5 Bodies to Die For Read online

  “I suppose so. Her owner is probably looking for her. Or maybe she’ll find her way back home.”

  Jack scooped up the cat, who purred and rubbed its head on his lapel. “I’ll look around and wait for you downstairs. Do you need a ride to the station for the interview we discussed?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Uh, no. I have transportation.”

  “Did you get the Miata fixed?”

  “No.”

  “A new car?”

  “Uh, no. Peter loaned me one of his.”

  Jack’s eyebrows went up.

  She squirmed. “It’s practical, at least while I’m staying here.”

  “I have to hand it to Ashford. He’s giving you a taste of the good life.”

  Carlotta lifted her chin. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing,” Jack said lightly. “Maybe I underestimated him.”

  “Peter is accustomed to getting what he wants, and he doesn’t have to throw muscle around to get it.”

  “Muscle? What muscle?” Jack casually flexed his own bulging biceps.

  “Real mature, Jack. I’m going to take a shower.”

  He grinned. “Want some company?”

  “No,” she said, pushing him out into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Yet, as she showered in the luxurious bathroom, she thought back to when she and Jack had shared a showerhead only a few days before—right after her car had exploded. The incident had shaken them both and they agreed that due to mounting complications, it would be the last time they would give in to temptation.

  Yet they seemed addicted to each other.

  She showered and dressed hurriedly, pulling her still-damp long dark hair into a ponytail. When she descended to the first floor, she found Jack standing next to the sliding glass door. His back was to her, and he was on his cell phone.

  “Yes, sir, I do understand what’s on the line, sir…yes, sir, I know it’s a shit storm…yes, sir, I know this is our jurisdiction and I don’t like the state badges here any more than you do…yes, sir, I won’t let you down.” He disconnected the call and rubbed his neck in fatigue.

  Carlotta walked up to him and took over the impromptu massage, kneading the muscles in the top of his shoulders through his shirt.

  “Mmm, that’s nice,” he said.

  “Did you sleep last night?”

  “Some.”

  “Jack, you’re no good to anyone if you fall asleep behind the wheel and kill yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, straightening and turning around. He glanced over her outfit—gray miniskirt, a bone-colored jacket and lime-green blouse—his gaze lingering on her legs that ended in five-inch Chloe pumps. “Is your strategy to distract the state guys with that lame excuse for a skirt?”

  She smiled. “Think it’ll work?”

  He groaned. “Only if they’re not blind.”

  Carlotta laughed. “Any more leads on the case?”

  “As if I could discuss them with you.”

  “But no more bodies?”

  “No, thank God…At least none that we know of.”

  “Have you found Michael Lane?”

  “No. He hasn’t contacted you, has he?”

  “You know I would’ve told you.”

  “Right.” He glanced at his watch. “Ready to go? I’ll follow you to the station.”

  “I’m ready, I need to set the security alarm. What did you do with the cat?”

  “I put her outside and she ran away, so maybe she’ll find her way back home.”

  Carlotta nursed a stab of remorse. “I hope so. Where is the broken glass?”

  He gestured toward a utility closet. “I swept it up.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Pretty domestic of you, Jack.”

  “Just trying to keep you safe. I’d hate to see you hobbled, just in case you have to outrun our killer.” He arched an eyebrow. “Or Ashford.”

  “Peter is being a perfect gentleman.”

  “Are you sure he isn’t gay?” Jack asked. “If you were in my house, you wouldn’t be sleeping across the hall.”

  Carlotta angled her head. “Do you have a house, Jack?”

  “We’re going to be late,” he said, easily changing the subject. “Believe it or not, my job consists of more than watching your sweet ass, as entertaining as that might be.”

  “Where’s your partner?” Carlotta asked. “Getting her beauty sleep?”

  “Marquez is with the Gibbies, going over the profile for The Charmed Killer.”

  Carlotta harrumphed. “I thought she had decided it was someone with the last name Wren.”

  “She never suspected you.”

  “Right. She only suspected that I was planting those charms on the bodies after the fact.”

  “She’s just doing her job.” Jack gave her a pointed look. “We all are.”

  “Meaning you haven’t ruled out my father as the maniac who’s going around murdering women?”

  “Personally, I think Michael Lane is a more likely suspect.”

  She frowned. “I got the impression that you didn’t think it was Michael.”

  He averted his gaze. “We’re still working out the time line.”

  “I suppose that’s better for Randolph,” she mused.

  He tapped his watch. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Right.”

  Carlotta turned off the lights, then grabbed her purse and carefully reset the alarm before stepping into the garage. Jack followed and pulled the door closed behind him, sweeping his gaze over the structure that was finished with details nicer than most home interiors. Carlotta depressed the button for the garage-door opener. As the door rose, it ushered in morning light that bounced off the mirror finish of the sleek little two-seater sports car.

  Jack caught her eye and grinned. “I could take the Porsche if you’d feel safer driving the sedan.”

  “Nice try. Just don’t rear-end me.”

  “Gee, you didn’t mind the other day,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

  Carlotta glared at him, then opened the door and swung into the Porsche, admittedly nervous. As she adjusted the seat to accommodate her shorter legs, her pulse tripped higher. What if she did do something to Peter’s car?

  She put her hands on the steering wheel and forced herself to relax. As long as she was careful and drove slowly, what could go wrong? She was allowing the luxury of the car—of Peter’s life—to intimidate her. Which was ironic, considering that if she’d married him, she’d probably have a fleet of luxury vehicles to choose from on any given day. Feeling more confident, she pressed the button to lower the convertible top, determined to enjoy the car to its fullest.

  She turned over the engine and held her breath as she slowly backed out of the garage into the circular driveway. Beautifully shaped pavers surrounded a tall concrete fountain that dropped sheets of crystal-clear water into a tulip-shaped basin. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Jack sitting in his sedan, waiting to pull out behind her. He gave her a wry little wave. She exhaled and shifted into Drive. So far so good. The engine purred around her like a vibrator set on low speed. The distinctive hood sloped down and away from her. She felt sexy and powerful, wrapped in leather, a light breeze lifting her ponytail. She lowered her sunglasses and sighed. She was meant for this life. Carlotta pressed the gas pedal and the car surged forward as if it had been let out of its cage. She knew how it felt.

  Suddenly a screeching noise sounded and a blob of scratching, snarling fur landed in her lap. Terrified, she yanked the wheel and tried to hit the brake, but wound up hitting the gas instead. The car lurched forward.

  Into something hard enough to stop it cold.

  The cat, meanwhile, acted as if it was possessed and climbed her shoulder, emitting humanlike screams. Carlotta flailed at it with her hands, but it sunk its claws into her scalp. She shrieked as pain shot through her head.

  Then suddenly, the attack ceased. She glanced up to see that Jack had removed t
he deranged cat.

  “Scat! Get out of here!” he shouted. “Carlotta, are you okay?”

  She pushed her hair out of her eyes and was struck with horror—she had plowed the left side of the Porsche into the fountain. She nodded, then burst into tears. “Peter’s going to kill me.”

  Jack sighed. “He’s not going to kill you. It’s just a scratch down the side. Come on, let’s get you out of there.”

  He reached in to help her slide to the passenger side, then she heard him curse and felt herself being ripped out of the seat. A horrific crash sounded, followed by the splintering of glass.

  When Jack set her on her feet, she turned around. The top of the concrete fountain had fallen through the windshield of the Porsche and was now resting in the driver’s seat among torn metal and leather, exactly where she’d been sitting. Water from the broken fountain gushed into the open convertible.

  Jack made a rueful noise. “Okay, now Peter’s going to kill you.”

  7

  Carlotta waved as Peter drove away in his SUV.

  “Ashford took it better than I would have,” Jack admitted as he held open the door for her at the midtown APD precinct.

  “It’s just a car,” Carlotta muttered, feeling like a naughty child.

  “Right. It’s a good thing you’re wearing that belt you call a skirt.”

  “Peter’s a reasonable man. He knows it was an accident. Besides, like he said—his insurance will pay for the car.”

  “True. Now he can get next year’s model,” Jack said drily.

  “See? All is well.”

  “Meanwhile, what are you going to do for transportation?”

  She sighed. “Peter said he could get me a rental, but for now I think I’d feel less destructive riding the train.”

  “Since we still don’t know who planted that bomb under your Monte Carlo, I have to agree. But last time I checked, MARTA doesn’t run past Ashford’s subdivision.”

  “I’ll figure out something,” she murmured.

  He stopped to check Carlotta in at the front desk. She said hello to her friend Brooklyn and followed Jack through a secured door into the bull-pen area that housed workstations, cubicles and offices. The area hummed with voices, printers and the ringing of telephones.

  Her grip on her purse was slippery and her pulse ratcheted higher. “I’m nervous about the interview.”

  Jack scoffed. “You already wrecked a Porsche this morning, what else can you do? The way I see it, the day has nowhere to go but up.”

  “Very funny. You’ll be in there with me, won’t you, Jack?”

  His mouth flattened into a line. “I’ll be watching. Just remember that you’re here of your own volition. You can stop the interview if you feel uncomfortable.”

  “You’re late,” chided a female voice.

  Carlotta turned to see Detective Maria Marquez approaching. The woman managed to look fresh yet threatening in a pale blue pantsuit and shoulder holster. Her demeanor toward Jack was territorial, but Carlotta wondered if Jack even noticed.

  “There was a mishap,” Jack said, pouring a cup of coffee.

  Maria eyed Carlotta knowingly. “Right. Well, the state guys are getting restless.”

  “How did your session go?” Jack asked, taking a drink from the steaming cup.

  Maria shrugged. “They asked questions, I answered.” Her glance cut to Carlotta, then back. “We can talk about it later.”

  Carlotta pursed her mouth. The woman was purposely excluding her, while letting her know that she and Jack had plenty of private time.

  “Did they offer up the state lab to process our evidence?” Jack asked.

  “When we get some.”

  Jack swallowed coffee and nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “They’re waiting for Carlotta in interview room two,” Maria offered, then walked away.

  Jack topped off his coffee and looked at Carlotta. “Ready?”

  “I guess so.”

  He led her down a hallway to a closed door. “I’ll be right on the other side of the glass. Just be truthful. Everyone’s after the same thing here—to get you cleared.”

  “And my father,” she added. But at the sight of the muscle jumping in Jack’s jaw, she frowned. “And my father, right, Jack?”

  “Carlotta, this is about you. Let your father take care of himself. From what I’ve seen, he’s pretty good at it.”

  He rapped his knuckles on the door, then opened it. Two suited men sat adjacent to each other at a rectangular table that was piled high with files. She assumed that one of them was Randolph’s, one was Wesley’s and one was hers. Her pulse kicked up a notch. The men stood and adjusted their waistbands as Carlotta and Jack walked in.

  “Agents Wick and Green,” Jack said, nodding to the slim black man and the stocky white guy, respectively, “this is Carlotta Wren.”

  The men said hello and she responded in kind.

  “Ms. Wren has agreed to voluntarily answer whatever questions you have about The Charmed Killer case. She’s eager to help, aren’t you, Carlotta?”

  She nodded, suddenly realizing that both men’s eyes were locked on her legs. Jack cleared his throat, and the men were suddenly all business.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Wren.”

  “Can we get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, lowering herself into the empty chair.

  Both agents looked at Jack expectantly.

  “I’ll be outside,” he said unnecessarily. After making eye contact with Carlotta, he backed out of the room.

  Once the door was closed, Agent Wick gave Carlotta a friendly smile and eased out of his jacket. “I’m originally from Buffalo and I haven’t acclimated to the Southern heat yet.”

  “I told him he’ll get used to it,” Agent Green said to her, as if he and she were on the same team and Wick was the outsider. Translation: Green—good cop, Wick—bad cop. They both sat down and made a great show of getting settled, adjusting ties, sipping coffee and scooting chairs closer to the table.

  Carlotta smiled. “I don’t mean to be rude, gentlemen, but I have to be at work soon, so…what can I do for you?”

  Wick pursed his mouth. “Okay, let’s do this.” He took a folder that Green passed to him and opened it. “What do you do for a living, Ms. Wren?”

  She glanced at the glass behind Wick and imagined Jack’s comforting presence behind it. “I’m a sales associate at Neiman Marcus at the Lenox Square Mall.”

  Green jotted down her answer. Apparently, he was the note-taker.

  “That’s where Michael Lane worked,” Wick said.

  Carlotta nodded. “Yes, that’s where I met Michael.”

  “You were friends?”

  “Yes. Good friends, actually.”

  “What changed that?”

  She shifted in her chair. “The night I realized he was behind an identity-theft ring and was responsible for the deaths of two women.”

  “You confronted him?”

  “That’s right. We were in the Fox Theater at the time, and he tried to kill me.”

  Wick took another sip of coffee. “How?”

  “By pushing me over a balcony.”

  “You obviously survived,” Green interrupted.

  “Yeah, I was lucky. Someone broke my fall.” She glanced at the glass again.

  “Have you seen Michael Lane since that time?” Wick resumed.

  “Only on television, after he escaped, when he was being chased by the police.”

  “I understand that when he jumped over the bridge, you were the one who informed the police that Michael couldn’t swim.”

  “That’s right, Michael once told me himself.”

  “So you assumed he’d died in the fall?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  She sighed—this was going to be tedious. “Apparently not. I found evidence that Michael Lane broke into the home I share with my brother and was living in our guest room, unbeknownst
to us.”

  “That’s quite a story,” Wick said wryly.

  Carlotta didn’t respond.

  “Your brother,” Green broke in, glancing over the file in front of him. “That would be Wesley Wren?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And both of you have records?” Wick asked, taking the file. “Your brother for computer crimes and you for assault?”

  Carlotta squirmed. “I once used a tire iron on a man my brother owed money to, but that was in self-defense.”

  “And your brother’s computer hacking? Was that also in self-defense?”

  “No,” she conceded. “But Wes is on probation and doing community service. He’s paying for his crime.”

  “Your father is Randolph Wren, is that right?” Wick asked.

  She tried not to react. “Yes.”

  “And he’s a fugitive.”

  “Isn’t that what your file says?”

  Wick smiled. “Yes, it does. Do you know where your father is?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  A few weeks ago at a Florida rest area. “Just before Christmas, my senior year of high school.”

  “He and your mother abandoned you and your brother?”

  “Hey, ease up, partner,” Green said, then gave Carlotta a sympathetic look.

  They were playing her. “Yes, my parents abandoned me and my brother.”

  “Must’ve been tough,” Green offered.

  “Wesley and I both are fine,” she said evenly.

  Wick made a rueful noise in his throat. “Your files say otherwise. It says here that last year you were questioned in the murder of a man named Gary Hagan.”

  “And does it also say I was cleared?” she asked. “He was found dead at a party I attended—everyone was questioned.”

  “It says here that you crashed that party.”

  She shrugged. “Party crashing isn’t a capital offense. Besides…I don’t do that anymore.” Unless she had a very good reason.

  Wick scanned the file, using his finger as a pointer. “You were also a suspect in the murder of, let’s see…Angela Ashford?”

  “And cleared again,” she said. “Angela was the wife of a good friend of mine.”

  “Hmm. Then you reportedly jumped off an overpass and committed suicide?”