Body Movers Page 24

  “I know, I’m sorry, but I was so close to winning big.”

  “That’s what all gamblers say, Wesley, just before they file bankruptcy. Except you don’t owe a bank, you owe two big, beefy loan sharks!” She inadvertently stepped on the brake again, causing the car behind her to blast the horn. “Oh my God, tell me you didn’t borrow any more money from those horrible people.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Are you just saying that because you’re afraid I’m going to kill us in this car?”

  “No,” he said, bracing his arm against the dashboard, “but maybe we should talk about this later.”

  “Later? Wesley, tomorrow morning that hoodlum, Tick, is going to show up at our door and demand a thousand dollars. You told me you had it covered. There’s no way I can get that kind of money together between now and then.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll think of something,” he said. “Turn here.”

  She bit her tongue and made the turn, her thoughts chaotic. Wesley was playing with fire. This entire situation was going to explode in his face…and maybe hers.

  She stopped at the gated entrance for Wesley to show the identification badge that Coop had given him. The security guard radioed ahead to someone, then opened the gate to let them drive through.

  It was about the same time of day, she noticed, as when she’d last driven into the neighborhood, unaware that she would know the victim. She slowed to make out the street signs in the waning light, then made two more turns, the last one away from the Ashford house.

  “There it is,” Wesley said, pointing up ahead to the left where the lights of two police cruisers flickered. She pulled in behind a familiar dark sedan and frowned. Not again.

  “Come on,” Wesley said.

  “They won’t let me in,” she protested.

  “You’re with me. Besides, you’ve talked your way into places more sensitive than crime scenes.”

  So true—although she hated having her little brother remind her of it. Burning with curiosity, she followed him and nodded curtly at the officers who studied Wesley’s identification.

  “We’re here to remove the body,” Wesley said, his voice deep and formal.

  The officer glanced at Carlotta, then waved them both through.

  “If you start working with me and Coop,” Wesley said as they walked toward the huge stucco mansion blazing with lights, “you could have your own badge.”

  “Tempting, but no.”

  Coop’s white van sat in the driveway, next to a car with the medical examiner’s insignia on the side. The door to the house stood open, with light streaming out. Wesley led the way inside and Carlotta followed. The palatial foyer, painted in whites and yellows, featured a sweeping staircase to the right. To the left, the house opened into cavernous rooms, the decor pale and exquisite, with nothing out of place.

  “Wesley, up here. Don’t touch anything.”

  They looked up to see Coop gesturing from the catwalk. Carlotta followed, hanging back, her heart tripping faster as she climbed the steps. At the top, the six-foot-wide catwalk gave way to luxurious rooms on either side—a sitting room, a music room, most with French doors, all of them standing open. A couple of gloved CSI guys, carrying a camera and several brown bags, came out of a room at the end of the hall and walked by them. Coop disappeared into the room and Wesley followed. When Carlotta caught sight of a woman’s scantily clad body lying on a bed inside the room, she shrank back against the wall. A split-second glance was enough, though, to brand the horrific scene on her mind—the blonde’s limbs lying at awkward angles, her pale skin glowing through the transparency of the black lingerie she was wearing, one high-heeled shoe on her foot, one lying on its side on the floor.

  Manolo Blahniks—she’d know them anywhere.

  The woman’s face was beautifully sculpted, her blond hair in loose, crimped waves. A chord of recognition vibrated in the back of Carlotta’s head but refused to surface—maybe the woman was a model. She squinted, recalling more detail. The lingerie…black, maybe French, definitely upmarket.

  Wanting a better look, she stepped to the bedroom door, only to have her view blocked by a set of panoramic shoulders.

  “Ms. Wren,” Detective Terry said, his expression wry. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your skirt hitched up to your waist.”

  Carlotta flushed. “Well, if it isn’t Detective Peeping Tom.”

  “You shouldn’t be up here,” he said, looking supremely annoyed. “You need to leave.”

  She crossed her arms. “Are you the only detective in the police department? You seem to be everywhere.”

  He glared at her. “Buckhead happens to be my jurisdiction. What’s your excuse?”

  She bristled. “I brought Wesley to help Coop. When I heard it was in the same neighborhood as…before, I thought it might have some bearing on Angela Ashford’s case.”

  A thundercloud descended on his brow as he grabbed her elbow and steered her back down the hall. “All the more reason you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Wait.” Carlotta shook off his hand and turned to face him. “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  She sighed, exasperated. “I’m going to find out in tomorrow’s paper, or when Wesley comes home, for that matter.”

  His mouth tightened. “Lisa Bolton. Mean anything to you?”

  She repeated the woman’s name under her breath. “It sounds familiar. Can I see the body?”

  “No. I can’t believe this conversation has lasted this long. Scram.”

  “Is she married?” Carlotta pressed.

  He pulled his hand down his face, then sighed. “Widowed, about a year ago.”

  “Who found her?”

  “A neighbor walking her dog noticed the front door was open, knocked to see if anyone was home and then called the police when no one came to the door.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  He leaned in, looking as if his head might explode. “Am I going to have to forcibly remove you from the scene?”

  She picked up the end of his orange-and-blue-paisley tie and made a face before dropping it. “I was just leaving,” she said, then turned to make her way back downstairs.

  “I got a call from Liz Fischer.”

  She turned back and gave him a bland smile. “Was it good for you?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “Let me do my job, Carlotta. The last thing I need is to have to worry about what trouble you’re getting into.”

  “Worry about me?” She angled her head up at him. “Watch out, Detective, I might start to think that you care.”

  He shifted his big body and looked as if he had developed a bad taste in his mouth.

  “By the way,” she said casually, “Dennis Lagerfeld, one of the persons who bought the cigar that I found in the jacket that Angela returned, lives in this neighborhood.”

  She made her way to the bottom of the stairs, then glanced up to find the detective leaning on the handrail of the catwalk, studying her, his mouth pursed. She locked gazes with him, wondering if they were destined to butt heads on every front. Given their differences and all the unresolved issues in her life, it seemed likely. She dragged her gaze away from his and walked out the door.

  She couldn’t get home fast enough. It was one thing to hear about a murder on the eleven o’clock news or to read about it in the Metro section of the AJC, but to actually see the room where a woman had had the life squeezed out of her and to see how her body had been abandoned for a passerby to find…It took a gruesome person to treat a life so carelessly.

  Visions of the woman’s body twisted in the sheets plagued her. Had the killer been on top of her when he’d strangled her? She touched the skin on her throat, remembering when Angela had attacked her and what it had felt like to have her airway cut off. The woman would have been flailing, fighting for her life.

  And judging b
y the way she was dressed, Lisa Bolton had known the person who had killed her…unless the woman lounged around the house in black French lingerie and Manolos.

  Which, she conceded, she had done herself once…okay, twice, while Wesley was at band camp.

  Then she recalled other details that hadn’t registered at the time—a bottle of champagne next to the bed, a tray of some kind of food—chocolates, maybe? Lisa Bolton had been expecting company, but not expecting a violent end.

  Her cell phone rang and she glanced at the screen—L. Fischer.

  Great.

  But she’d asked for the woman’s help, hadn’t she? She sighed and pressed the call button. “Hello?”

  “Carlotta. Hi, it’s Liz.”

  “Hi…Liz.”

  “Just wanted to let you know that I made a few inquiries about Judge D’Angelo. I don’t know if he knew your friend, but he didn’t kill her. He’s been in San Francisco for three weeks at a technology-law conference.”

  At least that was one name to cross off the list. “Thanks for checking, Liz.”

  “Oh, no problem. Actually, it gave me a good reason to reconnect with an old friend.”

  She smirked into the phone. “Detective Terry said that you’d called.”

  Liz’s lubricated laugh slid over the line. “I hope that’s all he told you, that devil.”

  Carlotta rolled her eyes, then held the phone away from her mouth. “I’m losing you, Liz…ack…ola…meng.” Then she disconnected the call.

  She sighed. Two murders in ten days, both beautiful young women in their prime. Such a waste…and terrifyingly casual. The arrogance of someone just to snuff out someone’s life. The person had to be a sociopath.

  And still out there somewhere.

  By the time Carlotta arrived at the town house, her nerves were unraveling. When she stepped out of her car, the air was cold and the wind brisk, bending branches and sending fingers of black shadows over the ground between the garage and the front door. She ignored the prickle on her neck, telling herself that she was still spooked from the crime scene. She’d made the quick dash countless times in the dark, and not once had a serial killer jumped out of the bushes to grab her.

  She hugged herself and put her head down, leaning into the wind as she ran across the front yard and up the sidewalk. Just before her foot hit the bottom step, a large body stopped hers and a sweaty hand covered her mouth.

  There was, Carlotta realized with dismay, a first time for everything.

  27

  C arlotta’s mind whirled with panic to feel the bulky body behind her. Why hadn’t she listened when Detective Terry had given that little talk at the mall on safety and self-defense?

  Reacting out of instinct, she bit down on the meaty fingers covering her mouth and was rewarded with a howl and the relaxing of his grip on her. Then she brought her heel down hard on the man’s instep. Another howl sounded, this one twice as loud. Carlotta lunged forward to get away, but the man grabbed her from behind, spun her around and held her jaw in the vise of his big hand. His face was fleshy and pockmarked, his eyes small and mean. “Stop fighting me, bitch. Where’s your deadbeat brother?”

  She gasped for air. “Who…are…you?”

  “I work for The Carver. Wesley owes him a bunch of green, and he’s way late on his payments. My boss is pissed because he knows Wesley’s been paying Father Thom and not him, so he sent me to collect an installment, if you know what I mean.”

  “W-Wesley’s not here.”

  The man gave her a rough shake, gouging his big fingers into her face. “Money will do.”

  “I don’t have any money,” she said as well as she could with her jaw being held shut.

  The man licked his lips. “Then maybe we can work out a little trade, sis. Just how much do you care about your little brother?” He squeezed harder and she cried out, terrified. She was no match for his strength. The man could do anything he wanted to her and she would be powerless to stop him.

  He started walking her toward the house when suddenly a heavy thunk sounded and the man grunted, staggering back and releasing her.

  She spun around, surprised and weak with relief to see Peter standing there, holding a hefty tree branch like a baseball bat. Before the man stopped reeling from the first whack, Peter lifted the branch and swung again, this time landing a blow on the side of the man’s head, drawing blood. The thug went down on his knees, wincing and holding his head. He wore a long, dark coat and nice clothes that betrayed him as more than a run of the mill criminal.

  “Reach for a gun,” Peter said, standing over the man with the club in swing position, “and I’ll end you.”

  The fury in his voice left no doubt that he meant what he said. Carlotta blinked at a side of Peter that she’d never seen before. Physical, yes, but violent?

  The man shook his head and lifted his hands to indicate he had no intention of fighting back.

  “Why are you bothering Carlotta?” Peter demanded.

  “Her kid brother…owes money…to my boss…The Carver.”

  Peter looked at Carlotta, and after a humiliating hesitation, she nodded. Peter’s mouth tightened, then he looked back to the man. “How much?”

  “Ten grand,” the guy panted, touching the gash on his head. “But a payment…will do.”

  To Carlotta’s mortification, Peter reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet.

  “Peter, don’t,” she implored.

  Peter handed her the makeshift club, then opened his wallet and withdrew all the cash inside. “Here’s a little over a grand. Now get the hell out of here.”

  The man pushed to his feet, took the money and lumbered off.

  The light on the stoop next door came on and Mrs. Winningham emerged, wearing a nightcap and wielding a broom. “What’s going on out here?”

  “Nothing, Mrs. Winningham,” Carlotta called. “Sorry we woke you.”

  “I heard a big commotion,” the woman insisted.

  “Good night, Mrs. Winningham,” she said as Peter touched her arm.

  “Let’s get you inside,” he said, staring in the direction the man had gone.

  Scrambling toward the front door, she half expected a gunshot to ring out from the shadows, but apparently the man was satisfied with the money.

  She fumbled to unlock the door, her hands trembling. Finally, Peter took the key from her and within a couple of seconds, the door opened. Carlotta practically fell inside.

  Peter dead-bolted the door behind them, then walked to the window. “Don’t turn on any lights yet.” She watched him part the curtain, then peer out, scanning the yard. “He drove off,” Peter said. “All clear.”

  She sighed in relief and turned on a corner lamp, bathing the small living room in warm light. Realizing how the incident might have ended if Peter hadn’t shown up when he did, she started to shiver uncontrollably.

  “Are you okay?” He came up behind her, then rubbed her arms up and down. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” She turned around and, at the sight of his handsome face drawn in concern, her heart expanded with love and gratitude. “Thanks to you.”

  He put his finger under her chin. “Has this kind of thing happened before?”

  “Nothing this…serious.”

  His eyebrows converged into a frown. “What kind of trouble is Wesley in? Drugs?”

  “No, thank God. He gambles—which is bad enough.”

  “And he borrowed money off some thug named The Carver?”

  She nodded. “The name alone should’ve been a tip-off, huh? And he’s in debt to another guy named Father Thom—he’s the one who usually sends a…collections agent.”

  “Usually?” His face darkened. “You mean these thugs have been harassing you on a regular basis?”

  The angry concern in his voice made her feel warm and…protected. And it made her mourn even more all the years they’d been apart. How many times had she yearned for him for this very reason, because he had always looked ou
t for her?

  “Have you ever called the police?” he asked.

  “It would only make things worse, and Wesley is already in enough trouble with the law.”

  Peter looked sympathetic. “I read about the computer-hacking charges in the paper.”

  Her cheeks burned with humiliation to have all the sordid details of their lives revealed to Peter. “He received probation and has been doing…better.” If she didn’t count his gambling lapse over the weekend. “He has a job, contracting with the morgue for…well, you know,” she said, her voice trailing off.

  He nodded. “I saw him the other night. He’s all grown up.”

  “Yeah, with grown-up problems.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry about the money, Peter. You didn’t have to do that. I’ll pay you back.”

  He gave a dismissive wave, as if a thousand dollars was pocket change—and for Peter, she realized, it was. “I don’t want you to pay me back, Carly. And I can send you more if it will help. It’s the least I can do.”

  After abandoning you. The unsaid words plucked at her. Was Peter trying to buy his way back into her good graces?

  “No,” she said hurriedly, “that won’t be necessary. I appreciate your offer, but Wesley and I will work it out.” Then she clasped her hands together. “But thank you for taking care of that guy. I didn’t realize…you had such a temper.”

  “Threaten someone I care about,” he said, his nostrils flaring, “and I turn into a dangerous man.”

  She swallowed hard as a rogue thought slid into her head: Had Angela told Peter that she’d confronted Carlotta at the store? He’d acted as if he’d known nothing about it, but what if he had and the incident had triggered his anger?

  “I’m just glad I was there,” he said fiercely, running his finger along her tender jaw.

  “Peter,” she said, then wet her dry lips, “why were you here?”

  He hesitated, his expression contrite. “I’ve been sitting out there in my car for over an hour, waiting for the chance to see you. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for what happened in the parking garage the other night.”