3 Men and a Body Read online

  He took the coffee from her and drank from the other side. “If that’s the case, why would two different guys be trying to steal the body?”

  “Don’t forget the so-called priest. Maybe it’s a conspiracy. Maybe they’re trying to steal her body so they can freeze-dry it.”

  He laughed. “That makes as much sense as anything else.”

  Wesley opened the door and fell into the backseat.

  “You okay?” Coop asked, turning around. “Those antibiotics will upset your stomach if you don’t take them with food.”

  “Thanks.” Wesley wiped his mouth with his hand. “Man, you scared me to death. I thought you said you didn’t have a gun.”

  “I said I’m not allowed to own one,” Coop stated, turning over the ignition. “Jack could’ve nailed my ass to the wall back there.”

  “He did the right thing,” Carlotta mumbled into the coffee. Confounding man.

  “What the hell was Jack doing down here, anyway?” Wesley asked.

  For a moment, she panicked. She hadn’t thought about the possibility that Liz might spill her guts to Wesley about their father’s fingerprints at the hotel. Then she relaxed—apparently the woman hadn’t said anything. She felt Coop’s gaze on her, urging her to confide in Wesley. But with her father’s voice and image so fresh in her mind, she wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not when she wanted to strangle Wesley for fooling around with Liz.

  “It was some case he was working on,” she said over her shoulder.

  Coop quirked his mouth, but didn’t comment. Putting the van in Drive, he pulled away, with Jack’s sedan bringing up the rear.

  Carlotta glanced in the side mirror, watching the rest area retreat in the distance. She was almost numb, slowly processing what had just transpired. On the heels of the joy of discovering that her father was alive was the certainty that he’d willingly ignored them all these years. She had imagined as much, but the realization was still a bitter pill to swallow.

  And driving away, it felt as if she was losing her father all over again.

  19

  C oop set her suitcase inside the living room door. Wesley walked past them, and a few seconds later, his bedroom door slammed.

  “I didn’t realize how moody he is,” Coop said.

  “I guess he has a lot on his mind,” she said, then muttered, “Don’t we all.”

  Coop rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “This wasn’t exactly how I’d hoped the weekend would go.”

  “You went way beyond the call of duty to deliver the body to your uncle’s funeral home safe and sound.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know,” she murmured, then picked up one of his long-fingered hands. “I think our timing is off.”

  He curled her hand inside his. “I’m ready and you’re not.”

  She nodded. “I’m not. I just have too many things going on right now.” She considered telling him about seeing her father—she was bursting to tell someone—but she didn’t want to put Coop in a position of having information about a wanted fugitive.

  He stepped forward and kissed her, a long, deep kiss to tide them both over for a while. “Don’t forget what I said,” he whispered.

  “I won’t.”

  At the door he turned back. “When your arm heals, will you still consider a body-moving job now and then?”

  “Sure. Stay in touch.”

  “I will.”

  “Coop?”

  “Yeah?”

  She angled her head. “Tell the truth. Do you really think Kiki Deerling died of an asthma attack?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m not the M.E.” He touched her nose. “And neither are you. Get some rest. And call me if Wes gets to be too much of a handful.” He smiled. “Or call me if you just want to talk.”

  She nodded, but when the door closed behind him, she murmured, “If only.”

  Carlotta dragged her suitcase into her bedroom, then ran a bubble bath. Everything hurt. She undressed slowly and sank into the tub up to her neck, laying her arm on the rim to keep her cast dry.

  And then the tears came.

  She cried over the messed up messy mess of her life, over her parents’ failures and her own shortcomings. She bawled over her own indecisiveness when it came to men. She was afraid to choose. She didn’t want to make a mistake that would come back to haunt her later, and wreck the lives of others in the process. What did she know about relationships, anyway?

  She was better off alone rather than pulling someone into the dysfunctional vortex of her family and having them end up hating her for it.

  Like Coop…He seemed eager to love her, and her response to him this weekend, frankly, blew her away. But she was fairly certain she couldn’t meet his expectations. He was lonely and needed a project; she was a handy fixer-upper. Perhaps it was his experience with the twelve-step program that made him so accepting, so optimistic. But as tempting as it was to share her burden, she wanted at least one man in her life who didn’t have a direct connection to her parents.

  Her roll in the hay with Jack had led nowhere. To him, she was still first and foremost the daughter of Randolph “The Bird” Wren. A means to an end. According to her father, the tap hadn’t been lifted from their home phone after the fake funeral, as promised—and Jack had to know about that, the rat. Just as he’d known about Liz “Mrs. Robinson” Fischer getting her claws into Carlotta’s little brother.

  She leaned over, picked up the cordless handset on the floor and punched in Hannah’s number. After a couple of rings the phone connected, but there was only silence on the other end.

  “I know you don’t want to talk,” Carlotta said, “but did I ever tell you what a tiny penis Detective Jack Terry has? I walked in on him in the bathroom when he was doing surveillance from my house. T-I-N-Y. What Liz Fischer sees in him, I don’t know. But then I’ve heard that woman will sleep with anything pointed. Anyway, just wanted to share. You can call me back on my cell sometime. Talk soon.”

  She hung up, feeling marginally better that anyone listening in would happily share the fabricated description of Jack’s johnson and his tartlet, Liz. Then Carlotta immersed herself in the entertainment magazine that she’d inadvertently taken from the morgue in Boca Raton, which featured a retrospective article on Kiki Deerling’s short life.

  The young woman had been raised in Atlanta, with a background that sounded similar to Carlotta’s—the best neighborhood, the best schools, a professional father, a socialite mother. At fourteen, though, Kiki had begun modeling, and at sixteen, had begun dating boy-band superstar and all-around badass Matt Pearson. Soon she was a fixture on the Hollywood party scene, with clothes designers clamoring to get their duds on her tall, lanky frame.

  Then came her own line of clothes, her own perfume and a record deal. Kiki exuded that blend of wholesome innocence and sexuality that fed into fantasies. And the camera loved her. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but imminently photogenic and instantly recognizable. She and her pug, Twizzler, were favorites of the paparazzi, and Kiki courted an entourage wherever she went. Lately, though, she’d suffered from overexposure, and her behavior had taken a turn toward the lurid. Rumors of drug use and sexcapades flourished, fueled by unflattering photos and videos of Kiki half-dressed and looking stoned. The public couldn’t get enough.

  Enter Camp Kiki. The apparent brainchild of a concerned manager, Camp Kiki was nestled in the mountains of north Georgia and specialized in reforming “troubled” disadvantaged teens, leaving many fans with the opinion that Kiki could benefit from a stint at the camp herself. She had put in appearances as a “guest” counselor, making it an attraction for groupies and the more ambitious paparazzi who were willing to hike in and hang out in trees for a bankable photo. But there were success stories, too; many teens had testified that the camp had been a life-changing experience for them.

  Carlotta flipped through the pages of photos, admittedly as fascinated by the young girl’s celebrit
y as other people were. And saddened that Kiki’s entire life seemed to have been a spectacle for the entertainment of others. Had she loved the spotlight as much as she appeared to? Or had she simply become addicted to the fame?

  One photograph in particular, though, stopped Carlotta. In the foreground Kiki was on stage, singing—or, as many claimed, lip-synching—wearing an outfit that resembled a slingshot with sleeves. The background showed an audience caught up in worship for Kiki. One individual was unmistakably recognizable: the redheaded “priest” who’d made an appearance at the morgue in Boca. And the way he was looking at Kiki sent chills up Carlotta’s spine. His expression was one of hate, loathing…revulsion.

  She flipped back to the beginning of the magazine and studied all the photos carefully. The man was in two other shots, always in the background, and always staring at Kiki with a twisted look on his face. A stalker? Attempting to get into the morgue to see her one last time? To do something vile to her body? And who were the other two men trying to get their hands on Kiki? Henchmen for the tabloids, trying to heist the corpse for photos? Something even more depraved? Those two men seemed more corporate than the pretend priest, who struck Carlotta as just plain creepy.

  She climbed out of the tub and murmured a prayer for the girl’s family, who were undoubtedly confused and profoundly sad. It was strange how people in the same gene pool could turn out so differently and yet be bound by a sense of relatedness. The things family members did for each other, to each other and because of each other were truly mind-boggling. And unexplainable.

  Why else would Carlotta be starting to make room in her brain for the remote possibility that her father was innocent?

  She pulled on her fuzzy chenille robe, denying the rogue thought that had slipped into her head. After ten years of thinking the worst of her dad, how could she allow him to sway her opinion in a surprise ten-minute appearance? How could he still have that much power over her?

  Yet he did, she acknowledged miserably. That’s why she didn’t give up Randolph when she had the chance.

  She replayed the conversation in her head for the hundredth time, then retrieved a notebook from her dresser and recorded every detail she could remember. He’d worn a beard, sunglasses, fishing hat and nondescript clothing. He’d said he’d been following them, waiting for an opportunity to talk to her; said he’d been keeping tabs on her and Wesley, that he’d been gathering evidence to prove his innocence. He’d said that her mother had been “sick” on and off, with the implication that she was still drinking heavily. He’d asked her not to tell Wesley about his visit, that he’d be laying low for a while, but would contact her. He knew their phone was tapped; he knew she had a new cell phone. He said that Peter was in a position at the firm to help him.

  I’m going to need your help, too, sweetheart.

  She closed her eyes and cursed her inability to hate Randolph Wren, a weakness that she couldn’t seem to overcome. Like a good daughter, she was prepared to put her life on hold and wait until she heard from him again. Because her life would be on hold until she could put this interminable situation with her father behind her, anyway.

  Meanwhile, she needed to make plans to see Peter…and to “stay close” to him, as her father had instructed.

  20

  R ichard McCormick extended a big, fleshy hand. “Welcome to Atlanta Systems Services, Wesley.”

  Wesley pumped it and swallowed the pain that shot through his arm. “Your department acronym is ASS?”

  “Huh?” McCormick frowned, then laughed. “Oh, yeah, I guess so. Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”

  Wesley followed the lumpy guy through a maze of cubicles and bull pens that hummed with machinery. Huge clumps of black and gray cables snaked everywhere—over desks and floors, clipped to walls and across ceilings. A few faces looked up from computer monitors as he passed through, but for the most part, everyone seemed engrossed in whatever they were doing. It was his first experience in an office environment and he was suddenly nervous. He didn’t know what to expect.

  “Here you go,” the man said, gesturing to a workstation connected to three others in a cluster, occupied by two young guys and a girl.

  “Everyone, this is Wesley.”

  “Hey,” he said, nodding.

  “Hi,” they chorused.

  “I’m Jeff,” a dark-haired guy said. His shirt was missing a button and he looked as if he hadn’t slept—or showered—in a couple of days.

  “Ravi,” offered the other guy who appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent and was wearing latex gloves as he tapped on a keyboard.

  “Meg,” the girl stated. She wore a black Georgia Tech sweatshirt and zebra-striped glasses, her dishwater-blond hair twisted up into coiled pigtails.

  “Help Wes get settled in,” Richard said. “He’s going to be working on our legacy databases.”

  The two guys snickered, and when McCormick walked away, Jeff said, “Dude, you just got the shittiest assignment in this cesspool.”

  “Mainframe work sucks,” Ravi said.

  “Ignore Dumb and Dumber,” Meg said dryly. “This isn’t a bad place to work. McCormick even lets us work on school projects when we need to.”

  “You go to Tech?” Wesley asked, setting his backpack on the empty desk.

  “We all do,” she said. “We’re in a work-study program. What about you?”

  “A community service sentence.”

  She frowned. “Did you get arrested or something?”

  “Yeah. For hacking into this place.”

  “Cool,” Jeff said, and Ravi nodded. Meg, on the other hand, looked bored with him already.

  Wesley scanned the PC sitting on his desk. “Does this boat anchor even have a math coprocessor?”

  “Doesn’t matter much,” Jeff said. “It’s basically just a monitor to give you access to the mainframe.”

  “No Internet access?”

  “Nope. We all use our phones.” They held up various models of expensive PDAs, all of which had more memory than the dinosaur of a PC on his desk.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll build you something better,” Ravi offered.

  “How long will you be around?” Meg asked.

  McCormick had decided to divvy up Wesley’s one hundred hours of community service into four-hour chunks. “Every morning for about six weeks.” He sat in his assigned dusty, upholstered chair and rubbed his arm. The gashes were starting to heal, but the skin was painfully taut. He was down to two OxyContin pills, and would like to get more from Chance, but one problem nagged at him—the possibility that when he reported in to E. on Wednesday, she would make him provide a urine sample for a drug test. If he failed, E. wouldn’t think twice about having him tossed in jail, not after giving him a pass on the aborted drug deal in which she’d intervened.

  Although with The Carver still on his ass and Father Thom to pay, too, jail might be the safest place to hang out for a while. Wes really needed to win the pot Wednesday night in the game that Chance had secured for him.

  Throwing caution to the wind, he palmed one of the remaining pills and chewed it, washing it down with a bottle of water from his backpack. When he looked up, Meg was staring at him. He gave her his best disarming smile, easier because the OxyContin was already flashing through his system. She looked away.

  “Nice tie, man,” Jeff said with a laugh. “You don’t have to wear one here.”

  “I have to for my other job.”

  “What’s your other job?” Ravi asked.

  “I’m on call to move bodies for the morgue.”

  “Cool,” Jeff said again. “What’s the grossest thing you’ve seen?”

  “Motorcyclist versus I-285. He lost.”

  “Ew,” Meg said. “Don’t you go to college?”

  Wesley scoffed. “I don’t need college.”

  “You’re going to move bodies for the rest of your life?” she asked, obviously unimpressed.

  “No. I’m a card player. I’m goi
ng to the World Series of Poker.” At her dubious look, he added, “Someday.”

  “Sounds like a real career plan,” she said before pushing back from her desk and walking away. She had possibly the best ass he’d ever seen in a pair of jeans.

  “Forget about her,” Jeff warned. “She’s way out of your league, man. Smart as shit, rich as hell, and under that sweatshirt, has a body that won’t quit.” He sighed. “She turned down Harvard and Princeton. Her father is some genius geneticist, and she’s following in his footsteps.”

  From the looks on Jeff’s and Ravi’s faces, it was clear they were obsessed with her.

  “If she’s rich, why is she working here?”

  “I think it makes her feel normal,” Jeff said. “You know, part of the working masses.”

  “I think she’s some kind of spy,” Ravi said. “Or an alien.”

  Wesley squinted. “What’s with the latex gloves?”

  “Germ phobe,” Jeff interjected.

  “A computer keyboard is more contaminated than a toilet seat,” Ravi explained.

  “Welcome to the freak show,” Jeff said to Wesley. “Let’s go see if we can steal you a better machine.”

  Over the next couple of hours, the four of them pieced together a halfway decent system for Wesley from components they begged, borrowed and stole from all over the department. Jeff and Ravi were instructive and friendly, if a little goofy. Meg was amicable, but standoffish. Wesley was secretly impressed with their knowledge and intrigued by the way they talked about their classes at Georgia Tech—as if they wanted to be there, wanted to fill their heads with as much information as possible.

  And he was excited by the prospect of having access to his father’s court files.

  McCormick pulled him into his office and gave him the broad strokes of the systems the department supported. Legacy systems were fat, old and slow, and ran on behemoth computers of days gone by. They were typically the backbone systems of any company—payroll, accounts payable, human resources—and in the city’s case, courthouse records. And because legacy systems were so large and so important, they were usually the last applications that management wanted to risk moving to a more efficient, but untried, system.