5 Bodies to Die For Page 8

  Right between the eyes—someone like him. “Yeah, I saw your type the other night.”

  She straightened and crossed her arms, inadvertently pushing up her cleavage. “What’s my type, Wesley?”

  “From the looks of the guy I saw you with? Gay.”

  She shook her head and turned to walk toward the fourplex workstation they shared with Ravi Chopra and Jeff Spooner, geeks of the highest order who also happened to be decent guys. Like Meg, they were employed by the city IT department through a work-study program for Georgia Tech students.

  And like him, they were both, um, enamored with Meg.

  “Morning, boys,” she sang.

  When they lit up like little pets, Wesley wanted to heave. The woman was a hypnotist.

  But with her lecture ringing in his ears, he pried his attention away from her breasts and got down to business on the encryption project. He’d been holding off on pulling test data that would include his father’s information because he was afraid Meg would see it and realize what he was up to. He’d also procrastinated because access to the databases was strictly monitored and his user ID would be forever attached to the data he pulled if someone checked. One more infraction would probably land him in jail. His attorney, Liz Fischer, was good, but she’d warned him—in the aftermath of a screw—that she was running out of tricks to pull out of her hat.

  Just the thought of Liz made his balls tingle. But not as much as knowing that Meg was wearing an underwire bra. Maybe it was the plaid one that he sometimes got a glimpse of when she bent over…

  Then a thought hit Wes like a slow-moving locomotive. His brain worked in a lower gear under the influence of Oxy, but when the ideas made it through the goo, they made him so happy: Maybe having Meg on the project was a blessing in disguise.

  All morning he kept his head down and his smile to himself while he put together the procedure that would pull enough data on either side of his father’s records to hopefully render it invisible. At fifteen minutes before noon, when he was supposed to leave, he waved to get Meg’s attention.

  She looked annoyed, then removed the earbuds of her iPod. “Yeah?”

  “I have to go in a few minutes, but I have the job ready to pull the test data we need from the databases I’m working on. McCormick said he’d have to grant me onetime access to the data before I can run the job. But since you have access, I was thinking it would save him a lot of time and trouble if you ran the job when you get a chance.”

  She considered him for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I guess it’s all the same. Send me the Job Control Language.”

  “Done,” he said, then jerked his thumb. “I’m taking off.”

  “Knock yourself out,” she said, then put her earbuds back in.

  An alien feeling of frustration crowded his chest. Why he felt so compelled to impress this girl, he didn’t know. It also made him a little nuts that she totally saw through him. The dismay sent little shards of pain to his temple as he made his way out of the building and to his bike. He really wanted another Oxy pill, but he had an appointment with his probation officer, and he thought it best to be as sober as possible.

  During the ride across town, he thought he noticed a black SUV with tinted windows about a block behind him. He blinked to clear his vision and willed the pounding in his head to go away as he strained for a better look. He couldn’t tell if it was the same vehicle that had been dogging him, so he whipped left to go down a side street.

  When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the black SUV slow, then go past. He exhaled in relief, but still…this was getting creepy.

  He didn’t see the vehicle again, but his nerves jumped as he locked up his bike and walked into the building that housed the offices of Fulton County Probation Control. He signed in with the sourpuss at the front window, then eased into a chair in the waiting room. His head was really throbbing now, and his left eye twitched.

  Wednesdays were the worst because he had to plan his Oxy hits around his meeting with E. Jones. He consoled himself with the knowledge that after he left, he had plenty of Oxy waiting for him. He’d used some of his poker earnings to buy a bag before Michael Lane had stolen the bulk of his cash. And living with Chance, he had easy access to the pills. Chance had even promised him more if he could talk Carlotta’s friend Hannah into going out with him. Wes was still working on that deal.

  “Wren, you’re up!” the woman at the window shouted, then cut her eyes to a door leading to a hallway of offices. He knew the way well.

  Outside E.’s office, Wes glanced in all directions. During his last visit, he’d run into E.’s boyfriend, Leonard, a thug whose apparent cover was selling pharmaceuticals when, in fact, the man worked for The Carver and ran drugs for Chance.

  Thankfully the bully was nowhere in sight. Wes rapped on the door and E. called for him to come in.

  “Have a seat,” she said, surprising him with a bright smile. E. was a babe—long red hair and nice full breasts. But while she’d always been cordial, she’d fallen short of being friendly.

  Until today.

  “Are you having a nice day?” she asked, her eyes shining.

  “Uh, sure,” he said, lowering himself into a chair opposite her.

  “Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, wondering why she was so chipper. He started to dismiss it as normal female flakiness until his gaze landed on the sparkler on her left ring finger. “What’s with the rock?”

  “Hmm?” She lifted her head, then followed his gaze to her finger and smiled, her cheeks turning pink. “Oh…I got engaged.”

  Wesley felt a little sick. “To Leonard?”

  “Of course to Leonard. Who did you think?”

  He shifted in his chair. “I didn’t realize the two of you were so serious.”

  She laughed, the sound like a tinkling bell. “That’s what grown-ups do, Wesley.”

  He wiped his hand over his mouth. E. had no idea what she was getting into.

  “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” she asked. “I thought you and Leonard were friends.”

  “Congratulations,” he said. “When are you getting married?”

  “We haven’t set a date yet. Right now, I just want to enjoy being engaged.”

  He smiled and nodded, but he longed to tell her that she was making a colossal mistake. The only upside was her pervasive good mood. Instead of the normal grilling she gave him, asking about his job and if he was staying out of trouble, E. seemed downright giddy.

  “Sounds good,” she said, closing his file. “Anything else?”

  He considered telling her about Michael Lane having been in their house, but she might get nosy about where he was staying, and she already suspected that Chance was a bad influence.

  “Nope,” he said, pushing to his feet. “See you next week.”

  At the door, he turned back. “Be careful, E. You know there’s a man out there killing women.”

  At the mention of The Charmed Killer, she sobered, then gave him a little smile. “I will be. Thanks for your concern, Wes.”

  He left the office feeling grateful but a little off-kilter at the ease of the appointment. No interrogation, no drug test. It was a gift, but he felt bad taking it, knowing that E. was being conned by Leonard the Lughead.

  He was so ready for an Oxy hit. Standing on the heat-radiating sidewalk in front of the building, he popped one of the pills in his mouth and rolled it around for a few seconds before crushing it between his molars. A choking bitterness flooded his tongue, but was followed by a tide of ecstasy that swept through his throat, chest and limbs. Compromising the tablet’s time-release coating allowed all its sweet goodness to pour into his pleasure centers at once.

  All was right with the world.

  “Hey, dumb ass!”

  He pivoted his head to see the long black Town Car sitting at the curb, windows down. Mouse leaned forward to shout through the passenger-side window. “Get in!”

/>   Wesley almost smiled. He and Mouse had fallen into a routine. His community service commitment had him working at ASS every weekday morning. Afternoons he spent with Mouse collecting on The Carver’s past-due accounts. On Wednesdays, Mouse knew to pick him up after his probation meeting.

  It was like being fucking married.

  “Let me get my bike,” he said.

  By the time he’d unlocked his bike Mouse had popped the trunk. Wes glanced around the trunk before dumping his bike inside, glad to find it empty of body parts. Then he swung inside, happy for the cool interior. The advantage of riding around with a fat man was that the air conditioner was always on. And the chow was always plentiful.

  “I got you two chicken sandwiches,” Mouse said through a mouthful of food, nodding to the Wendy’s bag that sat on the floor in the precise place the severed head-in-a-bag had sat yesterday. “I know you like those.”

  “Thanks,” Wes said, reaching for the food. “What’d you get?”

  “Baconater,” Mouse said, hefting his half-eaten burger. “My wife would fucking kill me if she knew I was cheating on my diet.”

  Wes arched an eyebrow at the man’s bulk. “You’re on a diet?”

  Mouse stuffed a fry in his mouth as he pulled away from the curb. “I don’t need you busting my chops, too.”

  Wes unwrapped one of the sandwiches and bit into it. “What’s on the agenda?”

  “Same old shit. A handful of college snots who think they can get away with not paying the man.”

  Wesley had convinced Mouse that he could help him collect from nontraditional clients by getting into places Mouse couldn’t, including dormitories, student centers, frat parties, sports clubs and other college hangouts that provided a layer of security between debtors and collectors.

  In the backseat of the Town Car was a box that held a plethora of props—fast-food-delivery vests and hats, mocked-up lanyards that read Campus Security, even jock props like sports equipment. Baseball jerseys helped him to look convincing on the occasions when he needed to carry a baseball bat.

  Thank God he’d only had to use it to bash in a couple of minifridges. That had been enough to convince his reluctant customers his swing made up for his aim.

  Today, though, he was so mellow from the Oxy, he didn’t feel like bashing anything. So after he’d talked his way into a dorm at Emory University, a computer lab at Georgia State and band practice at Georgia Tech (by wielding a piccolo), he’d used an Oxy pill to lubricate his marks. Once they were floating toward nirvana, they parted with their daddies’ money pretty easily.

  “You got the magic touch today,” Mouse said, counting bills. “Here’s something extra—get a haircut.” He handed two hundreds to Wesley, which Wes added to the three hundreds he’d filched from the payments before delivering them to Mouse.

  Remembering what Jack had told him about chatting up Mouse, he settled back in the leather seat and tried to sound casual. “So, how long have you been working for The Carver?”

  Mouse shrugged, sorting the bills by denomination. “About fifteen years, I guess.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Mouse laughed. “Same way it happened for you. I owed the man money, and decided I was better off collecting for him.”

  “Guess that’s worked out for you.”

  “Pays the mortgage.”

  “Are you involved with other parts of the business?”

  Mouse looked up. “What other parts?”

  Wesley tried to look nonchalant. “I dunno. I just figured The Carver was into other things. Good businessmen diversify.”

  “The boss has other business interests around the region,” Mouse said stiffly, sounding like a publicist, “but you don’t need to concern yourself with them.”

  “Just wondering if that guy I detoothed was a customer, or if maybe he had personal issues with The Carver.”

  Mouse folded the wad of cash and stuffed it into an inside jacket pocket. “Maybe he was someone who asked too many questions.”

  Sweat popped out on Wes’s upper lip. He swallowed hard and glanced at the nearest street sign to get his bearings. “I think I’ll go ahead and take off.”

  “Want me to drop you somewhere?”

  “Nah, this is fine. Pop the trunk?”

  “Yeah. Later, little man.”

  Wesley climbed out and retrieved his bike, then watched the Town Car drive away, probably home to a three-car garage in a suburban cul-de-sac. He wondered if the man’s family had any idea what he did for a living.

  With a start he realized he didn’t even know Mouse’s real name.

  Wesley threw his leg over his bike, about to head back to Chance’s place, but at the sound of his cell phone ringing from his backpack, he stopped and pulled it out. Liz Fischer’s name flashed on the caller-ID screen, and blood rushed to his groin. The last time he’d slept with her she’d called him on the rug for blurting out Meg’s name in the thick of things, so he wasn’t sure he’d hear from her again. The other worry that nagged at him was the fact that he’d told Liz his father had approached Carlotta at a rest area in Florida. He’d justified the slip by telling himself that since Liz had been Randolph’s attorney, she had a right to know he was alive and well.

  But, as he’d learned from his father’s papers, Liz wasn’t just Randolph’s attorney, she’d also been his lover. And now that Wesley’d had time to think about it, letting Liz in on the secret might not have been the wisest move. What if she was sore at his father for taking off and decided to go to the D.A.?

  His hand shook slightly as he flipped up the phone. Damn, the Oxy seemed to be wearing off more and more quickly. “Hi,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  “Hi yourself,” Liz said, her voice cracking.

  Wesley frowned. “Are you sick?”

  “I’ve been better,” she said. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks. I wanted to let you know I’m going out of town for a few days.”

  “Okay,” he said, puzzled. “This doesn’t have anything to do with my dad, does it?”

  A rueful noise sounded over the line. “No. I just need to think through some things.”

  “Okay,” he said, still at a loss as to how, or if, he should respond.

  “I thought you should know in case something comes up that needs my attention. How’s the undercover work going?”

  “Fine. Jack is so wrapped up in The Charmed Killer case that he told me to lie low for a while.”

  “Yeah, everywhere I go, that’s all people are talking about. The women in my office are scared to death.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Um…I haven’t decided yet.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Maybe a week or so. Call my cell if there’s an emergency. Maybe all this serial-killer business will be over by the time I come back.”

  Wesley frowned. “Is something else bothering you, Liz?”

  A pregnant pause sounded over the line. “Nothing you can help me with. I’ll check in when I get back.”

  Wesley closed the phone, frowning. Liz Fischer wasn’t the kind of woman who was easily rattled, especially by anything work related. So whatever was shaking her cage, it had to be serious…and personal.

  9

  Carlotta lowered the Vespa kickstand in the mall parking lot and carefully climbed off the pink scooter—not easy to achieve in a short skirt. Then she walked over to where Jack sat in his sedan and grinned. “I think I have the hang of it. But thanks for following me.”

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  He gestured to the scooter wildly. “You’re exposed. It’s not safe.”

  “It’s perfectly safe. There are scooters all over this city. And the helmet? Hello?”

  “I know, but you…”

  She crossed her arms. “What?”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t know what Ashford was thinking.”

 
; “He was thinking that I needed transportation, and he knew I wouldn’t accept a car. It’s a very thoughtful gift.”

  “Just remember that the learner’s permit is only good for six months.”

  “I know.” She loosened the chin strap on the matching pink helmet. “Do you think the salesman is going to be okay?”

  “He’ll be pissing sparks for a while, but yeah, he’ll be fine.”

  “He was really nice about the whole thing.”

  “Thank the magic skirt,” Jack said wryly, his gaze drifting down before he looked back up. “I’m glad to know you’re not afraid to use the stun baton, but you might need to be a tad more discriminating.”

  She frowned. “I wanted to use it on Agent Wick this morning.”

  “That, I wouldn’t advise. I talked to your boss about Michael Lane being on the loose again. You’ll have an undercover security officer in your area in case Lane decides to put in an appearance.”

  She nodded, her gut clenching.

  “Keep your cell phone with you and call me if you see anything suspicious.”

  “Jack, tell me the truth. Do you think Michael is The Charmed Killer, or don’t you?”

  He looked uneasy. “It doesn’t matter what I think—we can’t take any chances. Pay attention to everything and everyone around you.” He wet his lips. “And stick close to Ashford. I’ll see you tomorrow when you come in to take the polygraph.”

  “Any tips for when I take it?”

  “Yeah—try to tell the truth.” He waved, then pulled away, watching her in his side mirror.

  Carlotta waved after him, muttering, “Easier said than done.”

  She removed the helmet and stored it in a compartment beneath the scooter seat. Just looking at the Vespa gave her a rush of pleasure—and guilt. It was an extravagant gift and she shouldn’t accept it, but it was a gorgeous little plaything, and frankly, it felt good to have something pretty to take her mind off serial killers, exploding cars and long-lost fathers for the time that it took to buzz up and down Peachtree Street.

  She jogged in to Neiman’s, late as usual these days, and removed her cell phone from her purse before dumping it in her locker in the employee break room. She jumped on the up escalator, but when she saw her boss, Lindy Russell, riding on the down escalator, she tried to hide her face.