Free A Plunder by Pilgrims by Jack Nolte

you think that?"
    "Because it stinks."
    "Oh."
    He laughed.  "I shouldn't be so hard on it, but I'm kinda a tat snob.  You know, like a wine snob?  This one's got no flair, no style.  It's small, but that's no excuse.  Doubt it was even taken from flash—just probably made up on the spot.  Look at how blocky it is.  They didn't even use the right size needle.  It was probably done by somebody real new, cause if they kept up like this, I doubt they'd be in business long.  It wouldn't just be a dad wanting to punch 'em."
    "She didn't do it herself, did she?"
    "Oh no.  Highly doubt that.  It's done with professional equipment, I can tell you that much.  Just badly."
    "Do you think it's very old?"
    The kid looked at the picture a little longer.  "It's hard to say without seeing it in the flesh, but I don't think so.  It doesn't have much fade or stretching.  She was also pretty young, so how old could it be?"
    Gage placed the photo back in the folder, then pulled out a close-up of the girl's face.  Her eyes were closed at least, but it was still gruesome enough that the kid swallowed hard.
    "Sure you've never seen her?" Gage said.
    "I don't think so."
    "You don't think so?"
    "I told you, I'm not as good with faces.  I mean, I could have seen her in a club or something.  It's hard to say.  But I don't think so."
    Gage watched the kid closely.  No dilating eyes.  No hesitation in the voice.  "Do you do many ocean-themed tattoos?  You know, dolphins, sharks, mermaids, that sort of thing?"
    He nodded.  "Some.  Not as many as you might think."
    "Mostly kids?"
    "Depends on how you define kids.  Almost everybody who gets a tat is under thirty, at least around here."  He pointed at the picture of the girl.  "That kid, though, I'd say she hadn't lived on the coast long."
    "What makes you say that?"
    "It's funny," Tim said.  "You'd think it would be the locals who'd get sea-related tats, but it's almost never that way.  I think it's cause the kids who grow up around here don't always want to be reminded of it so much.  I don't blame them, cause I grew up around here.  You get past the beach, it's pretty much nowhereville.  It's the tourists and the people who just moved here that usually get dolphins and sharks and mermaids and stuff."
    Gage slipped the photo of the girl back in the folder.  "Are there any other tattoo artists in Barnacle Bluffs?"
    "Nope.  There's others up and down the coast, though.  I'd try Sandy Cove, if I were you."
    "Why is that?"
    He shrugged.  "They've got two tat shops up there and both do a pretty good business, Zander's and Ink and Exile.  Most tattoo artists apprentice for a couple years—I did myself in LA—before going it alone.  I know those two have a fair amount of turnover with apprentices.  None of the longtime pros around here would have done such a crappy job, and I know most of 'em.  Small world, you know."
    "Yeah," Gage said.
    "And if they remember her, ask if you can see their release forms.  Not all the tat shops do that, but most of the good ones do."
     "Good idea.  Well, thanks for your help.  Okay if I swing back if I have other questions?"
    "Oh, sure," Tim said.  "Always glad to do my part.  Real sad, her washing up on beach like that.  You think she was killed?"
    "Probably."
    The kid shook his head, and started for the front of the store.  "You know, I just can't imagine a person who would do a thing like that.  I like everybody, you know.  I mean, even if I disagree with them, I really like people, doesn't matter the background.  Mormons, skinheads, yuppies with their kids, I get along with everybody.  I just don't know why anybody would want to hurt . . . "
    His voice drifted off when they rounded the corner.  At some point while they were in the back, a homeless man had wandered into the store—or what Gage guessed was a homeless man based on his appearance.  He looked like he'd gone to a Jerry Garcia look-a-like convention ten years