Книга - 5 Bodies To Die For

5 Bodies To Die For
Stephanie Bond


The Charmed Killer is on the loose in Atlanta and Carlotta Wren is caught up in the terror–especially when her body-moving side business brings her dangerously close to the action. And then… She's forced to take refuge in her former fiancé's house–much to the chagrin of other interested parties… Her brother Wesley begins to behave as if he has his own death wish…And someone close to her is implicated in the mass murders. Meanwhile, Carlotta can't shake the feeling that danger is dogging her seemingly cursed family–and that the serial killer's exploits are starting to get personal….









Praise for STEPHANIE BOND


Of Body Movers

“This is a series the reader will want to jump on in the very beginning.”

—Writers Unlimited

“Bond has successfully switched to the crime genre, bringing along her trademark humor and panache.”

—Booklist

Of Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

“Body Movers is one of the most delightful series I have read in quite some time.

Stephanie Bond shows her audience what a wickedly funny mystery should be all about.”

—Suspense Romance Writers

“This series is simply splendid. Vivid, quirky, flawed, wonderful people fill its pages and you care about what happens to them. Like the prior volume, it is replete with humor as well as action. I can hardly wait to see all these characters again.”

—Huntress Reviews

Of Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body

4 1/2 stars! “Bond continues her popular Body Movers series with a fast-paced and wickedly humorous story that skewers fame and celebrity obsession with deadly accuracy.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Where the [Body Movers] series goes next continues to be an intriguing mystery.

Readers who love a combination of suspense and sexy romance will find their thrills in Bond’s latest offering.”

—BookPage




STEPHANIE BOND

5 BODIES TO DIE FOR










Acknowledgments


The middle book in a trilogy is a bit like the middle child—it tries to please everyone, tries to fill in all the gaps to keep everyone happy and moving along. (Can you tell I’m a middle child?) Writing this second book in the BODY MOVERS trilogy of books 4, 5 and 6 was a big challenge, and I couldn’t have gotten through it without my editor Brenda Chin, who eagerly asks, “What happens next?” with all the confidence that I somehow know and will pull it off. Thank you, Brenda, for high expectations and constant encouragement.

Thanks, too, to Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Valerie Gray for your ongoing support of the BODY MOVERS series within MIRA, and to all the sales, marketing and production people behind the scenes who work to get the BODY MOVERS books into the hands of readers. A big, big thank-you to Michael Rehder at MIRA for designing the amazing charm-bracelet covers—I love them!

Thanks to my agent Kimberly Whalen of Trident Media Group for keeping the ball rolling. As always, thanks to my critique partner, Rita Herron, for our weekly meetings to discuss pages and possibilities over glasses of wine.

To my husband, Chris, who still moves me after eighteen-plus years.

And to my readers—thank you for allowing me to entertain you.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35




1


Carlotta Wren shoved her head in the freezer, closing her eyes and allowing the frosty blast to cool the flush on her face and neck as she tried to absorb everything that had happened over the past few days.

A serial killer was on the loose in Atlanta. Dubbed The Charmed Killer by the press for his signature of leaving a charm in the mouth of his victims, the unknown assailant was racking up bodies at an astonishing rate—four women dead in a week, culminating in the murder of an assistant district attorney. According to Detective Jack Terry, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation was joining the high-profile case.

And the Wren family was firmly in the middle of the fray.

She and her brother, Wesley, had been the body movers on the first two cases, and had been called in on the third, although Carlotta had had to step aside when she’d realized she had once crossed paths with the victim. Wesley had met the fourth victim, the deceased A.D.A., while settling his most recent legal trouble. And their father, Randolph “The Bird” Wren, a fugitive now for more than ten years for a white-collar crime, had been named a possible suspect. First, because one of the charms left behind had been a bird, and second, because one of the victims had worked in the same office building where he had once worked. Carlotta was sure she hadn’t helped matters by handing over the charm bracelet her father had given her when she was a teenager to the police, but she was hoping it would help to clear Randolph.

Meanwhile, Jack had warned her she might have to take a polygraph to clear herself, due to her proximity to the bodies.

Minus ten points.

A moan from the living room roused Carlotta from her churning thoughts. She reached for an ice tray to fill an ice bag, but the trays were empty, of freaking course. When her gaze landed on a bag of frozen peas, she grabbed it, closed the freezer door and walked back to the living room.

Peter Ashford lay on the couch recovering from the stun-baton zap she’d inadvertently administered when she’d mistaken Peter for an intruder. After discovering that someone had been living in their guest bedroom unbeknownst to her and her brother, she’d been skittish.

Carlotta leaned over to brush aside Peter’s blond hair with her fingers and place the bag of frozen peas on his forehead. “This is the best I can do. Feeling better?”

He was still pale, but his deep blue eyes seemed more alert. He nodded and reached for her hand. “It was stupid of me to come in the house unannounced. But the door was unlocked and I thought I’d surprise you.”

She smiled. “You did.”

“That’ll teach me.”

“And that’ll teach me for leaving the door unlocked.” She sighed. “I have to learn to be more careful.”

“I’m so glad you’ve agreed to move in with me.”

She bit her lip. It had been a decision she’d made once she fully understood that she wasn’t safe in the town house, not with uninvited houseguests coming and going, and a mysterious black SUV stalking the curb.

Oh, and there was the matter of her Monte Carlo exploding in the mall parking lot two days ago when she was supposed to have been in it.

“I’m not moving in,” she murmured. “I’m just staying with you until things settle down.” But she could tell from the light in Peter’s eyes that he hoped having Carlotta in his house would help her to fall in love with him, and with the lifestyle she might’ve had if Peter hadn’t ended their engagement when her father had been indicted all those years ago. She was open to the idea of growing closer to Peter, but for now, all she wanted to do was feel safe.

She left his side to pick up her phone and dial Wesley—again. Again, he didn’t answer, and again, she left him a message to call her right away. He was probably out working his new job as a bike courier and couldn’t hear his phone. When Wesley learned that fugitive Michael Lane had stolen the money that Wesley had won in a card game and had stowed in his sock drawer for repairs around the house, he’d be furious.

Peter tried to sit up, then winced and laid back.

“Take it easy,” she admonished.

“What if that psycho comes back?”

“There’s a cop in the driveway. Jack sent him over to keep an eye on things until he gets here.”

“Did you see this Lane guy?”

“No,” she said, gesturing toward the hallway. “I went into my parents’ room and found the scrubs Michael had been wearing when he jumped over the side of the bridge.” She swallowed hard, reliving the fear. “It looks like Michael was living here all the time we thought he was…dead.”

Michael Lane was a former coworker of Carlotta’s at Neiman Marcus. He’d headed up an identity-theft ring that had resulted in two women losing their lives…and when Carlotta had figured out what he’d been up to, he’d tried to kill her, too. He’d been cooling his heels in the psych ward at Northside Hospital until deemed fit to stand trial, but Michael had escaped and after a televised foot chase, he’d chosen to jump over the side of a bridge into the Chattahoochee River instead of surrendering to police.

But it appeared the presumed-dead fugitive had gotten the last laugh.

Peter made an angry noise in his throat. “I can’t believe that madman was here while you slept. He could’ve murdered you in your bed.”

“But he didn’t,” she said, trying to sound soothing.

It was true that she thought she’d dreamed someone was watching her at night, but decided it was best not to mention to Peter that Detective Jack Terry had inadvertently protected her one of those nights—by sharing her bed. Besides, she and Jack had both agreed that it would be their last…lapse. Jack wasn’t looking for a relationship, and she needed someone with more stability.

Like Peter.

“Has the feeling returned to your fingers?” she asked him.

He made a weak fist. “Getting there.”

When she’d called Jack after realizing she’d zapped Peter by mistake, he’d said Peter would be fine in a few minutes. But what if he had a heart ailment or other condition? “Maybe I should take you to the emergency room after all.”

“No, really. I’m already feeling much better.” Then he gave her a wry smile. “Please don’t make me tell total strangers that my girlfriend used a Taser on me.”

She laughed ruefully and decided not to correct him on the “girlfriend” part. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll let you make it up to me.”

A knock sounded at the front door. When Carlotta went to check, she was relieved to see Detective Jack Terry standing on the stoop, large and competent. Not stopping to analyze the rush of emotion that his presence triggered, she opened the door, her mood dimming at the sight of Jack’s new partner, Detective Maria Marquez, standing behind him.

“Hey,” Jack said, his rocky face solemn. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, come on in.” She stepped aside and nodded to Maria as the woman walked by. Scant hours ago, she’d seen both of them at the memorial service for A.D.A. Cheryl Meriwether. When she’d first called Jack after she’d found Michael’s clothes, he’d told her he was busy, but would be there soon. In the background, she thought she’d heard Maria and other noises that made her wonder if Jack had already found a new project for his tool.

The woman was stunning, to be sure, with honey-colored hair, almond-shaped eyes and curves all up and down the highway. Worse, the woman was smart—a profiler who had recently relocated from Chicago. She was single and, based on a phone call that Carlotta had overheard while Maria had once babysat her, the woman had left an unhappy situation. She was ripe for the picking, and Jack had good hands.

The two of them made a spectacular-looking couple, Carlotta conceded as she closed the door behind them.

From the couch, Peter awkwardly pushed himself into a sitting position. The bag of frozen peas slid off his head and landed on the floor with a smack. Jack leaned over to pick them up and handed them back to Peter with a little smile.

“I heard that Carlotta lit you up with her stun baton.”

Peter looked up at him, but the movement made him grimace. “She has good reflexes.”

Jack looked back to her and smiled. “Yes, she does.”

Carlotta gave him a warning glance.

“We need to take a look in your parents’ room,” he said, suddenly all business.

“Go for it,” Carlotta said, leading them down the hall. Jack and Maria stopped at the closed door to pull on gloves and slip paper booties over their shoes.

Jack turned the knob and pushed open the door. “What made you come in here? Did you hear a noise?”

“No.” She hung back in the doorway while they proceeded into the room that was pretty much the way her parents had left it, aside from being searched by the police after the couple had disappeared. Carlotta’s gaze went to the box of dried-up cigars on her father’s nightstand. One of the charms left in the mouth of a victim was a miniature cigar, and in light of the other suspicions leveled against her father, she had simply wanted to check out his stash…and maybe get rid of it, so the police didn’t have any other circumstantial evidence against Randolph.

Jack followed her line of sight to the cigar box and nodded in mute understanding. In a shared glance, he telegraphed that Marquez didn’t have to know…for now.

“When I walked in,” Carlotta continued, “the room felt different—cleaner, for one thing. I could smell antiseptic. Then I noticed the scrubs and recognized them as the ones Michael had been wearing when he jumped off the bridge.”

Maria looked incredulous. “How could someone have been living in here and you not know it?”

Carlotta bristled. Maria had accused her of being a little clueless in other areas of her life before—like when it came to knowing things about her best friend, Hannah Kizer, for example. The woman must be convinced that Carlotta was oblivious to everything going on around her, and at the moment it was hard to argue the point. “I dust in here occasionally, but normally the room is closed off. There’s really no reason for me or Wesley to come in here.”

Jack walked over to inspect the door leading out to the deck. “This is how Lane got in and out?”

“Probably. We keep that door dead-bolted, and it was unlocked when I came in.”

“Are there signs that he was in other parts of the house?”

Carlotta squirmed. “Uh, yeah. He did…chores.”

Maria arched a beautiful eyebrow. “You mean, like washing dishes?”

“And…laundry. And running the vacuum and…I think he might have mopped the kitchen floor.”

Maria laughed. “He was doing housework, and you didn’t notice?”

Carlotta gritted her teeth. “That’s right. Are you annoyed, Detective, that this doesn’t fit the profile you worked up for Michael Lane? You did say he’d kill me if he got the chance. Obviously, you were wrong.”

“Lucky for you,” Maria said pointedly.

“What’s with the masks?” Jack cut in, nodding to the two colorful masks lying on the floor—a dog and a cat.

Carlotta stooped to retrieve them. “Peter brought them. He was wearing the dog mask when he came up behind me. That’s why I used the stun baton—I didn’t realize it was him.”

Jack frowned. “Why the hell was he wearing a dog mask?”

“It’s a scene in a movie,” Maria said, snapping her fingers.

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Carlotta murmured, fingering the masks. The scene where Paul and Holly steal masks from a toy shop during their day-long love splurge. Her favorite scene, and Peter had remembered.

Jack looked utterly lost. “Does this have anything to do with our crime scene?”

Carlotta shook her head and backed away. “I think I’ll let you two do your job. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

She turned and walked back down the hall to her bedroom, thinking of what she needed to pack. Her skin crawled anew at the thought of Michael strolling through their house, ransacking drawers, eating snacks and watching TV. Had he stood over her while she slept and considered finishing her off?

She walked into the girlish room that hadn’t changed much since they’d moved in after her parents had lost their big home in the exclusive area of Buckhead, after her father had been fired from his job at an investments firm where he’d been accused of bilking clients. She hung the masks on the corner of her dresser mirror, then went over to the white four-poster bed to pull out a suitcase from underneath it, then set the bag on top of the coverlet. She’d be glad to get away from this room, away from this town house for a while. Staying with Peter would be like going on vacation…as long as she could keep things between them from moving along too quickly.

Carlotta removed clothes and shoes from her closet, packing the suitcase as tightly as she could, wondering how long she would be away and how this one decision might change her life forever.

At a rap on the door, she turned to see Jack stick his head inside. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” She turned back to her task of removing underwear from her dresser drawer.

“Going somewhere?” Jack asked.

She folded a pair of red lace panties and set them on top of the pile of clothes. “Peter invited me to stay with him for a while, and I accepted.”

Jack picked up the red panties between thumb and finger to study them. “You’re moving in with Ashford?”

“No,” she corrected, still folding underwear. “I’m staying with Peter until things settle down around here.”

“Until I catch The Charmed Killer?”

She nodded and instinctively wrapped her hand over the charm bracelet she wore. The charms were supposedly prophetic, but so far, they’d only proved to be disconcerting. After all, a killer was on the loose using the trinkets as his signature.

Jack pursed his mouth. “I think it’s a good idea.”

She gave a little laugh. “I thought you might since you said I should marry Peter.”

“That’s not why I think it’s a good idea.” He brought the panties to his face.

Carlotta snatched them away. “Then why?”

He shrugged, unfazed. “Because I’m sure that palace of his is a fortress. You’ll be safe there. Which means I can investigate The Charmed Killer without worrying about your pretty ass being in harm’s way. I’m sure Ashford will keep you busy with polo matches and dinners at the country club.”

“Does this mean I won’t be seeing you?”

“You’ll miss me, huh?” Then he was suddenly serious. “Carlotta, I’m liaising with the GBI and your name keeps popping up in the investigation. We’re going to have to get you cleared, although this new development with Lane is a big step forward.”

“You think Michael is The Charmed Killer?”

“We’ll have to double-check the time line, but right now, he’s the best suspect we have.”

“But Shawna Whitt was murdered before he escaped from the hospital.”

“We don’t know exactly when Lane escaped, and we still don’t know if the Whitt woman was murdered. Since she was cremated, we may never know.”

“But the charm in her mouth—”

“Could’ve been placed there postmortem. Maybe Lane broke into her place and scared her so badly she had a heart attack, then he placed the charm in her mouth. Or maybe he heard about the death and the charm after he escaped from the hospital and decided to adopt it as his signature. Who knows how a crazy man thinks?” Jack wet his lips. “All I know is that thinking about Lane being here in this house when you were asleep makes me a little insane.”

“But he didn’t kill me, Jack. He had the chance, and he didn’t kill me.”

“Maybe he tried. We still don’t have a line on who planted that bomb under your car. You said yourself that the Monte Carlo was only here, at Coop’s, and at the mall. Michael was here and he’s certainly familiar with the mall parking lot.”

She bit her lip. “Michael isn’t the type to plant a car bomb. He isn’t technical, or gadgety.”

“You can buy ready-made explosives if you know where to go.”

She sighed. “Michael is the one person we know wanted me dead, so maybe he did plant the bomb. But it just seems like a lot of trouble to go to when he had the opportunity to off me in my own bed.”

“Can’t argue there,” Jack said, then averted his gaze. She could tell he had his doubts about Michael being their man. He pulled a small notebook from an inside jacket pocket. “When do you think Lane got in the house?”

“I’m thinking Friday, after you removed the motion detectors. And I believe he left sometime Sunday or yesterday.”

“How do you know?”

She didn’t want to tell him about the money that Wesley had won in a card game. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing her brother was supposed to be doing while on probation.

“Come on, you said on the phone something about Lane having ten thousand reasons to leave?”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Wesley had ten thousand dollars hidden in his room and realized this morning it was missing.”

Jack frowned. “Go on.”

“Wes last saw the money Sunday morning, so Michael must have taken it sometime Sunday or yesterday.”

“So Lane might’ve been gone before you and I came back here Sunday?”

When Jack had spent the night. She nodded, knowing the information would ease his conscience—and his ego.

“Have you noticed anything else missing?”

She shook her head, then glanced around her bedroom, comparing what she saw to the images a person’s subconscious picks up from of their surroundings every day. When her gaze landed on her bulletin board, she stopped and walked closer to study the random mementos she’d tacked onto the mesh surface—tickets stubs to shows, things she’d cut out of magazines, and photos, some of the items so old they were curled around the edges.

“What?” Jack asked, coming to stand behind her.

“Something is missing.” She stared at the empty spot, trying to remember what had once been there, then the answer slid into her mind. “A photo.”

“A photo of who?”

“Of me,” she murmured. “Michael had taken it during a holiday party at work. He gave it to me.”

“Must’ve wanted a souvenir. Anything else missing?”

She sighed. “Not that I can tell, but who knows.”

Jack made a few notes, then closed the notebook. “Let me know if you think of anything else. Go to Ashford’s and lay low. We’re going to have a CSI team go over the entire town house in case Lane left something here that relates back to one of the murders. Take only what you need.”

Panic blipped in her chest. If Michael had left something behind in their house, the Wrens would be even more closely intertwined with The Charmed Killer case. And she didn’t like the idea of the police going through her personal things.

“And forget about the body-moving business for a while,” Jack added.

“But Coop—”

“Could stand to take a break himself.”

She blinked, surprised to hear Jack’s concern for Dr. Cooper Craft, the former M.E. who had been relegated to moving bodies for the morgue and had hired Wesley to assist. It was how she’d been drawn into body moving herself, and how she’d been drawn to Coop, who had been acting strange lately. “So you do think something’s wrong with Coop.”

“Nothing an AA meeting can’t fix. Don’t get caught up in Coop’s problems, darlin’, you’ve got enough of your own. And keep that stun baton handy.” He wiped his hand over his mouth, trying to smother a smile. “You got Ashford good, huh?”

“You don’t have to take so much pleasure in his pain.”

“You’re moving in with the man. Let me have a little fun at his expense.”

“I’m not moving in with Peter…I’m staying at his house.”

Jack stepped closer and lifted her chin. “In his bed?”

Carlotta’s chest tightened. “What do you care, Jack?”

He leaned his face close to hers. “Because getting you back home gives me that much more incentive to get The Charmed Killer off the streets.” He grabbed the red panties in her hands, and walked away, holding them high before shoving them into his jacket pocket with a grin. “I’ll hang on to these for motivation.”

Carlotta shook her head as he disappeared through her door, confounded as always by the man’s push-pull on her heart. She had no doubt that Jack would get the maniac off the streets. Her live-in arrangement with Peter notwithstanding, she only hoped it was sooner rather than later.

She glanced around her room with an eye toward what the police would find that might make her uncomfortable.

Her teenage diaries.

Carlotta moved toward the dresser. She’d found them when she’d unearthed the charm bracelet that her father had given her. She couldn’t remember the exact contents of the diaries, but since they’d encompassed her burgeoning relationship with Peter and the time immediately after her parents’ disappearance, she didn’t want strangers analyzing her personal drama for their own entertainment.

She pulled out the diaries—one for each year of high school—and stowed them under clothes in her suitcase. When she started to close the dresser drawer, she suddenly noticed the corner of a file—her father’s client file that Wesley had stolen from Randolph’s attorney, Liz Fischer. She didn’t want it to wind up in the wrong hands. So she slipped in the file, then closed the bag and zipped it shut. Moving in with Peter was the right decision, Carlotta told herself. She desperately needed a change of venue.

Carlotta picked up her cell phone to check for messages and frowned. Meanwhile, where was her brother and why wasn’t he returning her calls?




2


Wesley was valiantly trying not to throw up. He’d passed on a drive-through lunch in anticipation of the job that he’d spent hours working up his nerve for, and it was a good thing, too.

The severed head at his feet looked like a prop for a haunted house. The edges of the neck skin were black with dried blood and curled, like a macabre ruffle. Red and white strings of sinew dangled out of the gaping hole that had once connected the head to a torso. The head’s eyes were partially open, and the skin was dark in places, hinting of a beating the man had received before he’d taken his last breath. The sparse, dark hair was a matted mess, caked with dirt and blood.

Wesley stood holding pliers, giving himself a pep talk. Mouse had ordered him to remove the head’s teeth, which would make it harder for the cops to identify the head if it was found. This wasn’t what Wesley’d had in mind when he’d agreed to go undercover in The Carver’s loan-shark organization in exchange for having charges of attempted body snatching downgraded to a misdemeanor and additional hours added to his community service. By offering his services to Mouse to help him collect on overdue accounts, he’d hoped to kill two birds with one stone—fulfill the D.A.’s demands while clearing his own debt to The Carver. When he’d balked at performing the grotesque act, Mouse had told him he had Wesley’s jacket with the dead man’s blood on it. Wesley believed him. When he’d tried to recover his confiscated jacket from Mouse’s trunk, he’d found a severed finger inside.

“Just do it,” Mouse yelled. He stood nearby eating a Big Mac and fries.

They were on an abandoned construction site in east Atlanta where the city leaders’ overly optimistic projections of growth had led to lots of digging, followed by lots of reneging. The site was deserted, hemmed in by a few trees, but there were no people or houses within sight. Just baked dirt, tinged red with Georgia clay, as far as the eye could see.

“Have you done this before?” Wesley asked his companion.

“Oh, yeah. You get used to it.”

Wesley gagged.

“You’re thinking about it too much, little man. Fucking do it already.”

Wesley took a deep breath and lowered the safety glasses over his eyes. Then he knelt on the ground, averted his gaze and felt for the man’s mouth. The dead flesh was cold and pulpy and the head reeked, like a rancid piece of meat. Wesley groped until he found the mouth, then pried open the stiff lips. He glanced down and grew light-headed at the sight of his hands in the mouth of the disembodied head.

“Start with the front ones,” Mouse advised, chewing on his burger. “They snap off like dried corn.”

Wes swallowed hard and positioned the pliers with a shaking hand around one of the big square front teeth. The stretching and pulling had made the man’s eyelids pop open, revealing his cloudy irises. Wesley squeezed the pliers, but when he pulled up, the head slid against the ground and spun out of his grasp, rolling like a melon.

Mouse belly laughed, obviously enjoying the show.

Wesley wrestled the head back in position, then put it between his knees to hold it still. Panicky and sickened, he repositioned the pliers and pulled as hard as he could. Something pinged against his safety glasses, and when he looked down, half of the tooth was gone. Bile backed up in his throat, but before he could change his mind, he broke off the other half of the tooth and dropped it in the Micky D’s disposable cup that Mouse had conveniently provided.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Mouse urged him on.

One by one, Wes rid the head of its teeth. Some of them broke off, and some of them came out root and all. There was no blood, thank God, but plenty of flying gum tissue to muck up the safety glasses. Mr. Dead Man had spent a lot of money on his choppers, because he had caps, and two in the back were gold.

“I’ll take those,” Mouse said, extending a handkerchief for Wesley to drop them into.

“What will you do with them?”

“Sell them.”

“Who the heck buys gold teeth?”

“Well, most of our sources have dried up because it’s gotten too risky, but now those companies that buy gold through the mail make it real easy. They send me a postage-paid envelope, I drop in the gold teeth, and a couple of weeks later, I get a check, easy-peasy.”

Wesley’s eyes bulged. “They don’t wonder where you got an envelope full of gold teeth?”

He shrugged. “They don’t care. Ain’t America grand?”

The molars and the wisdom teeth presented the greatest challenge, but by then, Wesley had gotten the hang of it and twisted them out like pulling stumps out of the ground. When he dropped the last tooth into the cup, he sat back on his heels and tore off the safety glasses. The head rolled a quarter turn, its mouth a snaggly hole. Wesley stumbled to his feet, walked to the nearest bush and threw up.

Mouse chuckled, then picked up the cup of teeth and headed back to the Town Car. “When you’re finished, let’s go.”

Wes wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What about the head?”

“Leave it. It’s supposed to be a hundred degrees today—the bugs and the birds will take care of it.”

“What about the skull?”

“Hell, if someone does find it, they’ll probably take it home and put it on their bookshelf.”

Wesley walked back to the car to put the tools and gloves in a bucket in the trunk. He stopped for a moment and let the reality of what he’d done wash over him, then he slammed down the lid with revulsion.

“Hey, take it easy,” Mouse called. “Get in.”

Wes crawled into the front seat, hot and sweaty, the stink of rotting flesh in his nostrils.

“Moist towelette?” Mouse asked, extending one of those little foil packets that barbecue joints pass out to customers.

He took it and tore it open, then unfolded the disposable towel and held it against his face, breathing in the antiseptic smell. God, that was the worst thing he’d ever done. He had a feeling he’d be having nightmares about it for a while. He needed a hit of Oxy, bad. He reached for his backpack just as his phone rang from inside. Wes pulled it out and frowned. The screen said he had eight messages and the incoming call was from Carlotta—something was wrong.

“I need to get this,” he said to Mouse, then flipped up the phone. “Yeah?”

“Wes, where are you? I’ve left you a half-dozen messages.”

“Um, I’ve been working. Is something wrong, sis?”

He listened with incredulity as she told him how she’d discovered that Michael Lane had been living in their parents’ bedroom. He shook his head, his mind racing at the implication—the psycho had been roaming around their house at all hours, doing chores? “That’s crazy. For how long?”

“We think since Friday.”

“Jesus Christ, why aren’t we dead?”

“Good question. Michael obviously had ample opportunity to do whatever he wanted.”

He hated hearing the fear in his sister’s voice. “They don’t know where Lane is?”

“Not yet. But at least Jack knows he’s on the run again, so they have an APB out on him.”

“I’m going to install a security system in the town house,” he said. Guilt tightened his chest. He should’ve done it before now, considering all the trouble the pair had been in lately. He wasn’t doing a very good job of taking care of his sister after years of her taking care of him.

“I think that’s a good idea. But meanwhile, Peter invited me to stay at his house until the dust settles.”

He frowned. “You’re moving in with Peter?”

“I’m staying at his house,” she corrected. “And Jack is having a CSI team go over the town house, so you should come, too. Peter has plenty of room.”

He remembered the man’s huge home from when he and Coop had gone there to remove the body of Peter’s wife after she’d drowned in the pool. “Thanks, but I’ll probably crash with Chance.”

“Okay,” she said, although he could feel her disapproval vibrating over the line. Carlotta didn’t like his buddy Chance Hollander—she thought Chance was a bad influence on him. Little did she know that he’d just performed oral surgery on a severed head while Chance was probably watching cartoons.

“Wes, there’s something else. It looks like Michael stole your money before he left.”

His stomach fell. “No…no…. no. Are you sure?”

“I didn’t touch it, so if it’s gone, that only leaves Michael.”

He leaned his head back and groaned.

“I’m sorry, I know you had plans for that money. But in the scheme of things, we’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah, I know. But still.”

“So, how’s the courier job going?” she asked cheerfully.

He glanced down at the cup of teeth in the console and his intestines cramped. “Fine and dandy.”

“Good. I’ll have my cell phone with me, and here’s the number at Peter’s.”

“Okay,” he said, taking down the information. “Later.”

He disconnected the call and sighed.

“Trouble at home?” Mouse asked.

“You know it.” Now he really needed a hit of Oxy. Reaching into his backpack, he palmed a pill into his mouth and chewed.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Whatever you just put in your mouth, smart-ass.”

Wesley frowned. “What do you care?”

“Didn’t take you for a druggie,” Mouse said, looking almost disappointed.

“Don’t sweat it, man. It’s just something to take the edge off.” He wrapped his fingers around the section of his arm where The Carver had lived up to his nickname by etching the first three letters of his name into Wesley’s forearm after Wesley had humiliated The Carver in a stunt at a strip club. “My arm still hurts, dude.”

“Maybe so, but drugs’ll mess you up.”

Wesley lifted an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’m just saying, little man, watch yourself.”

The cool pleasure of the Oxy coursed through his system, making the day’s events a rosy haze. Still, high or not, he realized that he needed cash, and Mouse wasn’t the kind of guy to pass out bonuses. “Are we through for the day?”

“Yeah. I have to go to my niece’s dance recital. Where can I drop you?”

“Not at the house—the police are there.” Wes lifted his hand. “Don’t ask, man, it’s a long story.” On impulse, he pulled out his phone and brought up Coop’s cell number. After a few rings, Coop answered.

“Hey, Wes, what’s up?”

He wet his lips, suddenly nervous to talk to the man he’d let down by conspiring to steal a body they’d been transporting. “I was wondering if you had any work for me tonight?”

The silence on the other end indicated that Coop wasn’t going to be easily persuaded to trust Wesley again. “I don’t know. We need to talk.”

“Okay, where are you?”

“At the morgue, working in the lab.”

“Can I come by?”

Coop sighed into the phone, then made a frustrated noise. “Uh, sure.”

“Great. See ya.” He closed the phone and glanced at Mouse. “Can you drop me at the morgue?”

Mouse nodded. “Sure.”

“Turn at the next street.”

Mouse laughed and put on his signal. “I know the way, little man. I know the way.”

Wesley swallowed, picturing Mouse driving by the morgue and pitching out bodies like apple cores. He leaned his head back on the headrest. What had he gotten himself into?




3


“When you pull up to the gate,” Peter said, “just enter my code—four three nine nine.” He demonstrated. “And the gates will open.”

They did, swinging back like great black wings, welcoming Carlotta into the privileged neighborhood of Martinique Estates. Peter’s Porsche two-seater surged forward, like a giant cougar. The guard at the pristinely designed gatehouse waved as they drove by.

Cruising past palatial custom homes, Carlotta was struck with a sense of déjà vu. She and her family had once lived in a private subdivision like this one. They’d belonged to the neighborhood pool and volleyed on the neighborhood tennis courts. But these days, in addition to the multiple pools and other shared amenities, individual home owners, like Peter, were likely to have their own pool and their own private add-ons.

Each home was its own little estate.

When he pulled in to the downward-sloping driveway of his sprawling brick home, Carlotta had to catch her breath. She had seen it before, of course, but not in daylight, and not through the eyes of someone who would be living there. The house was impressive, with a paved circular driveway in front that featured a huge fountain, with wide steps leading to the two-story entryway. Palladium windows and gleaming white trim gave the eye a pleasing break from the intimidating mass of brick. The landscaping was lush and flawlessly manicured.

To the right of the house was the pool. Carlotta was glad it was daylight. The memory of seeing Peter’s wife, Angela, lying under night-lights next to the pool where she’d drowned was branded onto Carlotta’s brain. But in the brightness of day, with the sun high and the trees full, it was tempting to believe that the tragedy hadn’t happened in this perfect neighborhood.

Peter touched a button on his visor and one of the doors to a four-car garage opened, revealing his other vehicle, an SUV. She assumed he’d sold Angela’s Jaguar.

“My insurance company is sending a rental car tomorrow,” she murmured, remembering her own transportation situation. As much as she’d hated the blue Monte Carlo, she hadn’t wanted to see it blown to smithereens, not when she owed more on it than it was worth.

“Nonsense,” Peter said. “You can drive the convertible, or the SUV, whichever you prefer.”

“Peter, I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Otherwise one of them will just be sitting in the garage while you drive a rental. That doesn’t make sense.”

She hesitated. “It just doesn’t seem right. People will talk.”

“People are going to talk anyway.” He gestured to another house before pulling in to the garage. “My next-door neighbor is in the Junior League, so I figure Tracey Lowenstein will know about our situation in less than twenty-four hours.”

Tracey Tully Lowenstein, renowned socialite and daughter to Walt Tully, Carlotta’s godfather and her father’s former partner at what used to be Mashburn, Tully & Wren Investments. When Carlotta’s father had been indicted for fraud, the name Wren had been removed from the firm’s letterhead, and from the Buckhead social register. Tracey seemed single-handedly determined that Carlotta would not be readmitted to the upper echelon.

“And I don’t care,” Peter added, putting the car into Park and turning off the engine.

“I have to buy a car soon, or get the Miata fixed.” Although one would probably cost as much as the other. And with her wrecked credit still on the mend, she probably wouldn’t qualify for a new car loan—or for financing to get the Miata repaired.

“You don’t have to rush into anything,” he said. “While you’re here, use the extra car.”

Carlotta pressed her lips together. His argument seemed logical, but Peter always seemed logical. It was how he had talked her into accepting a cell phone on his plan, because the incremental cost to him was negligible, while she couldn’t get a new one until her credit mess was straightened out.

He reached over to cover her hand with his. “Let me spoil you, Carly.”

His blue eyes were so sincere. Shortly before Angela’s death, she had run into Peter at a cocktail party she’d crashed and thought she would die from wanting him. He had turned out to be everything they had planned he would be—successful and wealthy. Married and living in a world that had shunned her, he had seemed so far out of her reach. But he’d kissed her that night, had told her that his marriage to Angela wasn’t good, and that he wanted Carlotta back in his life. When Angela had died a violent death and Peter had been blamed, it seemed that once again, all was lost…especially when Peter had confessed to his wife’s murder. But in the end, it was revealed that Angela had been living the double life of a Buckhead housewife and a high-class call girl. Peter had confessed to protect the reputation of a woman he felt he’d driven to reckless behavior with his indifference.

The experience had endeared him to Carlotta, and even though he came out of it a free man, she had felt that it was too soon, that they were both too raw to resume their relationship. And then there was Jack…and Coop…

“Drive the Porsche,” he said, gesturing to the interior of the luxurious car. “Have fun.”

“What if I do something to it?”

“That’s what insurance is for.” Then he winked. “Besides, if I can’t get you to fall in love with me again, maybe you’ll fall in love with my car.”

She laughed and stroked the armrest. “It is beautiful.” Then she smiled. “Okay, but only until I get the Miata fixed.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go inside. I’ll get your suitcase.”

Carlotta stepped out of the car and glanced around the garage that was nearly as big as the town house she and Wesley shared.

“I’m starved,” Peter said, energetically pulling her bulky bag out of the small car trunk. “I think that zap you gave me stirred my appetite. I was thinking of grilling out by the pool. How does that sound?”

Her mouth parted in surprise, then she chided herself. Peter couldn’t very well live in this house and forever avoid the place where Angela had drowned. “That sounds fine. Do you grill?”

He looked sheepish as he moved toward the door leading to the house. “I’m learning, if you don’t mind being a test subject.”

She laughed. “I don’t mind. Wesley does all the cooking in our house.” She hesitated before following him inside, feeling self-conscious. She stepped into what appeared to be a mudroom that contained a door to a powder room and a wide closet.

“The laundry room is behind those doors,” he said, pointing. “My housekeeper, Flaur, will take care of your clothes.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she said quickly. Except for the clothes that Michael Lane had inexplicably washed, dried and folded while she and Wesley were away from the house, she was accustomed to taking care of her own laundry.

In the mudroom, several of Peter’s jackets hung on a Peg-Board and a couple of pairs of knockabout shoes sat on the floor. They walked through another door to enter a spacious great room, which brought back more memories of that night. Straight ahead was a jaw-dropping kitchen, to her right, a den and sunroom with an eating area, flanked by sliding glass doors that led out to the pool area.

The long wood table in the sunroom was where she’d sat with Peter, consoling him after Angela’s body had been found. The garish “designer” silk flower arrangement that had sat on the table, the one Peter said he and Angela had argued over because of the expense, was gone, replaced by a demure lidded vase. The wall of cherrywood bookshelves in the den above the fireplace were studded with bric-a-brac, but seemed more streamlined than before. Peter had obviously removed some of Angela’s possessions from his home, yet her influence remained in splashes of feminine color and the occasional designer collectible. And in a single framed black-and-white picture of Angela taken in happier times.

Wood-lined ceilings soared overhead, with more wood at their feet, polished to a shine. The first floor also featured a formal living room, a formal dining room, an office, a butler’s pantry and a home theater.

“Wesley would love this,” she said, gesturing to the plasma TV and surround-sound speakers.

“He’s welcome to come over anytime and use it,” Peter offered. “My house could use some living.”

“It’s such a lovely home, Peter,” she said, running her hand over the curved moldings of a chair rail. Every element of every room was finely designed and crafted. “Did you and Angela build it?”

“Yes. Angie selected all the finishing details and the decor.”

The implication hung in the air between them—if they’d married instead, Carlotta would’ve been the one sorting through Italian-tile samples and choosing custom-cabinet hardware. She knew that Peter was wealthy in his own right, and would inherit another fortune when his parents passed, but seeing firsthand how he lived—how she might’ve lived—left her feeling a little light-headed.

“Angela had good taste,” she said finally.

He nodded, then retrieved her suitcase and gestured toward the stairs—one of two staircases, she’d learned during the tour. “I’ll show you your room and you can unpack while I get dinner started.”

She followed him, holding on to the handrail as she climbed the wide staircase. Ahead of her, Peter was animated as he pointed out different rooms and some of the pieces of art that he particularly liked. He seemed almost giddy to have her there, but Carlotta felt a heaviness all around her, as if there was a presence in the house…Angela’s aura.

Then she gave herself a mental shake at her absurdity. Angela was gone, and Peter was ready to move on.

Still…it felt eerie to be given full run of the woman’s house, especially in light of Angela’s outright dislike of her. Carlotta couldn’t blame her, though. During the investigation of the woman’s death, it was revealed that Peter carried a picture of Carlotta in his wallet. Angela must have known, and it had to have eaten at her.

“This is my room,” he said, stopping to allow Carlotta to peek inside. The room was enormous, with an elaborately trayed ceiling and skylight. At the end of the room was a sitting area, with a fireplace and flat-screen TV, with a veranda beyond sets of French doors.

Near the bed, she saw a dressing room through a doorway that she assumed serviced his-and-her walk-in closets. Through another doorway she glimpsed the bathroom and a waterfall shower.

The bedroom furniture was dark and heavy and of the highest quality—the king-size bed alone had probably cost as much as his Porsche, she surmised, picturing Peter’s long frame stretched out on its length. The linens and curtains were earth toned and sumptuous, the inlaid designs in the wood floor a masterpiece. She wondered if he kept the Cartier engagement ring he was “holding” for her somewhere in this room.

“It’s…wonderful,” she murmured, but shrank a little inside, mortified at what he must think of her housing situation. When she moved back to the town house, things had to change.

“I’m glad you like it,” Peter said. “The room I had in mind for you is across the hall.”

She followed him to a set of double doors that opened into a suite that was as light as his was dark. The furniture was maple, the linens fresh and airy, the area rugs plush. It was feminine in every sense, including the enormous closet and the spalike bathroom. Angela’s influence was apparent in every corner of this space. “It’s wonderful,” Carlotta murmured.

“There are three other guest rooms if this one doesn’t suit you, including one in the basement.”

Her eyes widened. “You have a basement?”

He grinned. “Where else would I put the game room and wine cellar?”

“Where else indeed?” Carlotta did a full turn in the center of the room, noticing that she had a veranda of her own, facing the front of the house, where the veranda off Peter’s room faced the rear. “It’s positively lovely, Peter. I feel like a princess.”

“Good,” he said, then picked up a lock of her hair. “You deserve to feel like a princess. Take your time settling in. When you come down, I’ll show you the alarm system so you’ll feel safe when you’re here alone.”

“Okay.” When he closed the door behind him, she fell backward on the luxurious bed, enjoying the bounce of the mattress. She gazed up at a skylight that was lined with prisms, turning the sun’s waning light into a thousand shimmering rainbows. Her life up until now seemed a thousand miles away.

“Oh,” Carlotta sighed, “I could so get used to this.”




4


Wesley waited until the Town Car pulled away, then walked up to the front door of the Fulton County Morgue, a building so nondescript that most people driving by didn’t notice it. He’d never been through the front door before—as a body mover for Coop, he’d always entered through a side or rear delivery door with their solemn cargo. He walked up to a reception desk and flashed his body-hauler ID, then asked for Coop.

“Dr. Craft is in the lab,” the woman at the desk told him. “Sign in and go on back. It’s next to the crypt.”

“Got it,” he said, then signed his name and sauntered back, whistling under his breath. The Oxy seemed to be wearing off more quickly than before—a headache sparkled in his temples and his eyes felt itchy. But he didn’t want to dose before seeing Coop, not when he was trying to prove to the man that he could be trusted again.

He shivered as he walked down the wide, harshly lit hallways—the expression “as cold as a morgue” was no exaggeration. The place was forty fucking degrees. Good for dead people, not so good for people with a pulse.

He found the lab and pushed open the door to the sound of raised voices. On the other side of the room, two men squared off. Tall and shaggy Dr. Cooper Craft, former chief medical examiner, wore a lab coat over jeans and black Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Short and owlish Dr. Bruce Abrams, current chief medical examiner, wore slacks and a sport coat. The slighter, older man was bristling, his birdlike neck stretched forward.

“Cooper, I’ve come to terms with you being here in the lab. But I can’t have you undermining my authority with the other M.E.s.”

Coop shrugged, unfazed. “Then tell your people to stop coming into the lab to ask me questions.”

“They’re accustomed to seeking your approval,” Abrams said. “It’s up to you to remind them that you’re not their boss anymore, that—” The man wiped his hand over his mouth.

“That I’m just a lab rat and a body mover,” Coop supplied. “No problem, Bruce. I didn’t mean to cause you extra trouble. I know you’re swamped with this Charmed Killer business.”

The other man nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Between the police and the media, I’m feeling the pressure.”

“Let me know if can help,” Coop said.

The man jammed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Just stay out of my way.”

Abrams turned and stalked toward the door, flicking his gaze over Wesley before walking past him, out of the room.

Coop lifted his hand to Wes. “Come on in. Sorry about that.”

Wes walked in. “If Abrams doesn’t want you here, how did you get the job in the lab?”

Coop made a rueful noise. “The State Coroner’s Office asked me to come in and tackle the backlog of unsolved cases. It was meant to lighten Abrams’s load, but he doesn’t see it that way.”

Coop moved toward a microscope, as if he’d already dismissed the matter. “Hand me that tray of slides on the table, will you?”

Wes hustled and carried the slides carefully, concentrating in order to control the shaking of his hands.

“Thanks,” Coop said, taking them from him.

He watched as Coop removed a slide, put it under the microscope and adjusted the focus. “Whatcha looking at?”

“DNA samples,” Coop said without raising his head.

“Cool. I thought they had computers to do that stuff.”

Coop gave a little laugh. “Call me old-fashioned. Besides, the morgue doesn’t have the budget of a network television show.”

“Can I take a look?”

Coop shrugged and stepped back. “Sure.” Wesley removed his glasses, then leaned over to press his eye against the eyepiece and turn the smaller fine-focus knob.

“I see you know your way around a microscope,” Coop said.

“I was pretty good in biology. What kind of DNA sample am I looking at?”

“Basic blood sample.”

“What’s it for?”

“I’m trying to identify a body.”

“And this is the only way?”

“It is when there’s no head.”

Wesley jerked up, his mouth suddenly devoid of moisture. “No head?”

Coop walked across the room to a slab where a sheet-draped body lay. He pulled back the sheet and Wesley was able to cover his dismay over the sight of the decapitated, decomposing body by recoiling from the stench.

“Here,” Coop said, handing him an open jar of Vicks VapoRub. “Wipe this under your nose.”

Wesley did, and while the ointment overpowered the stench of decaying flesh, it also went straight to the sensitized nerve endings in his face. His eyes watered and his nose ran like a faucet.

“This guy was found in Piedmont Park, no head and a missing finger,” Coop said, pointing to the missing digit. “I’m hoping his DNA will match something in the system. The computer can do that.”

“What about fingerprints?” Wesley croaked.

“Burned off, probably with acid. Somebody didn’t want this guy identified.”

Bile backed up in Wesley’s throat.

“You okay?” Coop said, then covered the body. “Didn’t mean to shake you up. I thought you were immune to this by now.”

“I’m okay,” Wesley said. “Just out of practice, I guess.” He wiped at his eyes and nose. “I was wondering if I could come back to work with you.”

Coop pulled off his gloves. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Come on, Coop. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t screw up again.”

“I already have another guy working with me. Abrams’s nephew.”

“Is he as good as I am?”

Coop frowned. “No.”

Wes smiled. “There you go. I’m good at this—you said so yourself.”

Coop shook his head, but Wesley could tell he was wavering.

“Will you give me another chance? I could really use the cash to pay on my court fee.”

“Carlotta told me you got a job as a bike courier.”

His cover for working with Mouse and The Carver. “Uh, yeah. But it’s only part-time. I need something in the evenings, and I know that’s when you’re busiest.”

Coop pressed his mouth together, then sighed. “Okay, I’ll give you another chance.”

Wes grinned in relief. “Great. You won’t regret it.”

“I doubt that,” Coop said, then began to store trays of slides. “Beat it, I gotta get out of here.”

“Any chance I could get you to drop me at the police station?”

“You in trouble again?”

“Nah, I just need to talk to Jack about something. No big deal.”

“Okay, let me finish up here.”

“What can I do to help?” Wes hurried to follow Coop’s directions to get the lab back in order. It was the best he’d felt all day. Knowing he was going to work with Coop again gave him something to look forward to.

Now that he and Meg Vincent were on the outs.

Not that they’d ever been on the ins…or anything. His coworker just liked messing with his head.

He used a paper towel to remove the Vicks ointment, then followed Coop to his van, hoping he didn’t look as shaky as he felt. He needed another hit, but he wasn’t going to risk it around Coop.

The interior of Coop’s van was cluttered, which was unusual. Paper coffee cups and crumpled napkins littered the console, as well as several parking receipts from Piedmont Hospital. That was strange. When Coop made pickups from the hospital morgue, he pulled the van around to the rear loading entrance. There were no parking receipts involved.

“So how’s the community service going?” Coop asked when they got underway.

“At ASS?” Atlanta Systems Services. “Fine, I guess. I was off today because they’re doing some construction in the building.” Maybe Meg would miss him, the little tease.

“And your probation meetings?”

“Fine.” Except for the fact that, unbeknownst to his probation officer, her boyfriend was a thug who had it in for him.

Coop shifted in his seat. “How’s Carlotta?”

Wes grinned. “What took you so long? She’s okay. Did you hear that lunatic Michael Lane, the one who tried to throw her over the balcony at the Fox Theater, has been living in our parents’ room and we didn’t even know it?”

“What?”

“Yeah, crazy stuff. They thought he was dead when he jumped off the bridge into the Hooch, but he must’ve survived. Dude sneaked into our place and he’s been living there ever since.”

Coop inadvertently applied the brake. “Did he hurt Carlotta?”

“No. That’s the kicker—he just did a few chores around the house, stole some money and took off. She found his clothes this afternoon and figured it all out.”

“It must’ve been after the memorial service for the A.D.A. I saw her there and she didn’t mention it.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Do they think Lane is The Charmed Killer?”

“I don’t know—maybe. She said that our entire house is a freaking crime scene.”

“Where is she?”

Wesley pressed his lips together. He knew Coop was crazy about his sister. And they might be together now if Wesley hadn’t stowed away on their trip to Florida a few weeks ago and sabotaged their romantic weekend. But prior to that, Peter had gotten Wesley out of a serious jam and he’d promised the man he’d do what he could to keep Coop and Jack away from Carlotta.

“Wes?”

He exhaled. “Carlotta is at Peter’s.”

Coop’s eyes widened. “She moved in with him?”

“More like staying with him, she said. You remember how big the dude’s place is.”

“Not big enough,” Coop muttered as they pulled up to the midtown police precinct.

“I’m staying with my buddy Chance, so call my cell when you need me,” Wes said, opening the van door to swing down. “Thanks for the ride.”

Coop gave him a little salute, but Wes could tell he was preoccupied, thinking about Carlotta staying at Peter’s house. No doubt about it, Coop had it bad for her.

Wes watched the van pull away, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong with Coop. Carlotta was afraid that he was drinking again, and maybe she was right. Or maybe it was the pressure of being back inside the morgue that he had once run. Regardless, Coop seemed a little off his game, and it worried Wes to see him that way.

As Wes turned, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—the black SUV with tinted windows that had been haunting the curb of the town house on and off for weeks. The occupants had never made themselves known, but with the spectrum of trouble he and Carlotta had been in over the past few months, it could be anyone from a testy loan shark to a vengeful murder suspect to a pissed-off mall customer. The SUV pulled away and although Wes craned to see the plate, the vehicle was too far away and moving too fast to make it out.

But since no one was shooting at him, really, how bad could it be?

He strolled into the police station, flirted with Carlotta’s friend Brooklyn who thought he was cute, then got her to call Jack. She buzzed him through a secure door, and when he walked inside, he spotted Jack getting a Coke out of a vending machine.

Jack waved. “Want one?”

“Nah, thanks. You look like hell, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” Jack fed in coins, then retrieved his can and cracked it open. “What’s up?”

Wes held up the red phone that Mouse had given him. “You told me you could have a GPS chip installed in case I got in a jam.” Mouse’s “chore” for him this morning made him nervous about what might be on the horizon. He wanted the security of a panic button.

“Let me get somebody on it,” Jack said, taking the phone. “It’ll take about thirty minutes. Wait here, I need to talk to you.”

Jack disappeared, then returned a couple of minutes later. “Have you talked to Carlotta?”

“Yeah, I know about Michael Lane. That’s some jacked-up shit.”

“Yeah.” Jack’s expression revealed how angry he was that Carlotta had been in danger. Wes couldn’t tell if Jack really liked his sister, or just liked his role of self-appointed protector. “Can you add anything to the story? Do you remember anything strange?”

“Just that little things were getting done around the house. I thought Carlotta was nesting or something.”

Jack frowned. “She said you had some cash in the house that was stolen.”

“Yeah, about ten grand. If you catch the dude, I want it back.”

“Don’t hold your breath. And do I need to remind you that you’re on probation? Gambling is not on the menu.”

“It was just a friendly card game,” Wes said.

“Uh-huh. Listen, about this work you’re doing for The Carver…”

Wesley swallowed past a dry throat, suddenly regretting not taking that Coke. “Yeah?”

“Well, this Charmed Killer case is taking all my time right now, so don’t rush anything. Just network and keep your eyes and ears open, especially when it comes to Hollis Carver’s son, Dillon.”

“Okay, but so far, the only person I’m networking with is Mouse.”

“So chat him up. See what he knows.”

Wesley shifted from foot to foot, not at all sure he wanted to get to know Mouse better. “Did you know that Carlotta moved in with Peter?” he blurted to change the subject.

Jack scowled. “She’s staying with him until this maniac is off the streets.”

Wesley arched an eyebrow. “Is that what she told you?”

A muscle worked in the big man’s jaw. “I’ll go see if your phone is ready.”




5


After several blissful moments of daydreaming, Carlotta pushed herself off the feathery guest bed and unpacked. The few clothes that she’d brought looked pitiful hanging in the expansive closet that also featured a steam-iron press, but it was a treat having so much space. She walked around the suite, exploring every inch.

The room was meticulously clean, but showed signs of having been lived in. Carlotta stepped on something imbedded in the carpet and unearthed a small broken silver pin shaped like a cat, no doubt left behind by a houseguest or perhaps a housekeeper.

She set the pin on the counter in the lavish bathroom and ran her hand along the pale granite flecked with gold. Luxury bath products lined the vanity shelves. Spa-quality towels and a white robe lay folded on the edge of the jet garden tub. She wondered idly if Angela had ever come in here for privacy, sinking up to her neck in bubbles when she had the chance.

And then a realization sunk in—this had been Angela’s room. She and Peter had apparently spent at least some of their marriage sleeping in separate beds. Carlotta felt a pang for the dead woman, sorry that Angela’s life—and death—hadn’t turned out as she’d planned. Carlotta and Angela hadn’t been best friends in high school or afterward when their social paths had diverged, but Carlotta had never wished the woman ill, not even after Angela had married Peter. To be here and uncovering all her secrets…it felt intrusive, almost an insult to the woman’s memory.

The troubling thoughts pushed her out of the room. As she closed the door, she glanced across the hall. While she was appreciative that Peter hadn’t tried to persuade her to share his room, the proximity alone worried her. On top of the nagging sense of betrayal she felt staying in his dead wife’s room, she knew that close quarters had a way of escalating intimacy.

But wasn’t part of her decision to be here with Peter to give them the chance to explore their chemistry?

With her heart and head clicking, Carlotta descended the stairs, once again awestruck over the sheer size of the house. If Michael Lane could live in the town house without her and Wesley knowing about it, a family of five could live hidden in this place without anyone being the wiser.

Through a set of open sliding glass doors leading out onto the pool area, she heard the telltale noises of grill-wrangling. When she stepped outside, she spotted Peter at the far end of the patio, in the outdoor-kitchen area. Mingled scents of chlorine and spices filled the humid air.

He waved her over and, after slipping off her shoes, she made her way across the stone lanai surrounding the breathtaking pool. Crystalline blue water slapped gently against the sides. The memory of Angela lying near the pool’s edge dressed in a black trench coat and boots, her eyes open and staring, rose in Carlotta’s mind. She gave herself a mental shake and walked toward Peter.

She’d forgotten the lavishness of the outside living area—a recent addition, Peter had hinted, that Angela had wanted more than he had. Besides the pool, there was an in-ground hot tub and a waterfall. The landscaping was magnificent, with huge potted trees and urns making it feel like a European villa. And behind the alfresco kitchen that featured commercial-grade appliances and a firebrick oven sat a small building separate from the house—a guest-house-slash-pool house. Allegedly, it’s where Angela had entertained her paying customers.

Carlotta marveled that Peter hadn’t sold the entire property after the whole ordeal, but she rationalized that he must have his own reasons for staying put.

“I forgave her,” he said, as if he could read her mind. He glanced up from the grill where he turned thick steaks and brightly colored vegetables with a pair of tongs. “That’s why I didn’t sell the house…or burn it to the ground.”

Two glasses of red wine sat on the bar. Carlotta slowly climbed onto a stool and reached for one. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

“Everyone else has—my friends, coworkers, my parents, even Angela’s parents. No one can imagine why I’d want to live here after everything that happened.”

“This is your home,” she murmured. “Besides, I’m sure you have good memories here, too.”

He nodded, reaching for the other glass of wine. “A few. But the truth is, Angie and I led separate lives, even when we were both here. I don’t feel bound up in memories because we didn’t make many.” He made a rueful noise. “That probably sounds cold.”

“No, I understand what you’re saying.”

He took a drink from his glass. “Still, even though our marriage wasn’t good for her or for me, I feel obligated to do right by her. And part of that is keeping the house she loved. Plus, I couldn’t stand the thought of ghouls coming round to tour the place, just to see where she’d been murdered. They would’ve, you know. Even her so-called friends were vultures. After she died, they brought food and gifts of condolence, but sooner or later, they were all demanding the gory details. It was sickening.”

Carlotta’s heart squeezed for what he had endured at the hands of people who pretended to be his friends. “I know what that feels like to some degree. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, then smiled. “That’s all behind us now. We can’t change the past…only the future.” He lifted his glass of wine. “To the future.”

She clinked her glass to his and drank deeply, glancing at him over the rim. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair tousled and his face flushed with heat, he looked incredibly handsome. Awareness curled in her stomach—Peter had been her first lover. At one time, they’d known each other’s bodies intimately, couldn’t get enough of each other. She could feel his body pulling on hers now, calling her home.

Sleeping across the hall from him might be harder than she’d anticipated.

“Did you get unpacked?” he asked, then took a drink from his glass.

She nodded. “Yes, the closet is wonderful, the room is wonderful and the house is…wonderful. Thank you for having me as your guest, Peter.”

His eyes glowed with a banked fire. “You can stay as long as you want.”

The way he looked at her fueled her own curiosity. She expected him to flirt with her—over dinner and as the evening wore on and the wine went down. But he was the perfect gentleman, keeping the conversation light, even steering clear of talking about their recent agreement to start looking into her father’s assertions that someone within his old firm had framed him.

Instead, they laughed and teased and discussed movies and nonsensical things, as if he sensed that she was happy to avoid talking about The Charmed Killer and the panic unleashed on the city. To avoid thinking Michael Lane was the sicko they were looking for. The only time Peter hinted at the danger she was in was later in the evening, when he showed her how to operate the alarm system.

“I have an early breakfast meeting,” he said. “But when I leave, I’ll reactivate the alarm. When you get up, you’ll need to turn off the motion detector before going downstairs, by pushing this button.”

He demonstrated and she nodded. Simple enough.

“The alarm will still be on for the doors and windows on the first floor, so if you want to go outside, push this button. At that point, the entire system is off. But I don’t recommend you do that.”

She nodded. “I understand.” The house might be wired for bear, but if the alarm was off and someone made it past the guardhouse, a person would be a sitting duck. The neighbors were too far away to be of much help.

“When you leave the house, there’s a panel next to the door leading to the garage. Push the button to reactivate the motion detector and close the door behind you. There’s no alarm on the garage door, so you have all the time you need to get into the Porsche and out of the garage.”

She nodded, mentally reviewing things in her head. “This thing isn’t going to go off if I get up in the middle of the night, is it?”

He smiled. “Not if you stay upstairs. The motion detectors are just for the first floor.”

She bit her lip. “And if I set off the alarm by mistake?”

“Within a few seconds, the monitoring service will call to see if everything is okay. They’ll reset the alarm if you need them to.”

“Okay.” Carlotta smiled. “If you don’t mind, I think I might go ahead and turn in. I need to check in with Wes, and let Hannah know where I am.”

“I’m tired myself,” Peter said, then winked. “It’s not every day I get shot with a Taser.”

As they climbed the stairs together, her heart rate accelerated and her hand felt slippery on the railing. Suddenly the palatial house seemed small, the air claustrophobic. When they reached the landing, Peter turned to her and lowered a very nice kiss on her mouth. She kissed him back, surprised at her all-over reaction. He raised his head and studied her face. The air sizzled. She wondered if Peter was going to ask her to spend the night with him, and what she would say if he did.

Then he smiled. “Good night, sleep tight.” He disappeared into his room and closed the door.

Carlotta stood there for a few seconds, then retreated to her own room, blaming her response on the wine. And wondering why Peter hadn’t tried to take advantage of her.

Inside the guest suite, she picked up her cell phone and her purse and headed for the veranda. Outside in the muggy night air, she glanced over the scattered lights of the neighborhood and lit up a cigarette. She inhaled it greedily while dialing Wesley’s cell number.

“Hey, sis,” he answered. “How do you like being back in the ’hood?”

She smiled. “I can’t lie—Peter’s house is nice.”

“What’s that sound? Are you smoking?”

She turned her head to exhale. “What? No, I’m not smoking.”

“The Surgeon General says smoking is bad for your health.”

Carlotta frowned. “You’re smoking right now, aren’t you?”

He exhaled into the mouthpiece. “Yeah. But it’s an organic cigarette, so it’s cool.”

She gave a little laugh. “Peter has plenty of room if you change your mind and want to stay here, too.”

“Thanks, but I’m settled in Chance’s extra bedroom for now. He lets me smoke inside. I’ll bet you’re out on a fancy porch or something, sneaking around, aren’t you?”

She looked at the exquisitely furnished veranda and flicked her ashes away from an upholstered chaise. “Or something. Have you been back to the town house?”

“No. Jack said he’d let me know when the CSI team was finished so I can install a security system.”

She frowned. “When did you talk to Jack?”

“Uh, earlier. I just wanted to see what was going on, that’s all.”

“Did he have any news?”

“Not that he shared with me.”

“Okay. So I guess I’ll see you when I see you?”

“Yeah. I’ll check in.”

“You’d better.” She disconnected the call, then sucked on the cigarette until her cheeks hurt. God, it tasted so good.

She punched in Hannah’s number, but no surprise, her friend didn’t answer. Carlotta left her a message with her whereabouts and the reasons why, then ended the call, shaking her head.

Normally, she wouldn’t think twice about Hannah not answering her phone. Her culinary friend, who dabbled in catering—and body moving when Coop permitted—had a lot of men, er, irons in the fire. But recently, Jack’s profiling partner, Maria, had accused Carlotta of not knowing anything about her good friend. Carlotta had bristled at the allegation, but admittedly, it had made her curious about what was going on when Hannah couldn’t be located or made vague excuses to escape.

She tapped some ash off the end of her cigarette, causing the charms on her bracelet to clink. She fingered them, shaking her head over the idea perpetuated that the charms on the bracelets sold by Olympian Eva McCoy for charity were not only unique to the wearer, but were also predictive. Her particular bracelet’s charms were a puzzle piece, an “aloha” charm, three hearts bound together, two champagne glasses toasting and a woman whose arms were crossed over her chest—which looked a little too much like a corpse for Carlotta’s comfort.

If she looked hard enough, she could find connections to her life. She was trying to figure out the puzzle of her father’s guilt or innocence, for example. And shortly after donning the bracelet, she’d met Mitchell Moody, the son of June Moody, the woman who ran Moody’s Cigar Bar. Mitch was currently on military leave from Hawaii.

It was a flimsy connection, but a connection nonetheless.

As far as the three hearts linked together, one might say that it could refer to the three men in her life: Jack, Coop and Peter. The champagne glasses…well, she would certainly celebrate once The Charmed Killer was apprehended…with someone.

And the weird corpse-looking charm, she didn’t want to think about.

Carlotta took a final deep drag on the cigarette, then exhaled leisurely while she glanced over the roofs of the quiet neighborhood. Where she and Wesley lived in Lindbergh, she’d grown accustomed to the boom of car radios and the scream of sirens. Here, the only thing disturbing the peace were suburban crickets.

She squinted at a flash of something—light? metal?—from the house closest to Peter’s, which was slightly up the hill and partially hidden by trees. There was a movement outside a window. As she continued to stare, she could make out more details and realized that someone was standing on a terrace in partial light.

Staring at her with binoculars.

Unnerved, she walked back inside and secured the door, dismissing the incident as typical neighborly snooping. In light of Angela’s scandalous behavior, she suspected more than one set of binoculars had been trained on the Ashford house over the past few months.

She suddenly felt very exposed.

After washing her face and donning silky tap pants and a matching camisole, she snuggled down in the mountain of pillows and set the alarm on her phone so she wouldn’t oversleep. She needed to allow extra time to get ready for work, not to mention drive an unfamiliar car along an unfamiliar commute. While she was scrolling through the features, her phone rang, startling her so badly she nearly dropped it.

She hadn’t realized how skittish she’d become.

But when she looked at the caller-ID screen, she smiled. Jack.

She connected the call. “Are you calling to tuck me in?”

His sexy laugh rumbled over the line. “Yup. What are you wearing?”

“Sweatpants and big fuzzy socks.”

“Good, that should keep Ashford in his place.”

She sighed. “What do you want, Jack?”

He made a rueful noise. “I mentioned that the GBI is coming on board The Charmed Killer case.”

“Yeah.”

“They want to interview you as soon as possible.”

Her heart raced—when would this ghastly situation end? “I can come down in the morning before I go to work. Eight o’clock?”

“Okay.”

“Jack, will you be there?”

“Couldn’t keep me away.”

“Good night.”

“You, too.”




6


Carlotta woke to a piercing noise. As she reached for her cell phone to turn off the blaring alarm, her mind raced to orient herself. Light poured in from a veranda—Peter’s veranda. In a rush it all came back to her—coming home with him and being ensconced in the lap of luxury, sleeping like the dead imbedded in a mattress fit for royalty, the ugliness of The Charmed Killer far, far away. She stabbed at her phone, but the frantic alarm didn’t stop.

And then she realized the wail wasn’t the alarm on her phone. It was the house security alarm.

Her heart vaulted to her throat. As she leaped out of bed, she wondered if Peter had inadvertently tripped it as he’d left for work. But the clock showed it was seven-thirty—much later than he said he’d be leaving. She rushed to the closed bedroom door and scanned the small security panel on the wall above the light switch. A red light glowed next to the words Motion Detector. Someone had set off the device on the first floor—meaning they were inside the house.

Carlotta’s throat convulsed in fear. If Peter was running late and had accidentally set off the alarm, he would’ve disarmed it by now. She turned the dead-bolt lock on the door and backtracked to her cell phone, only to find the battery dead.

The crashing noise of glass breaking sounded from the first floor, confirming her fear that someone was in the house. From the nightstand, a landline cordless phone rang, startling her so badly she cried out, then she clamped a hand over her mouth, realizing she’d just advertised her whereabouts to the intruder. She scrambled to answer the phone. “Hello?”

“This is the security monitoring service,” a man said. “We were alerted that your home alarm has been tripped. What is your password?”

Carlotta frowned. “Password? I don’t know. I don’t live here.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, I’m a guest in the house. I think there’s an intruder—I heard something downstairs.”

“I’ll send the police,” he said, his voice full of solemn concern, “but I need to put you on hold and contact the owner at an alternate number. What’s your name?”

“Carlotta Wren. When you call the local police, give them my name and tell them to contact Detective Jack Terry of the APD. This might have something to do with a case he’s working on.” It was possible that Michael Lane could be stalking her again. And there was a serial killer on the loose.

Assuming they weren’t the same person.

“Will do, ma’am. Stay on the line.”

“Okay, please hurry.” She looked around the room for an escape route. The veranda was on the second floor, so unless she was willing to jump to the concrete driveway below, it wasn’t an option. There was the back stairway down the hallway, but that meant leaving the relative safety of the bedroom.

She looked for a chair to wedge under the doorknob, but the only ones in the room were two upholstered models and a stool for the vanity, all too short. She set down the phone and tried to slide the dresser in front of the door, but the furniture wouldn’t budge.

Then she heard a sound outside the door on the landing, a scuffing against the wood floor. Panic seized her. In the distance she heard the wail of sirens, but they were still far away. The peal of the alarm ended abruptly, leaving a whine of stunned silence in the air.

A thump sounded against the door.

“Go away!” Carlotta screamed. “The police are here!” But she knew it would still take precious minutes for them to arrive, possibly break into the house, and find her.

Plenty of time for her to be strangled and have a charm stuffed down her throat.

Carlotta retreated until her back slammed into a wall. She considered fleeing to the closet or the bathroom, but that would only take her farther from the last-ditch escape route of the veranda if she had to jump or shimmy down a tree in her skimpy pj’s.

“I have a gun,” she yelled, then picked up a lamp and wielded it like a baseball bat.

A scratching noise sounded against the door, sending terror rippling through her.

Then Carlotta frowned. Scratching? She took a step forward, then stopped. It was probably a ploy to draw her closer. Then an ax would crash through the door and the face of a maniac would appear.

She stood stock-still, her heart thrashing in her chest as a muted sound came from the other side of the door. Carlotta crept forward and pressed her ear against the wood.

Meow.

Carlotta’s shoulders fell in abject relief. If the maniac “intruder” was deranged, it was on catnip. Peter’s cat must’ve escaped from wherever he kept it and set off the motion detector.

She set down the lamp and unlocked the dead bolt. When she carefully opened the door, a yellow streak of fur shot through her legs and under the bed. Carlotta stuck her head out in the hall for a quick scan, but the rest of the house vibrated with stillness. The whine of the police siren grew closer. Turning back to the bedroom, Carlotta walked over to pick up the phone. “False alarm,” she said to the guy on the other end. “And the police are here. Thanks for your help.”

She disconnected the call, then dropped to her knees to lift the bed skirt and look for the cat. From a far corner, two green eyes glowed back. The alarm had probably scared it to death.

“Me, too,” she murmured to the cat in a soothing voice. “Come on, I won’t hurt you.”

It released a shaky little meow. Carlotta sprawled on her stomach and inched her way under the bed. “Come on, kitty. It’s okay.”

The cat stretched out its neck and sniffed her fingers.

“That’s it, you’re safe with me,” Carlotta urged, sliding closer.

Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and swiped at her. The claws found their mark on her hand and Carlotta howled in pain. She jerked up her head and banged it against the bed railings, which made her howl again. She suddenly realized the danger of being in a confined space with an hysterical cat. Worse, when she tried to shimmy back out, she found herself lodged between the floor and the bed.

Damn, being off work so long with a broken arm had added a little padding to her backside. She tried to move, then grunted. And to her front side, as well.

The sound of voices came from downstairs. “Police! Is anyone here?”

“I’m up here!” she called, but her voice was muffled. She frantically tried to make her way back out from under the bed and managed to retreat a few inches by the time footsteps approached.

“Are you okay?” a male voice called, sounding hollow.

“Yes,” she said cheerfully, wondering what kind of picture she presented. “You can go now, it was a false alarm.”

Carlotta gasped when hands closed around her ankles. She slid out in a whoosh, then flopped over on her back and looked up.

Into Jack’s sardonic face.

“Hi,” she ventured with a little wave.

“Hi.” He gestured to her lime-green tap pants and matching camisole. “I thought you were sleeping in sweatpants and big fuzzy socks.”

“I lied.”

He reached down and helped her to her feet. “You okay?”

“Except for the floor burns.” She winced and touched the lump on her head. “And I konked myself pretty good on the bed railing.”

He retrieved her robe from a chair and handed it to her. “Were you hiding from the intruder?”

“Not exactly.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he was struggling for patience. “Is there another reason you were under the bed?”

A meow sounded and the cat appeared, rubbing against Jack’s pant leg.

“Meet the intruder,” Carlotta said, nodding to the blond Persian. “She must’ve set off the motion detector.”

“There’s a broken wineglass on the kitchen floor.”

“She must’ve knocked it over. I didn’t even know Peter had a cat.”

“Figures, though,” Jack muttered.

“It probably belonged to Angela,” she chided, then crouched down and offered the fluffy feline her hand to sniff. The cat hissed and swiped, drawing blood this time. “Ouch!” Carlotta yelped, pulling back.

“She must prefer males,” Jack offered. Then he stepped back into the hallway and called, “False alarm, guys. Thanks for your help.”

He came back in the room and crossed his arms, looking her up and down. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“Sorry. I guess I overreacted.”

“Don’t worry about it. This is the reason I’m okay with you being here—Ashford’s house is even pussy-proof. Now I can relax.”

She gave him a withering look. The cordless phone rang and she hurried to pick it up. “Hello?”

“Carlotta,” Peter said, his voice high and agitated. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Peter. It was a false alarm.”

“The security monitoring system called me at work. I’m on my way home.”

“I’m sorry for the commotion,” she said, “but you don’t have to come home. Jack’s here.”

“Jack?”

“He came with the police who responded to the alarm.”

“Oh. Did you accidentally set it off?”

“No, your cat did.”

“My cat?”

“Yes.” Carlotta rubbed her finger over the angry raised scratches on her hand. “And she’s a little mean.”

“Carly, I don’t have a cat.”

She frowned and her gaze went to the feline twisting happily between Jack’s legs. “Are you sure? She’s fluffy and blond—a Persian, I think, with green eyes.”

He laughed. “I’m positive I don’t have a cat. It must belong to a neighbor and slipped into the house when one of us wasn’t looking.”

“That’s strange,” she murmured.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said. “Are you sure I don’t need to come home?”

“No, everything’s fine. And I have to leave soon. The GBI wants to talk to me about The Charmed Killer case, so I thought I’d get that over with before going to work.”

“Well, I have to admit that I’m glad the GBI is taking over the investigation. Jack and his people don’t seem to be making much headway.”

She lifted her gaze to Jack and he frowned, as if he sensed Peter was talking about him. “I should get going,” she said. “Thanks for checking on me, Peter.”

“I left you the Porsche,” Peter said, sounding…husbandly.

“That’s very generous. I’ll see you later?”

“Can’t wait. Have a good day.”

“You, too,” she murmured, conscious that Jack was listening. She punched a button to end the phone call, then shrugged. “Peter says it’s not his cat. It must belong to a neighbor and got into the house somehow.”

Jack made a noise in his throat. “I’ll check the doors and windows and search the house just to be sure no one else came in.”

She nodded, thinking of Michael.

“Want me to put the cat outside?”

“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 the 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?”

“That was actually Barbara Rook, a woman who stole my identity. And she didn’t jump—she was murdered. The D.A. asked me to go along and plan my own funeral to draw out the murderer, who turned out to be Michael Lane, by the way.”

“It’s our understanding that you were asked to plan your own funeral to draw out your parents, not the murderer.”

She hardened her jaw. “Well…it didn’t work.” Only Wesley and Coop knew that Randolph had shown up in disguise. She hadn’t even known it until she found the note he’d slipped into her pocket.

“But wasn’t your father a suspect in the Barbara Rook case?” Wick asked.

“My father seems to be a convenient suspect when there’s no one else to pin things on.”

Wick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Looks to me as if trouble runs in the family. I understand you were also on the scenes when three of the victims of The Charmed Killer were discovered.”

“I was there, but after the fact. I was helping to remove the bodies from the scene.”

Wick leaned forward. “You’re a salesclerk at Neiman’s, but you moonlight as a body mover?”

Her hairline felt moist. “Yes?”

Wick squinted. “I’m sorry, is that a question?”

Carlotta swallowed hard. “I mean yes…I sort of got into body moving accidentally.”

“Let me guess—you just happened onto a crime scene one night and started folding and stacking body bags?”

She frowned. “No. My brother began working with Cooper Craft, who contracts with the morgue to haul bodies. I went along a few times to help.”





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