.
    Alison swung her head around and looked me straight in the eye. “What was her demeanor that night? Did she seem well? Or agitated?”
    “She was fine. Relaxed.”
    The voice that came out of my mouth didn’t sound like mine; rather, it was like I was somewhere else and hearing myself through a tunnel. My heart was pounding, and I hoped I wasn’t sweating through the purple top.
    “She came in for a devotion tattoo, correct?”
    I nodded. “That’s right.”
    “Please explain what that is.”
    “It’s a tattoo that has the name of a loved one on it. Kelly—I mean Elise—wanted the name in a heart with two clasped hands.” Maybe more information than anyone needed, but Alison seemed interested.
    “She made an appointment for the tattoo?” she prompted.
    I nodded again. “For the next day. But she didn’t show