Body Movers Books 1-3

Body Movers Books 1-3 Stephanie Bond Carlotta Wren once had a privileged life in Atlanta–until her family life fell apart and she ended up working as a body mover, moving bodies from crimes scenes to the morgue! And that's just the beginning of her adventures…Get the first three books in Stephanie Bond's series of sexy mysteries–Body Movers, Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1, and Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body–plus a bonus story Dirty Secrets of Daylily Drive and a Body Movers Reading Guide! Body Movers books 1-3 By Stephanie Bond Body Movers Body Movers Reading Guide Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1 Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body Dirty Secrets of Daylily Drive Table of Contents Body Movers Body Movers Reading Guide Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1 Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body Dirty Secrets of Daylily Drive Stephanie Bond Body Movers 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 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 1 “Does this make my ass look big?” Carlotta Wren stood in the dressing room of Neiman Marcus in the Lenox Mall in Atlanta, Georgia, her arms full of designer bathing suits that Angela Ashford, one of her least favorite customers, wanted to try on. They weren’t even halfway through the selections and already Carlotta wanted to murder the woman. She dutifully glanced at Angela’s surgically sculpted glutes falling out of a tiny patch of metallic-blue fabric. “No, your, um, ass looks…great.” Angela tossed her blond hair over her shoulder and pouted at her rear reflection in the three-way mirror. “You think?” Carlotta’s mouth watered to say, “Way better than it looked in high school,” but bit her tongue. It was part of the game, after all—Angela played the role of poor little rich girl with a confidence problem, and Carlotta played the stroking, sympathetic friend. Both of them deserved an Oscar. Angela turned around and carefully rearranged her newly acquired breasts in the bikini top that barely covered her nipples. Then she slipped her narrow feet into the silver high-heeled sandals sitting nearby and performed a three-quarter turn to peruse her long, slender figure from all angles. Carlotta tried not to compare her own ample curves to the woman’s lean lines. Or her own gap-toothed grin to Angela’s perfect, Clorox smile. She was not jealous of Angela Ashford. “This suit is a definite maybe,” Angela announced. Carlotta managed not to roll her eyes—the sixth “definite maybe” so far. “I have to warn you that the trim on that suit won’t hold up to chlorine.” Angela made a face. “Good grief, I don’t actually swim in our new pool—I don’t even know how to swim. I just want to look amazing.” Carlotta bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Do you want to choose from the ones you’ve set aside so far, or do you want to try on the rest of these?” Angela looked irritated. “I’ll try on the rest.” Then she smiled meanly. “And I’ll be needing several new spring outfits. With shoes, of course. Peter told me to treat myself to anything I wanted since he just got a huge bonus and our wedding anniversary is coming up. He’s so generous.” Carlotta busied herself removing the next bathing suit from its hanger, trying not to react. Peter, as in Carlotta’s former fianc?. Just like every time Angela came in for a shopping binge, Carlotta reminded herself that her relationship with Peter Ashford had ended over a decade ago. To be precise, one week after her father had skipped bail on his indictment for investment fraud and he and her mother had gone on the run. The local media had had a field day. RANDOLPH WREN FLIES THE COOP RANDOLPH WREN, FUGITIVE JAILBIRD RANDOLPH WREN AND WIFE VALERIE ABANDON CHILDREN Just a few weeks shy of eighteen, Carlotta hadn’t been a child, but she’d led a rather charmed and sheltered life up to that point. Suddenly faced with raising her nine-year-old brother, Wesley, and with no extended family to rely upon, she had clung to her boyfriend, Peter. Too tightly, apparently, because after the headlines had exploded, he had explained over the telephone that their lives had grown too far apart—he was in college at Vanderbilt University in Tennessee, and she still had to finish her last semester of high school in Atlanta. Translation: Your name is tainted and I don’t want to be associated with your family scandal. With maturity and hindsight, she had come to understand why Peter had bowed out, but at the time, the rejection of the man she had loved for most of her teenage years, the man who had taken her virginity, had been akin to having her heart surgically removed. “I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable when I talk about Peter,” Angela said as she yanked the tie to the bikini top, baring her rigid boobs. She kicked the two-hundred-dollar scrap of Lycra across the floor of the dressing room. “N-no,” Carlotta said, scrambling to rescue her merchandise. She straightened, then handed Angela a one-piece suit and gave a little laugh. “Why should it?” Angela stepped out of the minuscule bikini bottoms and stood nude before Carlotta for a few seconds before stretching the next swimsuit over her tight bod. “Because, well, you know, the whole pretend engagement you two had when we were in high school,” Angela said, preening in the mirror. The Cartier engagement ring was proof that it had been more than a “pretend” engagement, but Carlotta wet her lips and forced a casual note into her voice. “That was a lifetime ago. We were…kids.” “That’s what he says,” Angela offered cheerfully. “And that if the two of you had actually married—” she laughed at the improbability “—that it never would have lasted.” Carlotta’s heart twisted, but she managed a smile. “Then everything worked out for the best, didn’t it?” In the mirror, Angela leveled her feline gaze on Carlotta. “I suppose so.” Carlotta steered the conversation back to clothes and, thankfully, Angela was distracted by the appearance of the “perfect” bikini (two of them) and the armfuls of designer dresses and pantsuits that Carlotta pulled from every couture department. A phone call to the shoe department on the lower floor brought Michael Lane to the women’s clothing department. He headed toward Carlotta, pushing a hand truck laden with colorful boxes of Pucci and Gucci, Don Ciccillo and Donald J. Pliner. “Here’s everything we have in size seven narrow.” “Thanks—you’re a dear.” He gave Carlotta a wry smile. “How are you holding up?” Carlotta scowled toward the closed door of the dressing room. “I’m ready to strangle her.” “Down, girl. Double-A is one of your best customers.” Carlotta smirked at Michael’s use of her nickname for Angela. “I got an eyeful of her latest upgrade—let’s just say she’s no longer a double-A in the bra department.” He clucked. “Hey, what do you expect? The competition is tough in Angela Ashford’s social stratum.” In Angela Ashford’s social stratum. Michael didn’t realize that he was talking about an arena that Carlotta herself had been destined for prior to having her life jerked out from under her. Michael wasn’t a native of Atlanta, and she didn’t go out of her way to tell friends and co-workers her entire sordid family history. In fact, she usually lied. She’d gotten quite good at lying and pretending. “I suppose you’re right,” Carlotta conceded. “But, Christ, she always makes me feel like such a peon. And she’s in rare form today.” He looked sympathetic. “Just remember that commission is the best revenge.” Carlotta laughed ruefully and waved goodbye as she wheeled the shoes toward the dressing room. Why did Angela insist on shopping with Carlotta at her beck and call? She could shop at any boutique in Atlanta or, as her own mother used to do, she could call the store and have a personal shopper select items and bring them to her home for her approval. Or she could simply seek the assistance of another clerk at Neiman’s. But the woman seemed to take great pleasure in shopping under Carlotta’s care, which, Carlotta realized, was a thinly veiled excuse for Angela to flaunt her successful life with Peter. It stung, but in truth, Carlotta needed the commission to pay the seemingly unlimited number of bills that she and Wesley, now nineteen years old, generated. At the thought of her brother, a bittersweet pang struck her. Wesley had never fully recovered from their parents’ abandonment and had suffered more than his share of emotional problems. When he was younger, those problems had manifested into behavioral issues in school, exacerbated by the fact that his IQ was higher than that of most of his instructors, especially in math. Despite his intellect, Wesley had barely graduated high school last year, and now as a directionless adult, his problems manifested into compulsive behavior—more specifically, gambling. His affinity for poker had landed him in debt up to his neck—and hers. And he’d been foolish enough to borrow from some unsavory characters. A henchman for one of the loan sharks had come to see her at the department store a few months ago, threatening bodily harm to both of them if Wesley didn’t make a payment. Inadvertently, her brother always seemed to drag her into his messes, but every time she’d considered telling him that he was of age and to hit the road, she couldn’t. She couldn’t abandon him as her parents had, yet the knot of worry in her chest never eased. She agonized over what trouble he might get into next, and how they might stay afloat. Carlotta sighed. One of the worst things about living paycheck to paycheck was imagining Angela Ashford having a one-hundred-dollar lunch with her friends—many of them girls Carlotta had gone to school with and had once considered her friends—saying, “That poor Carlotta Wren, still single and working retail, can you imagine?” But if it was the price she had to pay for a hefty commission, so be it. If Angela spent true to form, the commission on this sale alone would be enough to pay this month’s mortgage and electric bill. Or at least last month’s. Carlotta opened the door to the dressing room to find Angela sitting on a bench, half-naked, drinking from a silver flask. She quickly swallowed and wiped her mouth. “Just getting a head start on my two-martini lunch.” Carlotta remained silent but knew that anyone who packed their own booze had a problem. Her mother had kept a similar flask in her purse for whenever the urge struck for a “drinkie-poo.” “I brought shoes,” Carlotta said brightly, wheeling in the bounty. Angela pushed to her feet shakily enough to tell Carlotta that she’d taken more than one “drinkie-poo” in Carlotta’s absence, but apparently it had given the woman enough energy to embark upon another spending binge that included six outfits, eight pairs of shoes, including a pair of tall, exotic black boots that Carlotta coveted, plus a rather astonishing array of risqu? underwear (“Peter likes me in black”). Angela even ventured into the men’s department where she chose an exquisite cashmere jacket with a crest embroidered on the lapel—Peter’s favorite brand, Carlotta recalled fondly. And the charcoal-gray would look great on Peter with his fair hair and dark skin. From the size, it appeared that he had filled out a little in the shoulders. She hadn’t seen him in ages, only once in the mall a couple of years ago. He hadn’t known she was standing a mere ten feet from him while he ordered a double latte from a coffee shop. She had wanted to call out his name, to smile and say how nice it was to run into him, that she’d seen his and Angela’s wedding announcement and photo in the Atlanta Journal–Constitution Sunday Living section and, hey, congratulations. But in the end she hadn’t wanted to force an awkward exchange, to see the pity in his gorgeous cobalt-blue eyes for the way her family and lifestyle had imploded, so she’d simply watched him tip the clerk and walk away, her body straining after him. Brushing her hand over the fine fabric of the jacket, Carlotta ignored the vibrating cell phone in her pocket and listened while Angela told her about the lavish parties that she and Peter threw at their palatial home located in a gated subdivision within the exclusive neighborhood of Buckhead. And how with the recent addition of a pool, spa and alfresco kitchen, they were the envy of their neighbors. And how well Peter was doing in his job at Mashburn and Tully Investments—which had once been Mashburn, Tully and Wren. The irony of Peter working for the same firm where her father had once been a partner seemed comically cruel. “Did I mention that Peter was given a huge bonus this quarter?” Angela slurred as Carlotta rang up the enormous sale. “Yes, I believe you did mention it,” Carlotta said smoothly. The encounter was nearly over—she could afford to be nice a little while longer, even if it killed her inside. Angela smirked. “Of course, Peter makes all of his money legally.” Carlotta clenched her jaw but decided to allow the sly reference to her father’s crime slide. “Whatever happened to your parents?” Angela pressed, her eyes glinting with a gossipy light. Carlotta wet her lips. “I really don’t know.” “You mean you’ve never heard from them all this time?” “That’s right.” Angela made a pitying noise in her throat. “What kind of parents could just run off and leave their kids like that?” Carlotta had her opinion but decided not to respond. “I feel so sorry for you, Carlotta. I mean, it must have been hard for you to go from having everything you wanted to having nothing.” From the triumphant look in Angela’s eyes, Carlotta could tell that by “everything,” the woman meant Peter. Carlotta wanted to say that it hadn’t been easy, especially since all of her so-called friends had seemingly vanished into thin air along with her parents. She and Angela hadn’t been best buddies, but they had run in the same crowd—the crowd that had turned on her by high-school graduation. Angela had gone on to Vandy, which was where Carlotta assumed the woman had hooked up with Peter. Had “poor Carlotta” been a common topic of conversation? “I managed just fine,” she murmured. Angela leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s why I always buy things from you, Carlotta, because I figure that you need the commission. It’s my little good deed.” The scent of gin burned Carlotta’s nose like the fiery mortification that bled through her chest. Years’ worth of pent-up frustration suddenly flared to life. Her hands halted in the middle of ringing up the sale. “I don’t need your pity, Angela,” she said, her voice shaking, “or your effing money.” She gave herself ten points for the verbal filter. Angela’s expression grew haughty. “You don’t have to be nasty—I’m only trying to help.” “You’re trying to make me feel like a charity case.” And dammit, she was succeeding. Angela swept her hand over the pile of merchandise that cost as much as Carlotta’s car. “So you’d be willing to turn your back on this sale because of your stupid pride?” Carlotta hesitated—she desperately needed the commission—and in her hesitation, knew Angela had won. As she looked into the woman’s slightly unfocused but gloating eyes, comebacks whirled through Carlotta’s mind, ranging from “Screw you” to “You’re right” to “You got Peter—what else do you want from me?” She wanted to throw something, to hit something, to push the Rewind button and be seventeen again, before her life had taken such a detour. To her horror, moisture gathered in her eyes. She blinked furiously and opened her mouth. “I—” Her phone vibrated against her side and she pounced on the diversion. “I’m sorry, Angela, I have to take this call.” But when she withdrew the phone and glanced at the caller ID, fear bolted through her chest. Atlanta Police Department. Her heart lodged in her throat as images of Wesley’s mangled body ran through her mind. He’d finally gotten himself killed on that damn motorcycle of his. She stabbed the Incoming Call button, missed, and tried again. “Hello?” “Hi, sis,” Wesley said, his voice tentative—like at age ten when he had put sugar in their neighbor’s gas tank “just to see if it really would freeze up the engine.” It had. Her initial flood of relief that he was alive was immediately overridden with a different kind of anxiety. “What’s wrong?” “Why do you assume something’s wrong?” She glanced up to find Angela listening intently. Carlotta turned her back and walked a few steps to be—she hoped—out of earshot. “Because, Wesley, the police department came up on the caller ID.” “Oh.” “So…what happened?” “Okay, don’t freak out, but I kind of got arrested.” Carlotta felt faint. “What? You kind of got arrested, or you did get arrested?” She could picture him on the other end of the line, stabbing at his glasses and weighing his answer. “I did get arrested.” She closed her eyes and mouthed a curse. “I heard that.” Okay, minus ten points for swearing at her kid brother. She counted to three, then exhaled. “What were you arrested for?” “Well, it’s kind of complicated. Maybe you’d better come down here.” “Where is ‘here’?” “The jail at City Hall East.” Christ, what did it say for her that she knew exactly where the jail was? She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a migraine coming on. “What am I supposed to do once I get there?” “Uh…ask for inmate Wren?” She clenched her jaw and disconnected the call, then gave Angela a flat smile. “I have to go. Someone else will be happy to ring up your purchases.” Angela’s face reddened. “But I don’t want someone else—I want you.” “Don’t worry, Angela. I’m sure you’ll still get a gold star for your little good deed.” She swept by the woman, and when she passed Michael on the escalator, told him that she had an emergency and would return later if she could and would he take care of you-know-who? Breaking into a jog, Carlotta retrieved her purse from her locker in the employee break room, fighting tears of frustration. What had Wesley gotten himself into now? Her feet moved automatically, carrying her to her car, which was a good thing because she couldn’t consciously remember where she’d parked. As she careened out of the mall parking lot, she imagined Wesley’s mangled body again—only this time it was by her own hands. 2 Carlotta took a deep breath and made herself say the words. “I’m here to see i-inmate Wren.” The uniformed woman behind the Plexiglas rolled her eyes upward to glance over her bifocals. “Spell the name, please.” Carlotta did, glancing around the crowded waiting room nervously, hoping she didn’t run into anyone she knew—or anyone who knew her. The place held bad memories; she’d been arrested once a couple of years ago for taking a tire iron to one of Wesley’s bookies, but the charges had been dropped. And just before Christmas last year she’d been hauled in for questioning in a murder case. It turned out to be a big fat misunderstanding, but the experience had scared her straight. No more lying…no more pretending. She frowned down at her outfit. One thing was certain—even in her last-season Diane von Furstenberg sundress and midi-jacket, she was a tad overdressed for the occasion. The woman wrote down Wesley’s name. “And you are?” Carlotta lowered her mouth to the little hole in the Plexiglas and whispered, “I’m his sister, Carlotta Wren. And there must be some mistake. My brother would never break the law. At least not a big law.” The woman appeared to be unmoved. “Yeah. Have a seat and someone will be with you.” Carlotta cut a glance to the waiting room and noted the sagging bodies, the yawns, the general restlessness of people who had been waiting for hours. She looked back and flashed an ingratiating smile at the woman. “Look—” She peeked at the woman’s name tag, then frowned. “Your parents named you Brooklyn?” The woman smirked. “Everyone calls me Brook.” “Okay…Brook, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I had to take a break from my job at Neiman Marcus to come down here, and I really need to get back ASAP.” The woman blinked slowly. “I need a million dollars and a good man. Have a seat, Ms. Wren.” Carlotta sighed—there went her overtime pay this week. As she turned toward the teeming waiting room, she made eye contact with a tall, striking man wearing a badge around his neck, pouring coffee from a corroded glass pot. A frown furrowed his brow. “Did you say your name was Wren?” he drawled, hinting at his roots. South Georgia, she guessed, or maybe an Alabama boy. He was block-shouldered with black hair, a strong nose, fortyish, with bloodshot eyes, bad taste in ties and an apparent aversion to ironing. His haircut was rather good, she conceded, in her split-second scrutiny, reminiscent of George Clooney in his E.R. days. But this guy didn’t seem to have much of a bedside manner. “Yes,” she said warily. “I’m Carlotta Wren.” He drank from the cup, then winced. “I’m Detective Jack Terry. I brought your brother in,” he said and blew on the top of his coffee. His nonchalance was beyond irritating. “May I ask why?” He was still blowing. “I’ll let him tell you. Hey, are you two any relation to Randolph Wren?” She clenched her jaw. “He’s our father. What does that have to do with this?” “Nothing that I know of,” he admitted, then took a slurpy drink. “I just wondered.” “When can I talk to my brother?” “How about now?” He nodded at the woman behind the Plexiglas. “Brook, I’ll take care of Ms. Wren.” Brook shook her finger. “Behave, Jack.” He grinned and Carlotta frowned. Judging from the woman’s comment, some women apparently found his good-old-boy charm appealing. There was just no accounting for taste. He waved his badge in front of a card reader, then opened a door that led to a noisy bullpen of cubicles. As he held the door for her, she stepped inside and was immediately engulfed by the clatter of conversation, the whir of machines and the drone of announcements over a public-address system. Carlotta followed the detective through the obstacle course of overflowing desks, jutting legs and fast-moving bodies to an eight-foot-by-eight-foot cubicle marked with a nameplate that read, Det. J. Terry, Major Crimes. Major crimes? Dread mushroomed in her stomach. This sounded serious. Stacks of files and papers occupied every square inch of surface in the man’s cubicle. His trash can was spilling over. A bag from the Varsity, Atlanta’s famous fast-food joint on North Avenue, sat in a dusty corner on the floor, emitting iffy odors. The detective rummaged next to his computer, mumbling under his breath, until he found the phone, then yanked up the receiver, punched a button and said, “Janower, it’s Terry. Bring the skinny computer jock to interview room two, will you?” He hung up the phone and gave Carlotta a flat smile. “It’ll be a few minutes, if you want to have a seat. Here, let me clear a spot.” He leaned over and dumped the stack of files sitting in his visitor’s chair on the floor, but at the sight of the dark stain on the dingy yellow upholstery, Carlotta swallowed. “Thanks, I’ll stand.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then he dropped into his own stained chair and took another drink from his coffee cup. “So does my brother’s arrest have something to do with computers?” Wesley had been tinkering with them since he was ten. He’d begged for his own PC, and later, when Carlotta couldn’t afford to upgrade the machine, he’d rebuilt the old one himself. Over the years, he’d made spending money by upgrading computers for his friends and their parents, and had even helped some small companies with their software security. He had no less than six computers in his room at any given time, and sat rooted in front of them for the better part of every day, wearing headphones and generally oblivious to the outside world. Possible scenarios whirled through her mind. Had he stolen computer components? Or could this have something to do with his gambling problem? He was supposed to be on the wagon, but maybe he was running a bookie service or an illegal poker site. She held her breath and steeled herself for the bad news. The detective worked his mouth from side to side. “Guess it won’t hurt to tell you—it’ll be a matter of public record soon. Your brother was arrested for hacking into the database of the Atlanta city government, specifically, the courthouse.” Panic blipped in her chest. “How much trouble is he in?” “A lot,” he said, his voice sober. “We’re talking a felony here. And records tampering and identity theft is high on the department’s priority list. Hackers are vigorously pursued and prosecuted. Accessing the records is bad enough, but we think he might have changed some things while he was in there.” Carlotta frowned. “Like what?” “We’re still trying to determine the extent of the tampering.” She stifled the spike of pride that Wesley was so damn smart—this wasn’t the time to gloat. “We’re guessing that he might have been planning to sell the information.” Carlotta’s jaw hardened. If money was involved, that damn Chance Hollander probably had something to do with it. That overgrown brat had been a friend of Wesley’s since they were boys and he’d made a lifestyle out of talking Wesley into doing things that always seemed to result in Wesley getting into trouble and Chance getting a good laugh. “This isn’t like Wesley,” she murmured, swallowing her rising panic. “He’s mischievous, but he wouldn’t break the law.” Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Wesley must have been a little fellow when your father, er—” “Yes, he was.” “That has to be rough on a kid.” She nodded and averted her gaze. He had no right prying into their personal lives. “Who raised your brother?” “I did.” He seemed surprised. “What do you do for a living, Ms. Wren?” “I work for Neiman Marcus.” He gave her a thorough once-over, his gaze lingering on her legs. The cad. “I hear that’s a nice place.” She crossed her arms. “When and where was Wesley arrested?” “This morning, at his residence. I assume it’s your home, actually, since your name is on the mortgage?” Her heart accelerated. “You were in our home?” He nodded. “We traced his online activity to the house. I arrested him there and confiscated his equipment.” She covered her mouth. This couldn’t be happening. He gave her a little smile. “Don’t worry—we didn’t trash your place. That only happens on TV.” Carlotta narrowed her eyes. “You think this is funny?” His smile vanished. “No. Sorry. Does your brother live with you full-time?” She tingled under his scrutiny and felt her defenses rise. “Yes, it’s his home, too. And for all that Wesley’s been through, I think he’s turned into a pretty decent kid.” He pursed his mouth. “He might still seem like a kid to you, Ms. Wren, but your brother is an adult in the eyes of the law. And no offense, but he’s making bad choices that are going to mess up his life, just like your father did.” His words cut her to the quick. For the past ten years, her consuming goal had been to do what was best for Wesley, to teach him right from wrong, especially considering the criminal legacy their father had left behind. It seemed she had failed…miserably. She blinked back sudden tears. “What do you know about my father?” The detective’s face went stony. “I know that he made a living bilking people out of their hard-earned money while he lived like a king. And when he got caught, instead of facing his punishment like a man, he skipped bail and abandoned his children, one of whom seems on the verge of following in his footsteps.” Carlotta’s defenses surged against his attack on her family. “What are you, a one-man judge and jury? You don’t know everything, Mr. Terry.” “Detective Terry,” he corrected amiably. “Detective Terry, why aren’t you out arresting real criminals instead of picking on my brother?” His geniality fled. “Ms. Wren, your brother is a real criminal.” She wanted to scream a denial, to flail and blame everything on her parents, to rail against the unfairness of it all. She had given up her twenties because her parents had bailed on their responsibility, but had always told herself it was worth it to be the best possible replacement for their parents to her little brother. Had it all been for nothing? Suddenly she felt so powerless. She sank into the yellow chair, stain and all, and summoned strength. She didn’t have to like Detective Jack Terry, but right now he had the information she needed. “What will happen next?” “He’ll need an attorney.” “An attorney,” she repeated in a weak voice. Where would she get the money for an attorney? He checked his watch. “If his attorney can get here this afternoon, he’ll probably have a bail hearing today.” “Bail hearing,” she murmured. “And since this is his first offense, he’ll probably be released on bail.” Feeling like the most stupid person alive, she said, “How does that work exactly—bail? I…I don’t remember from…I don’t remember.” From when her father had been arrested. His expression softened, as if he realized that she wasn’t nearly as street-smart as she tried to appear. “For a felony with no endangerment, the standard bail is five thousand. If you pay cash, you’ll get it back after the case is settled.” She choked back a laugh. Where would she get five thousand dollars? If only their parents had left them a stash of ill-gotten gains to make up for the fact that they had abandoned their own children. He coughed lightly. “If you don’t have cash, you’ll want to call a bail bondsman. That will cost you ten percent of the bail, which you won’t get back.” Five hundred—she could probably scrape together that much, but it would be another expense that she didn’t need right now. He opened a desk drawer, revealing more clutter, and rooted around, coming up with a curled business card. “If you need to, call this guy.” She took the card of Brumbee’s Bail Bonds (“Call us anytime!”), a flush warming her cheeks. Had the detective guessed how deeply in debt they were, or had he already performed a credit check and confirmed it? At least her parents had left the house in her name. Although she suspected it was to shelter the property in case her parents’ assets were seized during the criminal case, it was the one thing that had given her a financial toehold after they had disappeared, and the means to secure custody of Wesley. “I’ve heard of people putting up the deed to their house for bail.” “A property bond?” He splayed his big hands. “Yeah, people do that all the time. And then they get a lien placed on their home if the person doesn’t show up in court.” His lips flattened. “I wouldn’t advise it.” She frowned. “Wesley would never skip bail.” The detective didn’t say anything, but in the air hung the question Like your father wouldn’t skip bail? Carlotta lowered her gaze, burning with shame. She refused to cry. When Detective Terry’s hand touched her arm, she could only stare at the blunt-tipped fingers, wishing it was the hand of someone she could rely on for the long haul rather than fleeting sympathy. They were, after all, on opposite sides of this issue. She inhaled to compose herself, then pulled her arm away and lifted her gaze to his. “After posting bail, then what?” The detective looked contrite, then picked up his coffee cup with his errant hand. “Within a couple of days he’ll have to appear in court to be arraigned.” “Arraigned,” she said, nodding stupidly. “That’s where the charges against him will be read, and he’ll enter a plea. If his attorney and the district attorney reach an agreement on the charges and the sentence, he can plead out.” He hesitated, then added, “If not, his case will go to trial.” “Trial,” she said like a sick parrot. She closed her eyes, thinking how sordid it all sounded—and how disturbingly familiar. It was all coming back to her, hearing the same terminology peppering her parents’ conversations after the grand jury had indicted her father, her mother weeping drunkenly, her father professing his innocence—unconvincingly. And now it was starting all over again. When she opened her eyes, Detective Terry was studying her intently. Upon closer inspection, his bloodshot eyes were hazel, almost golden, unusually pale with his dark coloring. And…dangerous. Unbidden, the thought darted through her mind that any woman foolish enough to hook up with this man was destined for disappointment. Suddenly he leaned toward her. “Look, I didn’t know about the connection between your brother and your father when I made the arrest this morning. Your brother will have to pay for his crime, but…well, off the record, I should warn you—the D.A., Kelvin Lucas, is the same man who had your father indicted.” A slow drip of panic entered her bloodstream, as cool as menthol. “Are you saying that the D.A. might be harder on my brother because he didn’t get to prosecute my father?” The detective’s gaze was unflinching. “Ms. Wren, in this city, and especially in the D.A.’s office, your father’s name is like a bad smell. All I’m saying is that you and your brother should prepare yourselves for the worst.” 3 Wesley Wren whistled under his breath, a nameless tune that his father had always whistled when Wesley was a boy. He didn’t remember too many moments with his workaholic father, whose angular face was hazy in his mind, but he remembered that when Dad was in a good mood, he whistled. And, despite sitting in the corner of a musty jail cell and the fact that Hubert, one of the dozen other guys in holding, had forced him to trade his new brown suede Puma tennis shoes for Hubert’s worn-out no-name sneakers, Wesley was in a pretty good mood. It had taken him only a few weeks to find a way into the Atlanta courthouse records, and that wasn’t bad for a hobby hacker. His buddy Chance had given him the idea by asking if Wesley could expunge a couple of DUI arrests from Chance’s record. He was willing to pay Wesley five hundred bucks per delete stroke. Oh, sure, the extra cash had come in handy, but cleaning up Chance’s traffic violations hadn’t been the primary incentive. For months now he’d been covertly accumulating details about his father’s indictment and subsequent disappearance—covertly because Carlotta would murder him if she ever caught wind of it. He’d made copies of every public document he could find online and in crammed file cabinets around Atlanta, but the information was incomplete and dated. When he’d tapped into the courthouse records two days ago, he’d found a wealth of information on his father’s last court appearance, and on sightings of his parents over the past ten years—Michigan, Kentucky, California, Texas. The thought of his polished, executive father wearing a ten-gallon hat made him smile, but he was sure that Randolph Wren could carry it off. His father was smart, savvy, and knew how to blend in to his environment—how else had he been able to elude the authorities for over a decade? His chest swelled with pride when he thought of his father donning a disguise and slipping out of town under the nose of some cop out to make a career for himself by capturing Randolph Wren, The Bird. When Wesley was in grade school, he’d entertained his friends with daring stories that he’d imagined to be true. Having a notorious father had given him status in school. He was no longer the bespectacled runt who blew the curve in math class. He was the son of The Bird. He had told his classmates how he’d helped his father escape the feds by coming up with a fantastic math equation regarding engine speed and the timing of traffic lights, and how he continued to help his father from afar via secret code. As soon as his father had gathered enough evidence to prove that he had been set up, he would return to Atlanta and clear his name. They would be a family again, vindicated, and stronger for their trials. It was true…sort of. He hadn’t helped his father escape, of course, but he would have if his father had only asked. And there was no secret code within the abbreviated messages on the postcards they had received sporadically over the years—at least not one that he’d been able to crack. He’d spent hours poring over those postcards, eight of them in all, studying them under a magnifying glass, infrared light, black light, and had even managed to have a couple of them X-rayed on an eighth-grade field trip to a vet clinic. In hindsight, he realized there were no secret messages between the lines of “We’re fine and we love you” or “You’re always in our hearts,” yet he remained hopeful that his father would someday contact him and ask for his help now that Wesley was an adult. Unless his parents had forgotten how old he was. He banished the thought as soon as it entered his mind. Of course his parents knew he was an adult now. Just because they’d never called or sent a special message on his birthday didn’t mean that they’d forgotten that he was no longer a kid. Ditto for Christmas. They had sacrificed too much to risk being caught over something stupid and sentimental. Yet every Christmas, in the back of his mind, he dared to hope that they might simply show up at his bedroom window, or maybe ring the doorbell. “We couldn’t stay away any longer,” they would say, then gather him and his sister in their arms. But it never happened. Last Christmas he’d spent the day being a jerk to Carlotta when she’d only tried to make him happy by attempting to bake a chocolate cake with peanut butter chips in the middle. It had been his favorite since he was a kid, a special cake that his mother had always made during the holidays. But Carlotta was hopeless in the kitchen. In fact, self-preservation had forced him to take over the cooking duties when he’d turned twelve. Carlotta’s cake had been undercooked in the middle and burnt around the edges. He had snapped at her and at the time, had been unfazed by her wounded expression, just happy to lash out at someone. But now he felt the sting of remorse over the mean things he’d said—that she’d never find a husband if she didn’t learn to cook and that he hated the clothes she’d bought and wrapped up for him and that he didn’t want to watch the dumb Christmas movie that she’d rented. The movie, he knew, had been her attempt to tether him, to keep him off the streets and away from the card tables. She meant well, but she smothered him. Then he sighed. Damn, no matter what he did, he seemed to disappoint Carlotta. She’d be furious with him when she found out about the hacking. Although, if he was careful, he could at least keep her from finding out why he’d done it. A buzzing noise sounded and the door to the holding cell slid open, revealing a uniformed officer. All the inmates who weren’t sleeping or passed out perked up. “On your feet, Wren. You have a visitor.” Wesley winced. Time to face the executioner. He pushed to his feet and waded through the jumble of funky-smelling bodies, enduring wolf whistles from his bigger, brawnier cellmates while the officer handcuffed him. Then he followed the officer to a room where his sister waited. Her anxious gaze darted from his face to his handcuffs, and she looked as if she was going to cry. God, he hoped not. Seeing her in tears tore him up, always had. When the officer left and closed the door, she gripped his shoulders hard, but instead of hugging him, she shook him with more strength than he’d known she had. “What the hell did you do, Wesley?” When his eyes stopped spinning in his head, he said, “Relax, sis, no one was murdered.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yet. That Chance Hollander has something to do with this, doesn’t he?” “No,” Wesley said because Carlotta already didn’t like his best friend. And even though Chance had given him the idea to break into the courthouse records, he was the one who had actually done it. “Tell me what you did. Now, Wesley.” He swallowed. He hadn’t seen her this worked up since he’d broken the news that he wasn’t going to apply for college. “I, um, sort of stumbled into a computer database that I wasn’t supposed to.” One dark eyebrow arched. “Stumbled into, or hacked into?” “Uh, hacked.” She crossed her arms. “Detective Terry told me that you broke into the courthouse computer and changed some records?” He frowned. “That guy’s a jerk.” His sister looked alarmed. “Did he hurt you?” “Nah, but he gets off on that bad-cop routine.” She frowned. “I noticed. Now, why were you messing around in the courthouse records?” He tried to look sheepish. “Just trying to get rid of all those traffic tickets I accumulated so I could get my driver’s license reinstated and I wouldn’t be such a pain to you.” He could lie with assurance because when he suspected his access was being tracked, he’d unleashed a virus in the database that would be undetectable to the hillbilly programmers in the police department. No way they’d be able to tell what had been changed. “Is that all?” she asked, her brown eyes hopeful. Guilt stabbed at him, but he told himself that she wanted to believe him, and he’d only hurt her more with the truth. “Yeah, that’s all.” She sighed in relief, then ran her hand over his cheek as she used to when he was little. “What am I going to do with you?” His heart swelled with affection, but he tamped down his sissy emotions. “You have to keep me around, or you’d starve to death.” She smiled briefly, then sobered. “We need to get you a lawyer.” He shifted his feet. “I already called Liz Fischer.” Carlotta looked horrified. “Dad’s attorney? Why?” “Why not?” “Well, for one reason, she’ll probably charge an arm and a leg to represent you.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. She always told us to call her if we needed anything, and she sounded nice on the phone.” “I don’t like the fact that everyone will connect her to Dad, and then him to you.” “Since we have the same last name, I think that’s unavoidable, don’t you?” Carlotta frowned, her expression suspicious. “What did Liz say?” “She’ll be here. My bail hearing is at four this afternoon.” He shuffled his feet again. “Can we make bail? I have six hundred dollars in a tennis-ball can in the garage.” Her eyebrows shot up. “You have six hundred dollars?” More disapproval. He owed a lot of money to a lot of people, but he kept a secret stash in case a big card game materialized—something tempting enough to go back on his word to Carlotta that he wouldn’t gamble. “My emergency fund,” he mumbled. And now he’d have to find a new hiding place. Her gapped front teeth worried her lower lip, then she sighed. “If the bail is set too high for us to pay cash, then I’ll call a bail bondsman, assuming we can cough up ten percent.” “And if we can’t come up with ten percent?” “I’ll have to put up the house.” Wesley’s intestines cramped. For the first time, he doubted his plan. He hadn’t counted on the trouble it would cause his sister. Then she gave him a shaky smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” She looked down and gasped. “Where did you get those revolting shoes?” “Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving off her concern. “If I have to spend the night here, will you feed Einstein?” She winced. “For that reason alone, I’ll make sure you get out of here.” He grinned, glad to see she was back in good humor. His sister was a pretty woman, especially when she smiled. She was self-conscious about the gap between her two front teeth, but he thought it gave her character, made her look like a dark-haired Lauren Hutton…and his mother. He worried about Carlotta. He’d seen men’s eyes light up when she walked into a room, but she hadn’t had a serious relationship since their parents had left, since that bastard Peter Ashford had dumped her. She’d never said so, but Wesley knew that he himself was much of the reason that his sister hadn’t settled down. Not too many guys were keen on a kid brother as a package deal. Just one more thing for him to feel guilty over. “Thanks for coming, sis. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Her expression was part dubious, part hopeful. “I’ll hold you to that.” Wesley went back to the holding cell with mixed feelings pulling at him. For the next few hours he sat with his back in a corner trying not to attract attention from his cellmates, many of whom were finally rousing from hangovers and were spoiling for trouble…or romance. A muscle-bound guy wearing a headband and leg warmers kept looking his way and licking his lips. In desperation, Wesley pulled out a deck of cards he’d been allowed to keep and announced he was giving a clinic on how to play the ultimate game of skill and luck, Texas Hold ’Em Poker. His audience seemed suspicious at first, then crowded around. He sat cross-legged and dealt the four men closest to him two cards each facedown on the gritty concrete floor. Just the feel of the waxy cards in his hands sent a flutter of excitement to his chest. “Those cards are your pocket cards,” he explained. “I’m going to deal five community cards faceup—three, then one, then one more—and the object is to create the best hand possible from your two cards and the five community cards. Bets are made between rounds of revealing the community cards.” “We need chips,” one guy said, then started ripping the buttons off his shirt. Everyone followed suit and within five minutes, a pile of mismatched buttons lay in the middle. Impressed with their resourcefulness, Wesley divided the buttons among the four players and gave them tips on betting. “If you have strong pocket cards, you’ll want to bet. If not, you’ll want to fold.” Then he grinned. “Unless you want to bluff, and then you’ll want to bet.” “What’s a strong card?” a man asked. “Any face card, or an ace,” Wesley said. “Two of a kind is great, two cards of the same suit can put you on your way to a flush, and two neighboring cards, like a nine and a ten can put you on your way to a straight.” He went around, taking button bets on the pocket cards. “Now I’ll deal what’s called the flop cards.” He tossed a discard card to the side, then dealt three cards faceup—a three of spades, a five of hearts and a queen of hearts. “We got a possible straight going with the three and the five, and a possible heart flush with the five and the queen.” Excitement built among the players and spectators as they studied the cards, creating possible hands. Wesley smiled to himself. There was something so sweet about evangelizing the game of games…and training potential players that he might someday face across the table and rob of every penny they had. He tossed the top card onto the discard pile, then dealt another card faceup. “This is called the ‘turn’ card.” An ace of hearts. A murmur went up among the men. Wesley studied the players’ “tells,” the body language and betting techniques that told a more experienced player what the person was holding as surely as if the cards were transparent. The big guy on the far left was holding crap—probably a ten and a deuce, but he wasn’t going to fold and look bad to the other guys. The guy next to him was grinning like a fool after the turn card, so he probably had a pocket ace to make it two of a kind. Beginners thought that aces beat everything else, no matter what. The third guy also had nothing, else he wouldn’t be gnawing on his nails and staring at the community cards as if he could will them to change. The fourth guy, though—he had something because he was holding his cards close to his chest as if they were winning lottery tickets. Wesley guessed he had pocket queens and was looking at three of a kind, which so far was “the nuts”—the best hand in the game. “Here comes the river card,” he said, and dealt a nine of clubs—not much good to anyone, he guessed, although the bidding was brisk. The aces guy was all in with his six wooden buttons and a jeans rivet. Pretty soon, everyone was all in, and Wesley asked, “Whad’ya have?” The first guy turned over his ten of spades and four of clubs and took some ribbing from the other guys. The grinning aces guy turned over his ace of diamonds and seven of spades, giving him the expected pair of aces. The third guy cursed his mother and tossed in his jack of diamonds and six of spades, then stomped away as if they had been playing for real money instead of sewing notions. The last guy turned over his pocket queens to the cheers of the men behind him, and raked all the raggedy buttons toward him triumphantly. While Wesley was shuffling for another hand, the cell door buzzed and slid open and he was being summoned again. “Your lawyer’s here,” the guard informed him. Wesley handed off the deck of cards, stood and allowed himself to be handcuffed again, then followed the man to a room where Liz Fischer waited, tapping the toe of her pointy high-heeled shoe. She was a tall, athletic blonde in her mid-forties, a real looker who seemed to be in perpetual motion. Wesley recognized her from newspaper photos of his father’s case, although her hair was shorter and she looked a little leaner. “Hello, Wesley.” Her voice, for sure, was familiar—throaty and abrupt. He’d had more than one wet dream lately with that voice looping in his head. “Hello, Mrs. Fischer.” She smiled at his politeness. “I’m not married, so it’s Ms.—in fact, call me Liz. How nice to finally put a face to the voice. I just wish it were under different circumstances.” When she sat down at the table, the scent of her cologne reached him—not a feminine, floral scent, but something earthy and strong that she might have gotten out of her lover’s medicine cabinet this morning. Which could also explain the oversize white dress shirt she wore with her prim suit. She clicked open her briefcase. “So, you got caught. I told you to be careful.” He splayed his hands. “I slipped up, but everything’s fine.” She frowned. “The optimism of youth. Do you realize that you’re facing jail time and a hefty fine?” A vision of Leg Warmers licking his lips flashed through Wesley’s mind. “How much jail time?” “Probably less than six months, but it won’t look good on your permanent record. Now, tell me what happened.” Wesley repeated the lie, that he had hacked into the courthouse records to clear his own traffic violations. “I’m really sorry,” he added. The woman’s expression was bland. “You’re going to have to do a better acting job than that for the district attorney. And you’re telling me that this records break-in has nothing to do with your sudden interest in your father’s cold case?” “That’s right.” She studied him suspiciously. Wesley imagined himself through her experienced eyes: a skinny, know-it-all kid who’d grown up without parents and likely wouldn’t amount to much. “You look like Randolph,” she said, surprising him with intense eye contact. His cock jumped—damn, he was going to embarrass himself. He shifted in his chair. “That’s what my sister says when she talks about my father, which isn’t often.” “Carlotta was bitter when your parents…left. Rightfully so. How is she?” “Fine. A little upset with me at the moment.” “I called her occasionally after…. afterward, and she always assured me everything was okay.” The woman looked remorseful. “I should have looked in on both of you more often.” “We did okay,” Wesley said, trying not to sound too reassuring in case she was inclined to reduce her fee out of some sense of obligation. “But Carlotta doesn’t know that I’ve talked to you about my father’s case. It would only upset her.” “She won’t hear it from me, but you know that I agree with her, Wesley. You should let sleeping dogs lie, and get on with your life. Your parents seem to have gotten on with theirs.” Anger sparked in his stomach, but he didn’t want to alienate this woman. She was too valuable in his search for the truth. Plus, she was wearing a pink satin bra beneath the white shirt, and that was really hot. “Do you know where my father is?” Liz Fischer’s expression hardened, giving the first hint of her age. “No, and if I did, I’d go straight to the police. Now, let’s get back to the matter at hand and see if I can get you out of here.” After answering a few more questions and receiving a stern warning not to discuss his case with anyone, Wesley inhaled one last lungful of the woman’s cologne, then went back to the cell with his cuffed hands in front of him to hide his hard-on. One of these days, he’d be a rich, accomplished man, and women like Liz Fischer would look at him with respect. When he won the World Series of Poker. When he cleared his father’s name. He would be happy then, and everyone who meant something to him would be happy, too. When he returned to the holding cell, a poker game was in full swing. He retreated to a corner to avoid Leg Warmers and to watch the interplay of the men and the game, nodding in satisfaction when he predicted hands correctly. He could do the odds in his head, but so could lots of card-players. He was good at poker because he was good at observing people, and he was willing to be patient for the payoff. He would use the same skills to solve his father’s case. He had time. Less than an hour later, thank goodness, he was escorted to a small courtroom for his bail hearing. He spotted Carlotta’s anxious face in the sparse gallery and gave her a thumbs-up that was somewhat hampered by his handcuffed wrists. Liz Fischer’s presence next to him was assuring—and alluring—but his pulse ratcheted higher as he listened to the charges against him: federal charges of computer intrusion and unlawful use of passwords. Two counts each. Federal. This might be more serious than he thought. Addressing the judge, his attorney tried to pass off his hacking as a childish prank that he deeply regretted. “I request that my client be released on his own recognizance.” But the stern-faced judge seemed to be studying the papers in front of him rather than listening to counsel. When he finally lifted his head, he said, “It’s been brought to my attention that your client is the son of a fugitive still wanted by the Atlanta Police Department.” Wesley shifted beneath the man’s condemning gaze. “Your Honor,” Liz said, “with all due respect, I don’t see what bearing my client’s father’s situation has on this case. My client hasn’t seen his father since he was a little boy.” The judge frowned. “Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t take it into consideration. Bail is set at twenty thousand dollars. See the court cashier.” “Your Honor,” Liz said with alarm in her voice. “That will cause undue hardship on my client—” “Then perhaps your client would be more comfortable in jail until his arraignment, Ms. Fischer.” He banged his gavel. “Next case.” Wesley’s mind churned at the unexpected turn of events. Twenty thousand dollars? They didn’t even have the cash to pay ten percent to a bail bondsman. On the other hand, it was kind of cool that the judge thought he was worth that much. “Wesley,” Liz said slowly, “this is a little unorthodox, but if you need a loan—” “We don’t,” Carlotta said, walking up to stand near him. She looked pale, and her hand shook as she held up a manila file. “I brought all the information to post a property bond.” “Hello, Carlotta,” Liz said. “Hello,” Carlotta said. His sister’s voice was pleasant enough, but Wesley could feel the animosity rolling off his sister in waves toward the other woman. What was it with chicks? “You certainly came prepared,” Liz said lightly. “I look out for my family. Wesley, let’s go home.” She turned and walked toward the exit. He hesitated, then looked up at Liz Fischer. “Thank you for your help…Liz.” “No problem,” she said smoothly. “Your arraignment is Monday morning. I’ll be in touch.” She picked up her briefcase and walked in the direction opposite from the one that Carlotta had taken. He noticed that the woman turned back and eyed his sister intently before continuing. Escorted by a bailiff, Wesley caught up with Carlotta and watched with apprehension as she pledged the equity in their town home against the fact that he would appear in court when summoned. He had every intention of being there, but what if something happened? His sister’s faith in him was a little unnerving. Even after his handcuffs were removed, his stomach was in knots, but he kept telling himself that the end justified the means. As part of his sentence, he planned to offer his expertise to help the courthouse develop better safety firewalls, ones that only he could penetrate. If that failed, he had left himself a back door in the courthouse records database so when everything died down, he’d be able to go back in and explore. This arrest would be worth the inconvenience if it helped him gather information to help—and find—his father. He glanced at his sister’s troubled profile and felt a twist in his gut. Someday, Carlotta would agree with him. He hoped. 4 Carlotta’s eyes popped open from a restless sleep, with elusive dreams of her parents sliding into the dark corners of her subconscious. Mercifully, the dreams had become less frequent over the years, and she hoped this recurrence was an isolated incident. A glutton for punishment, she allowed herself to wonder where her parents were waking up, and if she and Wesley ever crossed their minds. Then the events of yesterday—Wesley’s arrest and bail hearing—came crashing back, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her family was going to be the death of her. She turned her head on her pillow to look at the alarm clock and groaned. She’d meant to get up early to make up for the hours she’d missed yesterday, but now she’d be lucky to make it to the morning staff meeting on time. While she stood and yanked up the duvet cover to make her bed, she thought of Angela Ashford and the commission she’d walked away from yesterday. And she wondered how much of her phone conversation with Wesley the woman had overheard—enough to fuel another gossipy lunch with her girlfriends? She tamped down her resentment toward Angela, recognizing that it was mostly rooted in the fact that the woman had married Peter, which, truthfully, only proved that Angela was…smart. Peter had graduated from Vanderbilt and returned to Atlanta to launch a successful career and join the ranks of his fabulously rich family. Angela enjoyed social status and all the perks that came with being a third-generation Buckhead wife. Carlotta frowned. Although, considering the fact that the woman was sneaking booze in the department-store dressing room, her life might not be as rosy as the picture she’d painted for Carlotta. After a quick shower, Carlotta opened the door to her closet, which always lifted her spirits. Working at Neiman Marcus for the better part of her adult life had afforded her a fabulous wardrobe on her employee discount. She had eased off her habit of “borrowing” clothes to wear for a special occasion and then returning them after nearly getting herself and her friends Jolie and Hannah in trouble last Christmas when they’d “borrowed” outfits to crash an upscale pajama party where a man had wound up dead. Since they’d been the only uninvited guests at the party and had drawn attention to themselves by accidentally falling into the pool fully clothed, they’d been fingered as the prime murder suspects. They’d managed to clear themselves, but had been stuck with paying for thousands of dollars’ of ruined silk pj’s and robes. She still hadn’t paid off her Neiman Marcus credit card. Thinking of Jolie made her smile. Her friend and coworker had moved to Costa Rica with the man of her dreams, and her parting gift to Carlotta had been a pink leather autograph book to replace the one full of celebrity autographs that had been ruined by the fall in the pool, and two thousand dollars in cash to satisfy the loan shark that had been hounding Carlotta for money that Wesley owed. Jolie had saved their lives…or at least their kneecaps. Carlotta flipped through her bulging wardrobe and decided to go all out today. Dressing to the nines always made her feel better. She pulled out a black miniskirt, a teal-colored tunic, one of the vintage Judith Leiber huge “breastplate” necklaces from her mother’s collection and tall Prada boots. She pulled her long black hair—her best feature, she thought—into a low ponytail, and added dangling glass earrings. She popped in her blue contact lenses, always amazed that they covered her dark brown irises so well. Blessed with good skin, she was able to skip foundation, but took time to stroke several coats of mascara onto her lashes to play up her eyes, add a touch of blush to the apple of her cheeks and smooth on red, red lipstick. When she made a final check in the mirror, though, she couldn’t help but compare her dark coloring to Angela Ashford’s golden good looks. Not only was Angela patently gorgeous and rail thin, she was well connected, with a long southern lineage. Yes, Angela was definitely the better match for Peter and the life he was destined for. Carlotta sighed and turned to face the life she was destined for. She walked out of her bedroom and looked across the hall at Wesley’s closed bedroom door and farther, at the end of the hall, to the closed door of her parents’ room, left largely untouched except for the times she’d gone in to dust or to adjust the heating and air-conditioning vents. Daylight shining over the gray carpet in the hallway revealed large shoe prints, evidence of where the police had entered their home and confiscated Wesley’s computer and phone equipment. A sense of violation permeated her skin—the cramped living space she’d tried to make a home for Wesley, compromised. Using the toe of her shoe, she wiped out the footprints, wondering if they belonged to Detective Jack Terry. The mere thought of the man made a frown settle on her face and the knowledge that he’d been in her home made her feel naked, as if he knew intimate things about her. Had he peeked into her bedroom, sneered at the girlish white furniture, the pink Lilly Pulitzer linens and the fuzzy yellow chenille robe she always left draped across the foot of the bed? A flush climbed her neck when she remembered the way he’d looked at her when she’d told him that her father was Randolph Wren. He’d decided that she and Wesley were from bad stock. Your father’s name is like a bad smell. The friendly warning he’d given her about the D.A. notwithstanding, she had a feeling that Detective Terry was going to stir up more trouble before he exited their lives. As she walked through the living room and into the kitchen, her thoughts turned to Liz Fischer. She didn’t like the fact that Wesley had called the woman. She didn’t trust Liz. After her parents had skipped town, Liz had tried to convince her that she was too young and ill equipped to raise Wesley, that his needs would be better served with a foster family until her parents returned. This from the woman who’d had an affair with her father. Carlotta had hated the woman for trying to fracture her family further, and it was Liz Fischer’s insufferable words that had given her strength in the early years when she’d thought she would collapse under the stress of raising Wesley. She knew what the woman was thinking now—that Carlotta had done a crummy job of parenting and that Wesley would have been better off with strangers. And considering that he was head over heels in debt and now facing jail time, Carlotta couldn’t exactly disagree. Maybe Wesley would have been better off with two authority figures who weren’t bogged down with their own emotional baggage, who weren’t struggling to make ends meet, who weren’t, deep down, yearning for a life of their own. Carlotta walked into the kitchen, massaging her temples and craving a Starbucks latte. But since they were facing unknown expenses, she poured water into the automatic coffeepot and waited for the homemade brew to trickle out. She walked around and straightened things that might have been moved by the police, or perhaps she was just being paranoid. What was it that Detective Terry had said? Don’t worry—we didn’t trash your place. That only happens on TV. Pushing the unpleasant thought—and the unpleasant man—from her mind, she glanced around the red-themed kitchen and contemplated repainting. All the rooms decorated under her mother’s heavy hand were looking a little dated. In fact, she’d love to sell the town house outright and find another place for them to live, someplace with only two bedrooms and a larger living area, rather than having to walk by their parents’ empty bedroom every day. But Wesley wouldn’t hear of moving. He was afraid they would miss a postcard or a phone call…or the reappearance of their prodigal parents. Heaving a sigh, Carlotta filled an insulated mug with coffee and cream to drink during the drive to work. Then she grabbed her purse and walked through the living room to the front door. In the corner of the living room, the small aluminum fringe Christmas tree that had occupied the same spot for the ten years that her parents had been gone stirred anger in her stomach. Her mother had put up the tacky little tree the day after Thanksgiving and put a few presents under it, then had skipped town with their father two weeks later. Carlotta often wondered if her mother had felt guilty about abandoning her children just before Christmas, if Valerie had considered the tears that Wesley had shed Christmas morning when she and their father had failed to return, dashing his hopes for a Christmas surprise. Carlotta loathed the raggedy little tree that had lost most of its luster, but Wesley had insisted that they leave the tree up and the presents underneath so they could celebrate when their parents came home. She had been eager to comfort her little brother in those first few weeks and months after her parents had left, but eventually she had begun to resent the tree’s lopsided shape and the pathetic little pile of presents underneath. She’d long forgotten what she’d wrapped to give to her mother and father, and no longer cared what they had given to her. Several times over the years she had broached the subject of taking down the tree or, when money had been tight, of opening the gifts in the event that they contained cash, only to be met with Wesley’s curt refusal. He was obsessed with the tree, as if somehow by taking it down, they would be giving up on their parents ever coming home. That ship had sailed for her years ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to hurt Wesley yet again by taking it down. Turmoil rolled in her empty stomach. She was never sure how to handle her sensitive, quirky brother, so she usually erred on the soft side. Too soft, apparently. She opened the door, stepped out onto the stoop and bent to retrieve the newspaper. Around her, the neighborhood was peaceful, if a little shabby. Downsizing from their lavish home in a tony neighborhood to a town house in a “transitional” area had been a blow to her mother, who had chirped that it was only temporary and then taken another drinkie-poo. “Carlotta!” Carlotta winced, then turned to face her busybody neighbor. “Good morning, Mrs. Winningham. How are you today?” The woman stood on the stoop next door with her head jutted forward, her eyes narrowed. “Why were the police at your place yesterday?” Carlotta gave a hoarse little laugh. “Oh, that? It was a mistake. They were at the wrong address.” Mrs. Winningham frowned. “I saw them carry a bunch of computers out of there.” “Everything is fine, Mrs. Winningham. I have to run—I’m late.” Carlotta jogged down the steps and toward the garage while holding down the button on the remote control for the garage door. The noise of the door going up drowned out the woman’s words, and Carlotta waved cheerfully as she swung into her dark blue Monte Carlo. She muttered a curse under her breath at the woman’s snooping, then started her car. The Monte Carlo was another sore spot—she loathed the car. Her beloved ten-year-old white Miata convertible sat like a sick and neglected pet next to her new car. Just before last Christmas, her Miata had died and she couldn’t afford to have it fixed. So she’d taken advantage of a dealer’s offer to test-drive a vehicle for twenty-four hours before buying it. Except the night she had taken the vehicle out for a test-drive was the night that she and her friends had crashed the party where a man had been murdered. She’d been taken to the police station for questioning and the car impounded. When she’d been released and had finally tracked down the car, the twenty-four-hour return period had expired and she owned the car by default. The money that her friend Jolie had given her had kept Carlotta from having to sell her beloved, crippled Miata convertible to satisfy Wesley’s debt. She still held out hope to have it back in working condition someday so she could get rid of the Monte Carlo—although what the Monte Carlo was worth amounted to less than what she owed on it. Her life was a catastrophe. Next to her Miata sat another thorn in her side: Wesley’s newly acquired motorcycle, a fluorescent-green crotch rocket. He’d already received so many speeding tickets, his driver’s license had been suspended, which only made him more prone to stay at home in his room and mess around with his computers. Puffing out her cheeks in an exhale, she backed out of the driveway, avoiding eye contact with Mrs. Winningham, and steered the car toward the Lenox Mall. She knew every curve of the road of her commute. The first traffic light would stay red long enough for her to take a long drink of coffee and scan the first three pages of the newspaper. The second light would stay red long enough to allow her to read any article that had caught her eye. The article that caught her eye this morning reported a rash of crimes in the area surrounding the mall where she worked—purse snatchings, muggings at gunpoint, even an attempted assault. There were also some disturbing reports of a ring of identity thieves operating in the Buckhead area. And then she saw it: Man Arrested and Charged With Breaking Into Atlanta Courthouse Records—Wesley Wren, 19, of Atlanta was arrested yesterday and charged with hacking into the records of the Atlanta City Courthouse database, a federal offense. A police spokesperson wouldn’t comment on how much data might have been compromised during the break-in, but maintained that records confidentiality and identity theft is a top priority for the department and that hackers will be prosecuted “vigorously.” Vigorously. Carlotta scowled. Since Detective Jack Terry had used that exact wording during their conversation, it wasn’t a stretch to identify him as the officer who had leaked the story to the newspaper. And he had pretended to be sympathetic to her situation. The brute. The sound of blaring car horns jarred her back to the traffic. The light was green and Atlanta drivers brooked no hesitation. She gunned forward, begrudgingly admitting that the Monte Carlo’s engine did have some pickup, and fumed all the way to work. How many of her co-workers would see the article? And Angela Ashford would be able to tell her girlfriends that she was there when Carlotta had received the call from her jailbird brother—but then, like father, like son, of course. With her exit looming, Carlotta wondered idly what would happen if she just kept driving up Interstate 75 and didn’t stop until she was…somewhere else, far away from Atlanta. What would everyone think—that she’d been abducted, or perhaps had suffered some kind of mental breakdown? No, everyone would assume that she had run from her problems, as her parents had. Some might even think she’d gone to join them. That thought, combined with the knowledge that she couldn’t abandon Wesley, not when he was in so much trouble, made her put on her signal and take the exit, as she’d done thousands of times over the past ten years. A few minutes later she slid into a parking place, jumped out and trotted toward the elevator. She was only a few minutes late, but the general manager, Lindy Russell, was still perturbed with Carlotta over the clothes-borrowing business and was keeping a close eye on her. When Carlotta opened the door to the meeting room, Lindy, who was standing, paused midsentence to frown. “Nice of you to join us, Carlotta.” Carlotta flushed and slipped into a seat in the back row, next to Michael Lane. “You’re late,” he whispered. “Did you take care of Double-A yesterday?” she whispered back. “Yes. She was drunk on her pretty ass and not happy with you.” She winced. “Sorry.” “Don’t worry—I rang up the sale under your employee ID.” She grinned. “You’re a gem.” “I know.” She looked toward the front of the meeting room. “What did I miss?” “Nothing. It’s security update time.” Sure enough, the mall security director, a tall, wiry man with a crew cut, sat in a chair next to Lindy. “With the upswing in crime in the area around the mall,” Lindy was saying, “I asked our security director, Akin Frasier, to sit in on our meeting, and a representative from the Atlanta PD to join us and share some tips to help all of us be more safety conscious.” Since safety updates were fairly routine—and routinely boring—Carlotta settled in to enjoy the rest of her coffee. “Please welcome Detective Jack Terry.” Carlotta choked back her surprise, and then joined in the mild applause as the man rose from a seat near the front and nodded amiably to the crowd. He sent a special smile in her direction. She frowned, sinking lower in her seat. Michael eyed her suspiciously. “Good morning,” the detective said. His voice was pleasant enough, but for some reason she suspected he hadn’t volunteered for this job. And she noticed his tie was as bad as yesterday’s. Christ, the man must be color-blind. “I want to tell you a few things you can do to minimize your chances of becoming a victim,” he said, his voice almost too big for the room. “First, don’t look like a victim. Always be aware of your surroundings. Try to buddy up when you walk to your cars, or ask for a security escort.” He continued with a litany of Safety 101 tips, but Carlotta found herself tuning out, distracted by the man himself, trying to ascertain something about him from his body language. He moved with athletic ease as he addressed the crowd, making eye contact and gesturing for emphasis. She wondered what would make someone choose law enforcement as a career. Maybe it was a family legacy. Or perhaps it was a career choice born of his size. A man with such a powerful build would naturally be drawn to a physical occupation. When he lifted his large hands in the air to make a point, she squirmed, remembering him touching her arm yesterday, as if to comfort her. She smirked, glad that she hadn’t fallen for his act. His left hand was bare of rings—no surprise there. Jack Terry seemed to fancy himself some kind of ladies’ man, so a wife would probably cramp his style. No doubt he had a girlfriend or three, all of them working jobs that mandated a midriff-baring uniform. His nose and forehead were ruddy from a sunburn—he seemed like the kind of guy who played touch football with his back-slapping buddies on the weekends while consuming enormous amounts of beer. “Any questions?” the detective asked, all smiles. Carlotta raised her hand. His mouth twitched. “Yes?” “Detective Terry, doesn’t the police department have better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks to death?” Michael elbowed her. “That was rude,” he hissed. Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably and Lindy rose to save the detective from answering, but he looked at Carlotta, smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, yes, we do have better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks to death. But we get a sick kind of pleasure out of it. Any other questions?” Chuckles sounded around the room. She gave him ten points for being witty, then took them back because it was at her expense. Lindy glared at her, even more so when her cell phone’s ringtone started its rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” “Uh-oh,” Michael muttered. “The boss lady is going to slay you.” But Carlotta didn’t care at the moment because the caller ID said it was her home number. Wesley could be in trouble again. She scrambled out of the row and dashed out of the meeting room, pushing the Incoming Call button as soon as she cleared the door. “Hello?” “Is this Carlotta?” a deep, sandpapery voice asked. “Yes,” she said, frowning. “Who is this?” “I work for Father Thom, and he wanted me to tell you that your brother still owes him a shitload of money. He wants a payment, pronto.” Carlotta gripped the phone. “Wh-where’s Wesley?” “Right here,” the man said pleasantly. “He didn’t want me to call you, but I convinced him it was the right thing to do.” “Don’t worry, sis,” Wesley said in the background. “I got it covered.” The man guffawed into the phone. “Yeah, right. You have a week to come up with a grand. See ya soon, sis.” The call was disconnected and Carlotta felt dizzy from the air being squeezed out of her lungs. Wesley must have squandered his “emergency fund” in the tennis-ball can in the garage. Otherwise he surely would have given it to the thug. Desperation clawed at her. How could she get a thousand dollars together in a week? A small cry escaped from her throat. “Are you okay?” She jumped, then turned to see Detective Jack Terry standing next to her, his gaze curious…and concerned. She straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine.” “You don’t look fine. You look like you just got an upsetting phone call.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I said I’m fine.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “You leaked Wesley’s arrest to the newspaper.” He frowned. “No, I didn’t.” “Liar.” His eyebrows went up, then he laughed. “Yeah, I’ve told a few whoppers in my time, but I’m not lying now. Besides, arrest reports are a matter of public record.” “This article quoted a spokesperson.” “Which is whoever answers the precinct phone. Look, Ms. Wren, I’m glad we caught your brother before he was able to do more harm, but I’m not out for his blood. The D.A.’s office, on the other hand, might be. They’re probably the ones who called the newspaper, maybe thinking it would draw out your father.” She bit down on the inside of her cheek, irritated that he seemed to have a pat answer for everything. He squinted. “Weren’t your eyes brown yesterday?” She frowned. “I should get back to the staff meeting.” “Okay.” He nodded toward her cell phone. “But are you sure I can’t help you with whatever is bothering you?” He’d probably love to hear that on top of Wesley’s legal trouble, he was in debt to two unsavory characters. That would seal his opinion that Wesley was no good, just like their father. “I’m sure,” she said evenly. “Goodbye, Detective Terry. Have a nice life.” He laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Wren, but I have a feeling that our paths will cross again.” Carlotta watched him stride away, ugly tie flapping, and muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 5 By Friday morning, Carlotta thought she might be having a nervous breakdown—four nights of stress-induced insomnia were taking their toll. “We have four days, Wesley. Where are we going to get the rest of the money to pay this Father Thom character?” Wesley frowned and popped the top of a can of Red Bull, his standard breakfast drink. “Don’t worry, sis. I’ll think of something.” Her blood pressure ballooned. “Think of something? Wesley, your arraignment is Monday and you might be in jail Tuesday! How are you going to pay off these thugs if you’re in jail?” “Liz isn’t going to let me go to jail.” She arched an eyebrow. “Liz?” His cheeks colored. “She told me to call her Liz.” Weighing her words, she said, “I don’t like the idea of you becoming chummy with that woman.” “We’re not chummy,” he said in a teenage-weary tone. “She’s a good lawyer, and she’s handling my case pro bono.” Carlotta’s mouth puckered. “As if we’re some charity case. And what makes you think she’s a good lawyer?” “Dad hired her, didn’t he?” She swallowed her words about what services her father actually had been paying for. “If he had so much faith in Liz Fischer, then why did he skip town?” Wesley blanched, and immediately she was sorry. She had promised herself over the years that she would refrain from badmouthing her parents in front of her brother, thinking that when he became an adult, he would naturally reach the same conclusion that she had: that their mother was an unfeeling coward and their father an unfeeling, unlawful coward. But apparently he wasn’t yet ready to let go of his childhood fantasies. “Okay, time out,” she said, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table and lowering her head into her hands. “I’m scared for you, Wesley. You’re in big trouble here.” He downed the drink. “And Liz Fischer is the best chance I have to make things right and get back on track.” She sighed and looked up. “I still think I should go with you today to talk about your case. I don’t trust Liz Fischer as much as you do.” He lifted his empty can high and aimed for the trash can across the room, let it fly, and grinned when it dropped in. She glared until he sobered. Then he ambled over to the table, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Sis, I know you want to help, but please let me handle this. I promise everything’s going to work out.” Staring up at him, an overwhelming sense of d?j? vu washed over her. Ten years ago she had been sitting at this table, eavesdropping on her parents’ conversation in the next room. “Let me handle this, Valerie. I promise everything’s going to work out for us.” For us, her father had said, as in for him and her mother. Not for her and Wesley. They’d been left to fend for themselves. She studied her brother’s sharp, precise features, so like her father’s, and the familiar sense of love tinged with helplessness crowded her chest. When had he grown up? It seemed like only yesterday she was putting Band-Aids on his knees and helping him with science experiments. And now suddenly he was an adult, with adult problems that she couldn’t fix, and might even have contributed to… “Sis?” She blinked. “Yeah?” “I said let me take care of this. Don’t worry, okay?” He leaned down and dropped a fleeting kiss on her forehead on his way toward the door, but the rare display of affection was enough to distract her from her troublesome thoughts. She so wanted to believe him. “Do you want me to drop you at her office on my way to work?” “Nope. I’ll take the train.” “Call me and let me know what happened.” “Yup.” The front door banged closed, and she sighed, her shoulders drooping. A headache pressed behind eyes that were gritty and dry from lack of sleep. Despite Wesley’s assurances, worry leaked back into her mind, and she suddenly longed for something to numb her senses for a while. Her gaze drifted to the liquor cabinet, which, out of deference to Wesley’s age, held exactly two bottles of wine—a cheap chardonnay that she’d gotten at a gift swap at the Christmas office party, and a decent pinot noir that she had bought on impulse two years ago, thinking it would be nice to have on hand in case someone special stopped by unexpectedly for a romantic evening. A dry laugh escaped her. What had she been smoking that night? She’d had about a half-dozen dates since then, none of them interesting enough to inspire an encore, much less the label “special.” Her friend Hannah claimed that she had been without a man for so long, she was officially a re-virgin. Thinking of her friend who was in Chicago on a field trip with her culinary class, she sighed, missing Hannah, missing being able to share her recent drama with the only person she knew whose life was more tragic than her own. Carlotta glanced at her watch. It was an hour earlier in Chicago. Hannah was a notoriously late sleeper, but if she called now, she could be sure to catch Hannah before she was out and about for the day. She dialed her friend’s cell-phone number. On the sixth ring, Hannah’s sleep-muffled voice came on the line. “Who the fuck is calling me at seven-thirty in the goddamn morning?” “Good morning, sunshine. And it’s eight-thirty in Atlanta.” “Christ, Carlotta, this had better be important. Did you get laid?” “No. I called because I miss you, you hag.” “Yeah, right. What’s up?” Carlotta sighed. “It’s Wesley. He’s in trouble…again.” “What’s the little shit done this time?” Hannah was the only person who could get away with calling Wesley names, because Carlotta knew that beneath her crusty veneer, Hannah was protective of him. “He got arrested for hacking into the courthouse database.” “I knew he was a smart little dude, but…damn. Why would he do something like that?” “To delete his traffic violations.” “Wow, can he do that? I’ve got a couple of parking tickets I wouldn’t mind having taken care of.” “Hannah.” “Sorry. So how much trouble is he in?” “I’m not sure yet, but he could go to jail.” “Yikes, Wesley’s too pretty to survive in jail.” “I’m so regretting making this phone call.” “Sorry. Do you want my attorney’s number? He did a great job of getting my assault charge against Russell dismissed.” Hannah had a thing for married guys—and for public breakups, which her last married guy had responded to by filing an assault charge. “Uh, thanks, but Wesley already has an attorney.” Plus, she suspected that Hannah’s ex dropping the charges had more to do with his reluctance to face the six-foot-tall, tongue-pierced, stripe-haired, goth-garbed Hannah in an open courtroom than with her attorney’s expertise. “His arraignment is Monday.” “I won’t be back until Tuesday or I’d go with you. Is there anything I can do from here to help?” A rush of fondness swelled Carlotta’s chest and she laughed. “Not unless you have a spare thousand you could wire me.” Her friend would know she was kidding, of course. Hannah earned barely enough with her sporadic catering work to pay for her culinary classes. “Uh-oh. Does this have to do with his case or something else?” “Something else.” Hannah sighed. “His loan sharks again?” “Yeah.” “Gee, Carlotta, you know I’d give it to you if I had it, but even if I did, that’s only a temporary solution. How much does he owe now?” She closed her eyes and swallowed bile. “Close to twenty thousand.” “Shit fuck fire.” “I know.” Hannah groaned. “Carlotta, I know you don’t want to hear this, but don’t you think it’s time for little brother to grow up? I mean, Christ, when you were his age you were raising a kid.” Carlotta sank her teeth into her lower lip. She’d been the only eighteen-year-old at the middle-school PTA meetings, and she had sheltered Wesley so he could enjoy his childhood for as long as possible. But Hannah had a point. “You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “But I think he’s trying to take responsibility for what he did. He wouldn’t let me go to the attorney’s office with him.” “Good, give him some rope, Carlotta.” “But what if he hangs himself with it?” “Just make sure he doesn’t have the other end tied around your neck. That boy needs some tough love, or you’ll be bailing him out of jail and out of debt for the rest of your life.” “You’re right. I’ll try.” “Meanwhile, the little shit needs to get a job—how’s that for a revolutionary idea? I might be able to get him some catering work, but he’d need a car.” “And a driver’s license, so that’s out. But thanks. And thanks for the pep talk. Sorry I woke you up.” “Ah, hell, we were awake…sort of.” “We?” “My pastry instructor. I told you how cute he is.” Carlotta frowned. “And how married he is.” “That, too. Hang in there and good luck on Monday. I’ll call you when I get back.” The call was disconnected, leaving Carlotta to shake her head. One of these days Hannah was going to meet up with a vindictive wife in a dark alley. She drank from her coffee cup, but the liquid had gone cold. She winced, her mind still whirling with questions and what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. Then she pushed to her feet, thinking she might as well go to work. As much as the loan shark’s voice haunted her, she could only deal with one crisis at a time. First, they had to get through Wesley’s arraignment on Monday. She didn’t trust Liz Fischer, but she hoped that this time her father’s former mistress had something helpful up her skirt. 6 Carlotta sat in the back row of the courthouse gallery, shooting anxious glances between the wall clock and the door. She and Wesley had arrived together, but he’d said he needed to visit the men’s room and that was thirty minutes ago. Arraignments would begin in three minutes, and Wesley’s case, Liz Fischer had warned, could fall anywhere in the lineup, so he had to be prompt if he wanted the deal that she’d managed to work out with the D.A. The rows of chairs in the gallery were crowded with people of all shapes and sizes, some of them nervous and fidgety, others merely bored. Liz Fischer stood next to the front row and cast furtive glances at her watch. The district attorney, Kelvin Lucas, sat sprawled in a chair across the aisle wearing a smug smile as the seconds ticked away. Carlotta remembered the way the man had grilled her after her parents had disappeared. “They must have said where they were going, or called to say they were okay. If you know something and you don’t tell me, young lady, I’ll have to charge you with accessory, and then who’ll take care of your brother?” But she’d stood her ground—she hadn’t known where they were. If she had, she would’ve turned them in just to stop her brother’s tears. The man’s hair was grayer, his neck thicker, but the arrogant set of his mouth was unmistakable. “Tracking down Randolph Wren is my top priority,” he’d said to a TV reporter ten years ago, a vein jumping in his forehead. “Now it’s personal.” When his heavy-lidded gaze now landed on Carlotta, she swallowed and looked away. The man gave her the creeps, although she supposed that was part of his job description. She wondered if he had any idea who she was and how much he’d added to her nightmares at a time when she’d thought she might never sleep again. “Did you lose your client?” Carlotta heard him ask Liz Fischer, his voice cutting through the noise. “He’ll be here,” Liz responded, her tone cool. Lucas gave a derisive laugh. “It’s d?j? vu, Counselor. Just like ten years ago.” Carlotta set her jaw. Ignoring the man, Liz strode toward her and leaned down. “Where the hell is Wesley?” “He’s in the restroom,” Carlotta said hotly. “He’ll be here in a minute.” “He’d better,” the woman said. “I don’t even want to think about what I had to do to get him this deal.” Carlotta gave her a pointed look. “I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t done before.” “All rise,” the bailiff announced as the judge walked in. “Go find him,” Liz said through clenched teeth. Carlotta rose and exited the rear doors into the hallway, nodding at the guards stationed there. She scanned the area for Wesley, panic gathering in her chest. Had he fallen ill? Been detained in some way? Another thought slid into her mind and took her breath away. Had Wesley, who so adored their father, somehow gotten it into his head to imitate The Bird’s behavior, to earn his own notorious reputation? She asked one of the guards for directions to the men’s room. She practically ran in the direction the man pointed and when she found it, hesitated only a second before barreling inside. There she found Wesley leaning over a sink, his mouth bloody and his clothes disheveled and a bulky man standing over him—Detective Jack Terry. Her maternal hackles stood on end. “Get away from him!” She went in slapping at the bigger man like a windmill. “Hey, hey, hey!” he said, arms raised to ward off her blows while he backed up. Then he grabbed her wrists and held her, his eyes blazing. “What the devil are you doing?” “This is police brutality!” she cried. “Help, someone!” He released her wrist to clamp a hand over her mouth. “Shut up before you get someone hurt, dammit. I walked in and found your brother like this. I was trying to help him get cleaned up before his court appearance.” She cut her gaze to Wesley for confirmation and her brother nodded. “He was trying to help,” he mumbled through a fat lip. She relaxed and the detective released her, her red lipstick bright against his fingers. “What happened?” Wesley dabbed at the blood on his face. “Some guy jumped me, took my wallet.” She narrowed her eyes at him in the mirror but bit her tongue. She’d bet anything the “guy” had something to do with Father Thom, a detail that Detective Terry didn’t need to know. “Liz Fischer sent me to find you. You need to get to the courtroom right away.” She moved next to him, her heart beating faster to see his puffy lip and bloody teeth. At least his glasses weren’t broken. “Are you okay?” She reached for him, but he leaned away. “I’m fine, sis,” he said, then walked toward the exit, tossing the wet napkin in the trash. “Let’s get this over with.” When the door closed, she turned to face the detective, who seemed bemused. “Told you we’d be crossing paths again,” he said. “I just didn’t think it would be in the men’s room.” She glanced around the slightly grubby tiled room lined with urinals. “Um, sorry for…attacking you.” “Don’t mention it.” Then he frowned. “Your brother seems to be having a string of bad luck.” “Yes. Thanks for helping him.” “Just doing my job,” he said smoothly. “I hear that Liz Fischer made a deal with the D.A.” “Yes, thank goodness.” Then she frowned. “Do you know Liz?” “Sure,” he said with a slow smile. “Liz and I are…friendly.” She pushed her cheek out with her tongue. “I so didn’t need to know that.” He shrugged. “Just making conversation.” Then he gestured toward the urinals. “Now, if you don’t mind, I actually came in here for a reason.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Hmm? Oh…” A blush climbed her neck as she turned on her heel and headed for the door. “But I need to talk to you,” he said behind her. “Save me a seat.” “Fat chance,” she muttered. When she entered the courtroom, she slid into a seat in the back row just as Wesley’s case was being called. He and Liz Fischer stepped forward and took their place behind the defendant’s table. Her brother looked so handsome in the brown suit that she’d pulled out of his closet, cut off the tags and forced him to wear. His normally shaggy hair was combed and his posture was arrow straight. But Carlotta’s gaze was riveted on how Liz touched Wesley’s chin and peered at his injury, then angled her head toward his ear as the judge situated his paperwork. Her body language seemed almost…intimate. Carlotta hardened her jaw. Had the woman transferred her affection to the son of her former lover? “Don’t look so grim,” Detective Terry murmured in her ear as he took the seat next to her. “If the judge goes along with the plea bargain, your brother’s getting off easy.” Carlotta frowned, and leaned away from the man who had somehow insinuated himself into their lives. Unbidden, thoughts of the detective and Liz Fischer together in bed popped into her head. She squeezed her eyes shut. Good grief, what was it about stick-thin women that drove men nuts? “Can’t bear to watch, huh?” the detective whispered, touching her arm. She opened her eyes, exasperated. “Shut. Up.” She looked down and pulled her arm away. “And I hope you washed your hands.” “I did—had to get the lipstick off.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Speaking of which, you could use a touch-up.” She glared and snatched the hankie, then used a mirror to wipe her smeared lips and handed it back to him. He looked at the now-pink hankie. “You can keep it.” She shoved it into her purse and looked to the front of the courtroom. “And the state is satisfied with the plea agreement?” the judge was asking the D.A. Kelvin Lucas dragged himself to his feet, then gave Wesley a long, slow look, before turning back to the judge. “The state is satisfied, Your Honor.” “Very well. The defendant is hereby sentenced to five thousand dollars in reparations, one hundred hours of community service, which will include collaboration with the city on computer security, and one year of probation.” He banged a gavel. “Next case.” The sigh of relief she’d been saving remained pent-up in Carlotta’s chest at the realization that yet more debt had just been heaped onto their already considerable pile. Add to that her credit card balances and the miscellaneous bills that were late, and the fact that tomorrow a big, hairy guy was coming by to collect a thousand dollars they didn’t have, and she could barely push herself to her feet and toward the door. She just wanted things to be…good. She’d given up on easy years ago, but good would be nice. To her chagrin, Detective Terry was on her heels. “Ms. Wren, I need to talk to you.” She turned and sighed. “What do you want, Detective—to tell me more about your manly conquests?” A whisper of a smile crossed his mouth before his eyes turned serious. “Er, no. When was the last time you heard from your parents?” She frowned. “I don’t remember—oh, we received a postcard maybe two years ago.” “From where?” “Texas, maybe. I don’t recall.” “Where is the postcard?” “I threw it away.” His eyebrows went up. “One of the few pieces of communication that you’ve had from your fugitive parents, and you threw it away? That’s destroying evidence.” Anger surged in her blood. “So arrest me, Detective.” His mouth flattened into a thin line. “Ms. Wren, I think you and your brother both are keeping secrets. I think you might know where your parents are.” “Well, you’re wrong.” “I can have your cell-phone records seized. And your mail.” For a second, she wondered if that might buy her time to pay her bills, but then she fisted her hands at her sides. “You’d be wasting your time. Besides, I figured you were too busy giving McGruff the Crime Dog speeches to salesclerks to be digging around in an old case that not even the D.A. cares about anymore.” “Wrong, Ms. Wren.” She turned to see Kelvin Lucas standing there, slump-shouldered, his hands in his pants pockets. “I do care. Funny thing, your brother’s arrest got me all interested in your fugitive daddy all over again. I’ve reassigned the case to Detective Terry here because he always gets his man, don’t you, Detective?” A muscle worked in the detective’s jaw. “Yes, sir.” Lucas smiled, but his eyes remained hard and cold. “So just in case this trouble that your delinquent brother’s gotten himself into happens to smoke out your runaway parents, Detective Terry will be watching. And if I hear that your brother does anything to violate his probation, I’ll nail his scrawny ass to the wall.” The D.A. walked away, his hard-sole shoes clicking against the floor. Carlotta scowled at the detective and he scowled back. “I know my rights,” she said with more confidence than she felt, pulling herself up to her full height, which, even in heels, brought her only up to the man’s chin. “Stay away from me and my brother or I’ll…I’ll…” “You’ll what?” he asked dryly. “I’ll sic your ex-lover Liz on you.” She smirked—ten points for her. But he barked out a laugh. “Lady, you’re way more scary than Liz, and that’s saying a lot.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like the idea of you watching me.” “You’ll get used to it.” He gave her a little salute and walked away. 7 Wesley swung his legs over the edge of his bed, put on his glasses and stared in the predawn light at the empty wall unit where a dozen monitors, hard drives, routers, keyboards, joysticks and printers had once sat, all interconnected. Damn, the police had cleaned him out. They’d even taken his software cabinet, games and landline phones. He smiled to himself. It was a good thing that he kept all his good equipment at his buddy Chance’s apartment. He stood and stretched the kinks out of his neck, a bothersome side effect of spending so many hours bent over a keyboard. Whew. Thank goodness the business with the police had been settled yesterday in court. Liz Fischer was a godsend…and a hottie. Too bad a woman like her would never take him seriously—movies like The Graduate and PS gave guys like him false hope. Walking to the bathroom connected to his room, he rubbed his sore mouth, working his jaw. He wished he knew who had sent the guy who’d jumped him in the courthouse bathroom, but the thug seemed to prefer to talk with his hands. In truth, the guy could have been working for either one of the people that he owed—Father Thom being his biggest creditor. Then again, the guy robbing him could have been a coincidence. But he doubted it. The worst part was that he’d been carrying the fifteen hundred that Chance had paid him for deleting the speeding tickets—money he’d planned to take to Father Thom this morning. Instead, he’d have to scrounge together a few hundred from his various hiding places and beg for more time. He thought about showering, but decided that fresh deodorant and mouthwash would suffice. If he got the ass-kicking he expected from Father Thom’s thugs, a soak in a hot tub of water was probably in his near future anyway. He rooted around the floor for a cleanish pair of jeans and pulled a T-shirt from the laundry basket of clothes he hadn’t gotten around to folding. He dressed and shoved his feet into his old Merrell slip-ons, mourning his brown suede Pumas, and kicked Hubert’s decaying shoes near his trash can. In the fifty-gallon glass aquarium on the other side of the room, a mouse scurried around, terrified. A pang of remorse hit him and he walked over, unlocked the pin and slid the screen top aside. With a practiced hand, he captured the mouse and held it up by its tail. “Relax, buddy, you got a reprieve. Einstein must be fasting again.” He stared down at the black-and-gray spotted axanthic ball python, all six feet of his longtime pet coiled disinterestedly in a corner. “Finicky reptile, are you sure you aren’t female? Or vegetarian?” Einstein didn’t move, and would likely stay in his stoic position for the next several hours. The police search, with all the activity and noise, must have traumatized him. Wesley slid the cover closed, locked the pin, then returned the lucky mouse to a smaller container. Sometimes he thought that Einstein didn’t eat out of sympathy for his prey. When he did feed, it was as if he would begrudgingly relent, then coil around and squeeze his prey to death before it had time to react, and swallow it promptly, as if to get it over with. Carlotta thought the snake was a man-eater, but Wesley could barely get him to eat enough to sustain his monstrous size. Wesley sometimes wondered, though, what his pet could kill and consume if it were motivated. Hearing a noise in the hallway, Wesley frowned. He’d hoped to be out of the house before Carlotta got up, partly because he didn’t want to worry her, and partly because he didn’t want to face her. The fact that she wasn’t normally an early riser told him that she probably hadn’t slept well, and no doubt he was the cause. Frustration tightened his chest. He just needed some time and space to get things worked out with his creditors and to investigate his father’s case. Although he appreciated his sister’s concern, her hovering was making things more complicated. He made his way around the room and checked various hiding places—the hem of the curtain, the hollow leg of his metal bed, inside his worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye—and counted up three hundred sixty dollars. He heard a muffled voice and realized that Carlotta was calling his name. God, he hoped she hadn’t set the kitchen on fire again. He grabbed his backpack and stuffed his iPod, cell phone and money inside. Then he stepped out into the hall and closed his bedroom door. It was a house rule that his bedroom door be closed at all times because Carlotta lived in fear that Einstein would somehow escape his enclosure. “Wesley!” “I’m coming,” he yelled. But when he reached the living room, he stopped short. Sitting next to Carlotta on the couch was Tick, the tub of lard who had forced his way in the house last week and called Carlotta at work. “Mornin’, Wesley,” the guy said, smiling and patting Carlotta’s knee. Carlotta, clutching the newspaper, looked terrified. Tick must have been waiting for her when she stepped outside to leave for work. Fury balled in Wesley’s stomach—he wanted to kill the guy. He had always wished he was big and beefy like Chance, but never more so than at this moment. “Leave her alone,” was all he could say. “Where’s the money?” Tick asked. Wesley pulled himself up to his full height. “Maybe you can tell me.” Tick laughed. “What are you talkin’ about?” “I was jumped yesterday. Guy took all that I was carrying. I figured it was for Father Thom.” Tick wagged his fat head. “Nope. Must have been someone else you owe.” Wesley couldn’t tell if he was lying—but then, did it really matter? Then the man’s eyes grew mean. “So like I said, where’s the money?” Wesley reached into his backpack. “After yesterday, three-sixty was all I could get together.” Tick laughed. “You’re shittin’ me, right?” Wesley extended the money and, as he hoped, Tick lurched to his feet to count it. “This ain’t enough, Wesley. Father Thom gave me strict orders not to leave here with less than a grand. You don’t want to get me in trouble with my boss, do you?” Wesley swallowed. “No. But you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.” Tick grinned. “Sure I can.” “Wait a minute,” Carlotta said, her voice trembling. “Nobody’s going to squeeze blood out of anybody. I have the money.” Wesley and Tick both looked at her. “You do?” they asked in unison. Wesley frowned. “How?” “Get it,” Tick said. “I’m beginning to lose patience with you two.” Carlotta pushed to her feet and dropped the newspaper into a chair, then marched out of the room toward her bedroom. Tick watched her leave and sucked his teeth. “Your sister’s got a smokin’ bod.” “Watch your mouth,” Wesley said, clenching his fists. The big man looked at him and laughed. “I guess if my sister looked like that, I’d be stupid about it, too.” Then the man sobered. “But you are stupid if you think that Father Thom won’t go after her if you’re late again. Remember that real hard, little man.” Wesley opened his mouth to say something foul but stopped himself when he heard Carlotta’s footsteps. “Here’s the other six hundred forty,” she said, extending a stack of cash to Tick, her expression tight. “Now, please leave.” The big man took his time counting the money, then shoved it into his pocket and smiled. “See how easy that was? Do this every week and pretty soon, you’ll be debt free, just like all those commercials on TV promise.” “Get out,” Carlotta said through clenched teeth. “Or I’ll call the police.” Tick laughed. “Yeah…right.” Then he looked at Wesley. “Remember what I said, little man.” Wesley’s throat burned with bile as he watched the man walk heavily toward the door. At the last second, Tick turned his head and glanced at the aluminum Christmas tree in the corner of the room. “Merry fucking Christmas,” he said sarcastically before banging the door shut behind him. They were both quiet for a few seconds. He almost couldn’t bear to look at his sister. When he did, her eyes were stormy, her arms crossed, her back rigid. He gave her his best little-brother smile. “Where did you get the money?” “A cash advance on my credit card,” she said quietly. “My last credit card.” “Well…thanks,” he said. “I’m sorry that had to happen here. I was going to take care of it—” “Shut up, Wesley!” He blinked. “You. Have. To. Get. A. Job.” “I’m supposed to upgrade two of the Sheltons’ computers this week.” “I mean a real job,” she said, walking toward him slowly, stabbing her finger in the air, “with a paycheck and maybe even something as radical as health benefits. And you’re not allowed to work on computers, remember? You’re on probation for computer tampering! And that toad Lucas told me that if you violate your probation, he’d nail your ass to the wall. Is that what you want, Wesley? To go to jail?” “Relax, sis,” he said, raising his hands and backing toward the door. “Relax?” Her dark eyebrows drew together and her finger started to shake. “Listen to me, Wesley, and listen good. The free ride is over. Get a job and start taking responsibility for your debt, or—” Her throat constricted. “Or get out.” Wesley reeled as if she’d slapped him. He blinked rapidly as she picked up her purse and walked past him and out the front door. He heard the dull hum of the garage door going up, and the growl of her car starting. When the garage door came back down, he exhaled. Maybe it would be better if he slept on Chance’s couch for a while. Maybe Carlotta would be better off without him. And maybe it would give him the space he needed to look into his dad’s case. He returned to his room and tossed a few things into a duffel bag. Chance wouldn’t mind him crashing there for a while—his friend was stoned most of the time anyway. Einstein would be fine for a few days. Outside on the stoop, he locked the door and was heading down the sidewalk toward the Marta train station when a black Cadillac pulled up to the curb and the passenger-side window zoomed down. A man’s face came into view, and Wesley’s knees weakened. “Hey, Wesley, where you going?” Wesley shouldered his duffel bag higher. “Nowhere, Mouse.” “Really? Looks to me like you’re trying to skip town.” “Nah, Mouse, I was just going to visit a friend.” “You missed your last payment,” the man said pleasantly. “I know. I ran into some trouble with the police.” “I read the papers,” Mouse said. “Thought I’d give you a chance to get square with The Carver before you go to jail.” It occurred to Wesley that it was probably The Carver’s guy who’d jumped him in the courthouse john. “I got probation,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “Good for you,” Mouse said. “So you’re going to make your next payment on time?” “Sure thing.” “Terrific,” Mouse said, nodding amiably. “Because I wouldn’t want to report back that you got the money to pay that crook Father Thom and not us.” Wesley considered lying but decided to remain silent. “Don’t be a stranger.” Mouse nodded toward the town house. “We know where you live.” The car window buzzed up and the car pulled away from the curb. Panic curdled in Wesley’s stomach as he stood watching the taillights, weighing his options. Stay and continue to expose Carlotta to the dangerous men he’d gotten himself involved with…or go and leave her at home alone where she might be even more vulnerable. 8 “Thanks for shopping with us,” Carlotta said, forcing a smile for the guy who had made countless innuendos while selecting a skimpy red teddy. He took the shopping bag and grinned, still leaning on the checkout counter. “I’d like to call you sometime.” She swallowed her distaste and nodded toward the bag. “I assumed this was a gift for your girlfriend.” “No, my mother.” “You bought your mother a red teddy?” He laughed but didn’t have the decency to look sheepish. “You got me there. Okay, it’s for my girlfriend…but it’s a breakup gift.” “Ah. Well, thanks anyway, but I’m not available.” He stared at her chest and made a rueful noise. “Too bad.” “Yes, well, have a nice day.” He took his time peeling away from the counter, looking back as if he just knew she was going to change her mind. Carlotta averted her gaze and busied herself straightening the counter. What an oaf. Were there any good men left in the world? She smirked, thinking of her friends’ comments about her aversion to men. Would she recognize a good man if he crossed her path? Then she sighed. Even if a great guy dropped into her life, who would want to sign up to share her problems? Fugitive parents, a delinquent brother, a mountain of debt—it didn’t exactly make her the most eligible woman in Atlanta, not unless the guy had a laundry list of his own problems. Take Detective Jack Terry, for instance. The man wasn’t bad-looking if one could look past his ghastly taste in clothes. But even dressed in a Paul Smith suit, Jack Terry would still be a swaggering, arrogant, annoying pain in the ass. Oh, sure, he’d tried to help Wesley yesterday in the men’s room, but now she knew it was only because her father’s case had been reopened and he was trying to cozy up to them for information. In her pocket, her cell phone vibrated. Since there weren’t any unattended customers in sight, she pulled out the phone, hoping it was Wesley. She felt horrible about yelling at him this morning. Resentment toward her parents had never been stronger. She waffled between hoping the detective found them so she could tell them all the hateful things she’d been saving up for ten years, and hoping he didn’t find them because their return would wreak so much havoc on Wesley. Better that he romanticize their plight than to know with certainty what she knew: that their parents didn’t give a fig what happened to them. But the caller ID read Hannah Kizer. Carlotta smiled and punched the call button. “Hi, are you back?” “Yeah, I’m back. How did things go yesterday in court?” “He got a fine, community service and probation.” “Wow, no jail time? His attorney must have been good.” Carlotta thought of Liz Fischer, frowned and changed the subject. “You’ll be proud of me—I told Wesley he had to get a job.” “About damn time. Maybe now he’ll be too busy to get into trouble. Have any of his thugs been around?” Carlotta glanced around to make sure no one could hear her. “A guy forced his way into the house this morning, demanding money.” “You’re kidding. What did you do?” “Wesley had a little cash, and I’d gotten an advance on my credit card, so we had enough to pacify him.” “You should have called the police.” “Considering my family’s history with the police, I didn’t think that was such a good idea. Besides, the police would only make things worse.” Hannah sighed. “You’re probably right. But you need something to protect yourself.” Carlotta pursed her mouth. “You mean a gun or something?” The sound of someone clearing their throat made Carlotta turn her head. Her general manager stood there, frowning. Carlotta’s pulse spiked. “Gotta go.” “No, wait—I called you about a cocktail party tonight at the Four Seasons. Want to crash?” Lindy was walking away, so Carlotta relaxed a bit. “I told you—I’ve sworn off party-crashing.” “Oh, come on, I’ll let you in through the kitchen, so you don’t have to worry about a counterfeit ticket. You’re ready to clock out, aren’t you?” Glancing at her watch, Carlotta said, “Yes, but I really don’t feel like going home to change.” “It’s one of those business mixers for the upper crust, so the dress is business casual. Come on, it’ll take your mind off things.” Carlotta wavered. She’d worn a rather conservative black suit and striped button-up shirt, so she would probably blend. “I’ll meet you at the kitchen entrance in an hour,” Hannah said. “Okay,” Carlotta relented. “Just this once.” She disconnected the call and hurried to wait on a customer, who took up the time remaining on her shift. Afterward, she freshened her makeup in the employee break room. Michael Lane came in and removed a brown paper bag from his locker. “Hot date?” he asked, cracking open a can of diet soda. She smiled. “No.” “Hmm, I was hoping the reason you’ve been avoiding me is because you had a secret man in your life.” A pang of remorse struck her. She’d been avoiding Michael because he’d no doubt read about Wesley’s arrest and she didn’t want to discuss it. She and the gay man were friends, but she wasn’t sure how much she could trust him where the gossip mill was concerned. “I’ve just been busy, that’s all.” “I understand,” he said, his expression gentle. “Is everything okay at home?” “It’s getting better,” she said evasively, hoping it was true. “Let me know if I can help.” Gratitude swelled in her chest. “I will. And thanks again for the Angela Ashford commission last week.” He shrugged. “Everyone who works here knows she’s your customer. You deserved it.” Then he frowned. “So what’s the connection between the two of you anyway?” She married the only man I’ve ever loved. “Uh…we went to high school together.” “Oh. Was she a bitch then, too?” Carlotta laughed. “In training.” “So what are you up to tonight?” “I’m meeting Hannah at a party.” He frowned. “The vampire?” “She’s not a vampire. She just likes to dress…weirdly.” “Whatever,” he said. “You’ll never land a man if you keep hanging out with the likes of her.” She closed her locker door and swung her purse to her shoulder. “I’m not trying to land a man.” “Uh-oh,” he said. “That’s when it happens.” “When what happens?” “Love. Just when you make up your mind that you have no intention of falling for someone—whammo!” “I get hit by a truck?” Michael stuck out his tongue. “Make fun, but mark my words—your Mr. Right is close at hand.” The door opened and the head of security walked in, looking all of a hundred pounds in his uniform, his pants gathered around his thin frame with a wide black belt, his nonexistent chest puffed up like Barney Fife. “I came to do a routine check of your loading dock,” Akin said, then looked at Carlotta and blushed furiously. “I want to make sure everyone here is safe on my watch.” Then he saluted and strode out the double doors leading to the loading dock. Michael looked at her and burst out laughing. “On that note, I’m out of here,” she said, waving goodbye. She laughed at Michael’s nonsense on the short drive to the Four Seasons Hotel. Despite her hesitation when she had been on the phone with Hannah, her chest clicked with anticipation as she parked her car—there was no money for valet service tonight—and walked toward the hotel entrance. There was nothing quite so exciting as fudging her way into a party where she wasn’t supposed to be. The difference was tonight she wouldn’t be incognito; if she ran into somebody she knew, it would be fun to see them stutter and fumble while trying to figure out how someone like her could afford the requisite two-hundred-fifty-dollar ticket that these events usually boasted. She checked her watch as she walked into the hotel. Right on time. She rode up the elevator and when she alighted, turned away from the velvet-roped entrance where a hostess was taking tickets and headed down a narrow hall that led to the restrooms and to a set of stainless swinging doors marked Service Personnel Only. The door opened and Hannah, dressed in standard white culinary garb, her striped hair bound in a hairnet, thrust a folded garment into Carlotta’s hands. “Put this apron on.” She did as she was told, crossing the long ties in front before securing them in back, then frowned. “You didn’t tell me you were working the party. I thought we were going to hang out.” “I’m only standing in until someone else gets here, then I’ll find you.” “Okay,” Carlotta said sulkily. “Cheer up,” Hannah said, handing her a tray of mini quiches to carry through the kitchen. “I think I saw Gladys Knight. Didn’t you say you wanted her autograph?” Carlotta nodded, glad she’d put her new autograph book in her bag. “But why would she be here?” “She’s a businesswoman, has investments in town—including a tasty little restaurant in Midtown.” Considerably cheered, Carlotta followed Hannah through the kitchen maze, trying to look busy and intent as she balanced the tray on her hand. As soon as they cleared the doors into the hallway leading to the party room, she handed the tray to Hannah and removed the apron with lightning speed. “Thanks,” she said, smoothing her hand over her hair. “Have fun,” Hannah said. “I’ll see you as soon as I can get away.” Carlotta turned to the crowd, scanning for the singer of “Midnight Train to Georgia” among the preppily dressed, one-hand-in-their-pants-pocket crowd, and spotted her standing in a corner, sporting her signature dazzling smile and, fortuitously, signing an autograph. Carlotta made a beeline for the woman before she tired of autograph hounds. She stepped up and introduced herself, then explained that she’d once had the singer’s autograph, but that her autograph book had recently been ruined and she was hoping to get a replacement. Ms. Knight was gracious and obliged, writing her name with a flourish in the new pink leather autograph book—the first among its blank pages. Carlotta watched, starstruck, imagining all the glamorous, wonderful things the woman had done and seen in her lifetime and visualizing all of that luck and energy pouring into the bold signature that she would take home with her. “Thank you so much,” she gushed when the singer handed the book back to her. She turned, happy beyond words to begin filling another book with celebrity autographs. In the months since her last book had been destroyed, she hadn’t realized how much she missed lying in bed and reading the names of famous people she’d met, if only for a few seconds. “I’d know that smile anywhere,” said a deep male voice. Carlotta snapped the book shut, looked up, and froze. Peter Ashford, looking even more handsome than he had ten years ago, stood smiling at her. 9 Carlotta’s heart stood still. “Peter. Hello.” His dark blue eyes turned wistful. “It’s been a long time, Carlotta.” “Yes,” she managed, wishing for something to lean against to keep from falling down. “You look great,” he said, sweeping his gaze over her. “The same…only better.” Obligatory chatter. She remembered his comment about recognizing her smile anywhere and was suddenly self-conscious of the gap between her front teeth that she’d never had corrected. She took him in—his dark, sun-kissed skin, his blond hair clipped in a trendy style that made the most of his cheekbones. He was still tall and lean but had filled out. What had once been boyish was all man, and she had to stop herself from reaching out to pull his body against hers, to breathe in the cologne on his neck, to knead the muscles in his back. “How have you been?” he asked to fill the awkward silence. “Oh, fine,” she said quickly. “And Wesley? He must be what—sixteen years old now?” “Nineteen,” she corrected, disappointed that he hadn’t noted the passing of every year, of every day since their breakup. Immediately, she recognized she was being unfair. It hadn’t been as traumatic an event to him as it had been to her. “Wow, he’s all grown up.” She nodded, wondering if he’d read of Wesley’s arrest but was diplomatically avoiding the subject. He pointed to the pink leather book in her hands. “And I see that you’re still collecting autographs. I guess you filled up the black book you always carried around.” “That was a long time ago,” she said, shoving the new book into her purse, not wanting to admit she’d replaced that black autograph book only recently—and not out of choice. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” Deciding there was nothing wrong with him using one of his drink tickets on her, she nodded. “White zinfandel?” he asked. “Pinot noir,” she said, letting him know that her tastes had changed, matured. But while he ordered her drink, she devoured him with her eyes—tall, commanding, self-assured, polished. This was the man who would have been her husband. No…Angela had told her what Peter had said about marrying Carlotta. Even if they had married, it wouldn’t have lasted. But it was easy to put those troubling thoughts aside when he walked back toward her. Easy to pretend that Peter was her husband, returning with her drink. “Thank you,” she said, taking the glass. His hand brushed hers, leaving her unreasonably flushed with pleasure. “To the good times,” he said lightly, lifting his glass. She nodded and clinked her glass to his, then drank deeply of the rich red wine. The flavors burst onto her tongue, the alcohol pleasantly burning the back of her throat. Almost immediately she felt the effects of the wine and warned herself to take it slow on an empty stomach. Seeing Peter again had already knocked her senses off balance—she didn’t need an accelerant. He studied her as he drank from his glass and she wondered what was going through his mind. Regret? Relief? Suddenly his nose wrinkled and he waved his hand in the air as the smell of cigarette smoke wafted their way from the bar. “Damn cigarettes. Let’s get some fresh air,” he said, nodding toward the patio doors. She agreed, telling herself that it was perfectly normal that they should have a conversation after the way things had ended all those years ago. She fell into step next to him, careful to maintain a respectable distance in deference to the overwhelming urge to wrap her legs around him. Dusk had settled on the patio where a handful of people stood talking quietly. Low light sparkled from luminaries hung all around that struck her as strangely romantic for what was supposed to be a business event. “What brings you here?” she asked. He shrugged. “Thought it might be a good place to make some new contacts for potential clients. I’m an investment broker for Mashburn, Tully and—” He blanched. “Sorry, I still want to add your father’s name to the partners list.” “It’s okay,” she murmured. “I knew you were working there. I saw your wedding announcement in the AJC.” “Ah.” “Is Angela with you?” she asked lightly, glancing around. “No.” Then he cleared his throat. “So what are you doing here?” “I’m here with a friend.” One of his eyebrows arched. “Boyfriend?” “No. My friend Hannah.” “Someone you went to school with? Would I know her?” “No, I sort of…lost touch with the girls I went to school with. I hardly see them anymore.” Then she decided to out the elephant in the room between them that he refused to acknowledge. “Except for Angela.” He took a quick drink from his glass. “Yes, she always tells me when she, um, runs into you.” Another stretch of awkward silence descended. “I hear your home is very nice,” she offered. “Angela told me about the new pool.” He gave a dry laugh. “Pool, outside kitchen, waterfall, hot tub and guesthouse.” “Oh. How…nice.” He looked up. “I wasn’t bragging. It’s all a little more grand than I had envisioned. I mean, it’s just the two of us, and I’m not home—” He stopped. “I mean…I work long hours.” She thought about Angela’s flask of gin. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Peter’s “long hours” were taking a toll on their marriage. And God help her, wasn’t she just a little bit happy to know it? The realization left her flustered and searching for safer ground. “How did you like the jacket that Angela bought for you last week? Gorgeous, isn’t it?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, no, I’ve ruined a surprise. She said your anniversary was coming up and I completely forgot. Peter, I’m so sorry. Will you please act surprised?” “Sure,” he said quietly. “But our anniversary was three days ago.” Carlotta fumbled to cover her gaffe. “Well, perhaps she forgot about it, or is saving it for another special occasion…or she…changed her mind.” “Or perhaps she bought it for someone else.” Mortification bled through her chest at the implication. “Such as her father,” he added mildly, then smiled. She laughed in relief at the obvious explanation. “Of course. I’m sorry I mentioned it. I was just…” “Making conversation?” he supplied. “That’s gracious of you, Carly, considering all the things you’d probably like to say to me after the way I behaved when…when your life fell apart.” Carly. His pet name for her. A name she’d used several times when crashing parties incognito, under the disguise of wigs and accents. Her mouth opened and closed. Here stood the man who had ripped out her heart and abandoned her, and now when given the opportunity to ask him why, she didn’t know what to say. She’d always known why, hadn’t she? Would it really make a difference to hear him admit that he couldn’t deal with the scandal of her parents’ actions, and the responsibility of an instant family? Would it change anything other than to tear open wounds that had long since healed? “We were young,” she said, turning away from him, trying to keep her voice steady. “I understand why you did what you did.” He stepped beside her. “Then maybe you can explain it to me, because I don’t understand why I did it—why I left you alone to deal with the fallout of your parents leaving, of raising a child.” “It wasn’t your responsibility,” she said, closing her eyes against his nearness. “It was mine. Your life was going down a different path.” She looked up and smiled. “As it should have. Everything worked out for the best.” He looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead he drained his wineglass. “Peter, hey!” They both turned to see a middle-aged man walking toward them, all smiles. A memory chord vibrated in Carlotta’s mind. Peter straightened and even to her his body language seemed guilty as he extended his hand to the older man. “Hi, Walt.” “When did you get back from Boston?” the man asked. “This afternoon. The meeting with Matthews went well.” “Glad to hear it,” Walt said, then cut his gaze to Carlotta, his curiosity plain. “Walt, this is Carly, an old friend. Carly, this is Walt…Tully.” Carlotta blinked—her father’s former partner. No wonder he looked familiar. She’d been to countless company gatherings at his house, had gone to school with his daughter. And no wonder Peter was acting so strangely. But even though her father had stained the company’s reputation, she had nothing to atone for. She stuck out her hand and when the man took it, smiling, she said, “I’m Carlotta Wren, Mr. Tully. It’s been a long time.” He seemed confused, then surprised, then uncomfortable. “Er, Carlotta, yes, of course. How are you, my dear?” “Grand,” she said with a big smile. “How’s Tracey?” “Hmm? Oh…she’s fine. Married a doctor and lives in Buckhead.” One of Angela’s lunch buddies, no doubt. “That’s wonderful. Will you tell her I said hello?” He frowned. “Of course.” Then his gaze went back and forth between her and Peter. “I was just leaving,” she said cheerfully, setting her glass of wine on the nearest flat surface. “Peter, it was nice to run into you. Give Angela my best. Good evening, Mr. Tully.” She turned and fled, fighting tears as she wound her way through the crowd back into the kitchen. If she’d needed proof that being in Peter’s life would have been a constant embarrassment for him, she had it. Walking blindly, she nudged a tray of fish-shaped p?t? from a sideboard and sent it crashing to the floor. “Who are you?” a man wearing a chef’s hat bellowed. “Get out of here!” She spied Hannah in the fray, who beckoned her toward the door where they’d met. “What’s wrong?” Carlotta bit her lip to keep her tears at bay, but failed. Hannah grabbed her arm. “What happened?” “It’s nothing,” Carlotta mumbled. “I don’t feel well.” “Liar,” Hannah said, herding her out into the hallway. “Did one of Wesley’s thugs follow you here?” “No,” Carlotta said, then released a hysterical laugh at the absurdity of her life. “It was just a guy…I used to date.” Hannah frowned. “A guy? I’ve never seen you worked up over any guy you dated.” “This was a long time ago. I’m overreacting. It’s nothing.” Hannah stared at her, more curious than concerned. Carlotta wiped her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m still worked up over Wesley’s situation. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Hannah squinted. “If you’re sure.” “I’m sure.” She turned and walked down the hallway to the elevator and stabbed the call button. “Carlotta!” She turned to see Peter leaving the main entrance of the party and making his way toward her. She turned back to the elevator and stabbed the button again. “Come on,” she muttered. “Carlotta, wait!” When the door opened, she rushed aboard and pushed the button to close the doors, but Peter was too quick. The doors rebounded open and he walked on, his eyes dark and troubled. The doors slid closed, sealing her into an intimate space with the man she had loved for most of her adult life. “What do you want, Peter?” “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I was afraid if I introduced you, well…I was afraid that he would say something…inappropriate.” She watched the buttons light up as they descended slowly, then gave a little laugh. “It’s okay, Peter. I’m used to being snubbed by people like Walt Tully. Do you want to hear something funny? That man is my godfather—that’s how close our families used to be. But the last time I saw Tracey, she pretended she didn’t even know who I was. It seems I’m invisible to most of the women I once thought were my friends.” Her voice sounded surprisingly calm to her own ears. “Except for your wife, that is. Instead of ignoring me, she treats me like a servant when she comes in to shop. She flaunts her life with you and grinds me under her heel. She told me last week that giving me a commission is her little good deed, as if I’m some kind of pet project.” His mouth tightened and he shook his head. “I’m sorry.” She clenched her jaw, her chest aching. “Stop saying that.” The elevator doors opened and she brushed past him. “Goodbye, Peter.” “Carlotta.” He kept up with her until they reached the hotel entrance. “Give me your ticket, I’ll have the valet send for your car.” She gave a little laugh. “I parked my own car, Peter, and walked one whole block to get here.” He looked ashamed. “Then at least let me walk you to your car so I won’t worry about you.” It was something in his voice that weakened her resolve—the protective note that made her feel so cared for, so safe. Darkness had fallen and in truth, she wasn’t looking forward to walking back to her car alone. And this might be her last chance to be with Peter, ever. “Okay,” she said against her better judgment. When they reached the sidewalk, away from the lights of the hotel, they slowed, as if by mutual consent. A spring chill had settled over Midtown, and Carlotta shivered slightly, although the goose bumps could just as easily have been caused by Peter’s proximity. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and more memories flooded back—the perfection of his profile, the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought. The sidewalks in this area were nearly deserted, but cars zipped by on Fourteenth Street in a steady stream. Peter walked on the outside of the sidewalk, between her and the traffic, like a good southern gentleman. Carlotta desperately wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say, afraid if she started talking, she might say too much. So she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, satisfied at the moment with breathing the same air as Peter. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years,” he said finally. A response seemed unnecessary. “Have you heard from your parents?” he asked gently. “We received a few postcards over the years, but even those have stopped.” He looked pained. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault.” “I’m sorry for leaving you stranded when you needed me the most.” Her heart thudded in her chest. She studied the toes of her shoes, afraid to look at him, afraid she would burst into tears over the admission that she’d longed to hear for over a decade. “I was a coward,” he said. “I let my family talk me into something I didn’t want to do.” So, his family had pressured him to break off their relationship. She had suspected as much, but now that she knew, she wasn’t sure what hurt the most—that they had considered her spoiled goods, or that Peter hadn’t defended her. He grimaced. “I’m not being fair to my folks, though. They were doing what they thought was right. I was the coward for not standing up to them.” She stopped next to her Monte Carlo Super Sport, which, she acknowledged, probably seemed garish to him. The damn car seemed to represent the sorry state of her life. She looked up and shielded her eyes against the lamplight. “What do you want me to say, Peter? Do you want me to agree with you?” The pained look was back on his face. “I already know that you agree with me, Carly.” He reached down and picked up her hand, sandwiching it between his. “I’m asking you to forgive me.” She felt the pulse in his thumb throbbing against hers, the warmth from his hands surrounding hers like when they had made love, with the kind of abandon that only two teenagers could possess. She had always teased that his body was like a furnace, and he had always said she put the fire in his belly. Her body tingled in response to his touch, as if answering some long-forgotten call. “Is that what you need to be at peace, Peter? For me to forgive you?” He looked into her eyes and squeezed her hand tighter. The tension between them crushed her ribs and constricted her airways. It was as if they were suspended, as if time stood still, poised to resume when one of them spoke or moved or breathed. “No,” he said in a raspy voice, releasing her hand. “Even if you forgive me, I can’t say that I will ever be at peace.” She pushed her tingling hand inside her jacket pocket and tried to compose herself. “We can’t turn back the clock, Peter. We’re different people now. You have your life, and I have mine.” He smiled. “You’re right. When did you become so pragmatic?” “Ten years ago.” He sighed and nodded. “What choice did you have?” She pulled out her car keys and hit the keyless entry button. “I should go.” She opened the driver’s-side door and dropped her purse inside. “Carly.” She turned toward his voice—an old habit, easily resumed. He stepped toward her and dropped a kiss on her cheek. The unexpected closeness of his body to hers sent a surge of desire rippling through her stomach. He groaned softly and suddenly the innocent kiss went from cheek to mouth, and his lips seared hers. She gave in to the overwhelming rush of longing and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His mouth devoured hers and instantly, she was home. She knew his mouth, knew how he tasted, how he liked to flick his tongue against hers, how he slanted his head just so for better leverage. She moaned and kissed him with all the pent-up years of longing for him to come back to her, to climb into her bed and thrust his body into hers and whisper against her neck that he’d loved her all along. She kneaded the cords of his back and pressed her aching breasts against the wall of his chest. But when the hardness of his erection pressed into her stomach, warning bells sounded in her head. And when she heard footsteps approaching, reality came crashing back. She tore her mouth from his and stumbled back. She didn’t know the couple walking by, but she was still awash with shame. “Carly,” Peter said on an exhale, then pulled his hand down his face. “You’re killing me.” She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to believe what she’d just done—what she’d been about to do. “You’re a married man, Peter.” “I know,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.” “Stop saying that,” she said. “Stop saying that!” She brushed past him and swung into her car seat. “Carlotta—” She held up her hand to cut him off. “This was a big mistake. Go home, Peter. Go home to your wife.” She closed the door with a slam, separating herself from him. Somehow she managed to get the key in the ignition with a trembling hand, then cranked the engine. She pulled away, squealing tires and accelerating at a breathtaking speed. So the muscle car was good for something after all: rocketing her away from Peter Ashford. She resisted the urge to glance in the rearview mirror, and broke every speed limit on the way home. It wasn’t until she pulled into her garage that her coworker Michael’s words came back to her. Just when you make up your mind that you have no intention of falling for someone—whammo! She sighed and leaned her head on the steering wheel. “Whammo!” was right. She would have been better off getting hit by a truck. Minus ten points. 10 When Carlotta’s alarm went off the next morning, she slapped at it blindly, her eyes crusted shut from a river of salty tears. As she lay there rubbing her fists against her lids, last night came back to her in a horrible rush. She groaned. What had she been thinking? As soon as she saw Peter Ashford, she should’ve turned on her heel and run. Now she had fresh sensory details to torment herself with. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she lamented, hitting her forehead for emphasis. She wondered what Lindy would say if she called in to take a “mental health” day, meaning she was feeling more crazy than usual. Knowing the answer, she pushed herself up on her elbows, hoping to motivate the rest of her body to get moving. At the sound of muffled noise coming from the kitchen, she pursed her mouth. Wesley was never up this early. She raised her nose and sniffed the air. Hmm—bacon. She hoped he’d made enough for two. Throwing back the covers, she reached for her yellow chenille bathrobe and pulled it over her red Betty Boop pajamas, then padded barefoot toward the kitchen and the good smells. Wesley, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, stood at the stove, stirring and flipping and…whistling? “Good morning,” she said warily. He turned and grinned. “Mornin’. You look like hell.” She smirked. “Thanks.” “Are you sick? I got in kinda early last night and your door was closed—I thought that maybe you’d brought a guy home with you.” He pointed an egg turner at her pajamas. “But I can see that isn’t the case based on your godawful sleepwear.” “Shut up,” she said playfully, then went to the fridge for orange juice. “I’m not sick.” “What then?” She sighed. “I ran into Peter Ashford last night.” “Peter Ashford? What’s the asshole up to?” She frowned. “Never mind.” “I thought he was married.” “He is. And it’s not like I’m mooning for him. I guess seeing him just brought back bad memories. What are you making?” she asked to change the subject. “Eggs Benedict with fresh sliced red and green tomatoes.” “Wow, what’s the occasion?” “I got a job.” He took a bow, then waited for her reaction. She squealed with joy, then jumped up and down, sloshing orange juice on her robe. “Oh, Wesley, that’s wonderful. Doing what?” He pressed his lips together and her joy dissipated. “Wesley?” “It’s a great job,” he said in a rush. “Flexible hours, good money, benefits, and I don’t need a car.” “Good,” she said, feeling somewhat cheered. “Doing what?” “Uh…moving bodies.” She choked on her orange juice. “What?” “Okay, don’t freak out—it’s a perfectly legitimate job. We pick up bodies and move them to the morgue.” “Pick up bodies from where?” He shrugged. “Houses, hospitals…crime scenes.” “Crime scenes? And who is ‘we’?” The doorbell rang and Wesley smiled. “That would be my boss.” Her eyes widened as she looked down at her pj ensemble. “At this hour?” “Coop is picking me up for a morning run to a nursing home,” he said over his shoulder. “I told him to come early and have breakfast with us.” “Coop?” She only had time to tighten the belt on her robe and run her fingers through her tangled hair before Wesley reappeared with a tall man dressed in overlong jeans, black Converse Chuck Taylor tennis shoes and a black sport coat over a dress shirt and tie. A nice tie. He appeared to be about thirty-five, with light brown hair, long sideburns and funky dark-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a philosophy teacher who hung out in coffee shops than a…body mover. “This is Cooper Craft, my boss,” Wesley said. “And this is my sister, Carlotta. She usually looks better than this, but she’s been crying all night over an old boyfriend.” She gasped, mortified. “Wesley!” She shot daggers at her brother while Cooper laughed, which only rankled her further. “I understand that my brother will be working for you, Mr. Craft,” she said in her best never-cried-over-anyone voice. “Call me Coop,” he said, still smiling. “That’s right.” “And what exactly is it that you do?” “I work at a funeral home, but mostly I contract with the city morgue for body retrieval.” Another smile. “That’s where I need Wesley’s help.” He held up a newspaper. “I brought in your paper. Hope that’s okay.” Carlotta nodded and took it, a little irritated that the man seemed to feel so at home in their home. “Have a seat,” Wesley said, gesturing to the table, where he had set three plates. “What do you want to drink, Coop?” “You got coffee? I’ll help myself,” the man said, walking over to the table where he pulled out a chair for Carlotta. Feeling ridiculous, she tucked her bulky robe around her and slid into the seat. Coop poured himself a cup of coffee and took the seat opposite her. Wesley carried platters of food to the table and arranged them carefully, then took the seat between the two of them. “This is incredible,” Cooper said, unfolding the paper towel next to his plate and putting it in his lap as if it were linen. He looked at Carlotta. “Did you make all this?” Wesley laughed. “Dude, Carlotta doesn’t cook. I made it.” She bristled. “I cook…some things.” “Macaroni and cheese from a box doesn’t count,” Wesley said, filling his plate. “Sure it does,” Coop said, then winked at her. Annoyed, Carlotta served herself then passed the tomatoes to Coop. “This body-moving business sounds very strange to me. Is it safe for Wesley to be around…dead bodies?” Coop swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “We take precautions—gloves, masks, leak-proof body bags.” Carlotta looked down at the sauce on the eggs Benedict and her stomach roiled. “How long have you been doing this?” “Working with stiffs?” he asked between bites. “Pretty much all of my life.” She picked at the food on her plate. “No offense, but it seems like an odd career choice.” “Really? What do you do?” “I work at Neiman Marcus at the Lenox Mall.” He lifted his coffee cup. “Well, no offense, but to me that seems like an odd career choice.” Wesley laughed, then covered his mouth. “Sorry, sis, but he’s got you there.” She frowned at her brother and concentrated on eating and not thinking about what Cooper Craft did for a living. Under her lashes, she stared at his hands—long, shapely fingers, with immaculate nails, clean from all the chemicals he used, no doubt. She wondered if he had been a weird kid, the kind that gave little funerals for roadkill. He seemed normal—mannerly, well-spoken, educated. But what normal person was attracted to his line of work? Then she looked at Wesley and stopped midchew. Was there something wrong with Wesley? He did seem to have a fixation on feeding live rodents to that killer snake of his. Was he attracted to this kind of job? Good God, having her for a parent had affected him more than she’d ever dreamed. Not only was he a delinquent, but he was…morbid. Coop wiped his mouth and groaned in satisfaction. “That was great.” “Thanks,” Wesley said, then gave Carlotta’s half-eaten breakfast a pointed look. “Yes, it’s great,” she concurred weakly. “But I’m just not as hungry as I thought.” The world was missing out on the eat-with-a-mortician diet. “Ready to go?” Coop asked Wesley, then glanced at his watch. “All the folks at the nursing home will be lined up, expecting us. It’s kind of a morning ritual. They have a send-off for their friends who have passed.” Carlotta winced. “Yeah, let me grab my backpack.” “You got a shirt with a collar on it?” Coop asked. Wesley frowned and looked at Carlotta, who smothered a smile behind her glass. “Yeah,” Wesley said, his spirits considerably dampened. “How about a jacket?” Wesley’s face fell further. “Yeah.” “Good. The families expect us to look decent when we arrive to load up their loved ones.” Wesley nodded. “Give me a minute.” He headed toward his bedroom, leaving her alone with creepy Coop. “All these years I’ve been trying to get him to dress better,” she said dryly, “and you accomplish it in five minutes.” “Seems like a nice kid,” he said. “He is…but he’s been in a little trouble.” He nodded. “Wesley told me about the probation. I told him that everybody makes mistakes—it’s how a person handles their mistakes that sets them apart.” Something in the tone of his voice made her wonder if he was talking about Wesley…or himself. He stood and carried his empty plate to the sink. “Leave it, I’ll get it. That’s our deal—Wesley cooks, and I clean up.” “It’s okay,” he said, rinsing the plate, along with his coffee cup. “I live alone. I’m used to cleaning up after myself.” Hmm—a bachelor. She wasn’t completely surprised. An undertaker wasn’t on the top of most girls’ list of desirable dates. Unbidden, she wondered if the saying about undertakers having cold hands was true. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said. “I hope you…feel better.” An embarrassed flush climbed her neck. The man must think she was a simpering fool for some loser guy. Not that she cared what he thought of her—he worked with dead people, for Christ’s sake. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “I’m ready,” Wesley said from the doorway. Carlotta stared. “A tie, too?” “Bye, sis. We’re going in Coop’s ride.” She frowned. “What kind of ‘ride’ would that be?” “A hearse,” Wesley said. “How cool is that?” Her eyes went wide as she rushed to the window. Sure enough, a black hearse sat at the curb. “Mrs. Winningham will stroke out over this.” “I usually drive a van,” Coop said, following her. “But the folks at the nursing home appreciate the classy extra touch.” Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Classy—that’s just what I was thinking.” Wesley pushed open the front door and galloped out to the curb to check out his “ride.” Coop laughed, then looked at her. “Nice meeting you.” He stuck out his hand. She swallowed before taking it, expecting his fingers to be frigid. Instead, they were warm and firm and…nice, actually. “Same here,” she said, perplexed by the man’s contradictions. He nodded toward the dilapidated silver-colored tree in the corner. “I like your tree—very retro. You must really get into Christmas.” Carlotta gave him a flat smile. “Oh, yeah, it’s Christmas every day of the year around here.” He grinned and walked to the door. “Guess I’ll be seeing you.” She crossed her arms. “I have to be honest with you, Coop—I’m not sold on this idea of Wesley being a…a body mover.” Coop gave a little laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” The door closed behind him and she frowned. Where had she heard that before? She showered and dressed for work quickly, pushing away thoughts of Peter Ashford as soon as they entered her head. It was how she’d gotten over him before—by conditioning herself not to think about him and eventually the banished thoughts had diminished. Although they had never quite disappeared. When she walked out on the stoop, Mrs. Winningham was halfheartedly watering her yard, a ruse she promptly abandoned when she spotted Carlotta. “Why was there a hearse in front of your house this morning?” Carlotta angled her head. “A hearse? I didn’t see a hearse, Mrs. Winningham. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?” The woman scowled. “If I did, I also imagined your brother getting in it.” Carlotta lifted her arms in a shrug. “Have a nice day, Mrs. Winningham.” She trotted to the garage, squeezing the remote control. The opener made a horrible grinding noise as it lifted the door—a sure sign it was ready to go out. She sighed, opened the car door and tossed her purse in the passenger seat. Just before she swung inside, she noticed a tennis-ball can on a shelf with old cans of spray paint and miscellaneous junk—Wesley’s admitted hiding place for the cash he was hoarding. She frowned. If he was still holding out on her… She walked over and stretched high to reach the tennis-ball canister. She assuaged her guilt for snooping with the knowledge that her credit card company had already hit her account with a twenty-two percent finance charge for the cash advance she’d gotten to pay off that odious Tick fellow. She popped off the lid, peered inside and frowned. Empty. Then she squinted…no, there was something rolled up and nearly hidden because it was pressed against the lining of the canister. She wiggled her hand down inside, grabbed an edge with her fingernails and pulled it out slowly. Immediately, her stomach began to churn. It was a postcard from her parents dated six weeks ago. The photo was an Ansel Adams landscape, a nondescript mountain scene mirrored by a lake. The note on the back was short and cryptic, as always. “Thinking of you both.” It was her mother’s handwriting. The postmark was Miami, Florida. She inhaled sharply. They had been only one state away when they’d mailed it? She shook her head, wondering why Wesley would have kept the postcard from her and felt the need to hide it. Then she smirked. Hadn’t she said the last time they’d gotten one—two years ago—that she hoped they didn’t receive any more postcards, and that if they did, she would turn them over to the police? Wesley must have taken her at her word. Detective Terry’s question as to her parents’ whereabouts echoed in her head. Should she call him now while the lead might still be warm? Or would that result in unnecessary surveillance of their home, their mail, their phones? She worked her mouth back and forth, debating. One thing was certain—she couldn’t leave the postcard in case Wesley decided to hide it somewhere else. If he missed it and confronted her, she’d tell him the truth, which was more than she’d gotten from him. She returned the canister to the shelf, climbed inside her car, and, after studying the postcard again, stuck it inside her purse. She’d hang on to the “evidence” until she decided what to do. 11 “This is too cool,” Wesley said, nodding his head as he surveyed the inside of the moving hearse. Coop looked amused. “Buckle up. It’d be embarrassing to die in a hearse.” Wesley clicked the seat belt home. “Where do you buy a hearse?” “At a dealership, same as a regular car, or used from other funeral home operators. I only use it for funerals and pickups at the nursing home. Otherwise, I use the van.” Wesley studied the serious profile of the man next to him and had a feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. “How did you get into the business?” Coop’s mouth tightened and he looked away briefly. “The funeral home belongs to my uncle. I didn’t grow up dreaming of working there, if that’s what you’re asking. It just worked out that way.” “And you like it?” The man shrugged. “It’s okay.” He looked at Wesley. “It’s better than jail.” Coop’s cell phone rang and he clicked on the hands-free button. “Coop here.” Wesley listened while the man talked to someone named Jim and arranged to pick up a body at the hospital, pondering Coop’s comment about jail. He’d been referring to Wesley’s predicament…hadn’t he? “I’ve got a trainee on board,” Coop said into the mike and shot Wesley a smile. “This is his first call.” “Does he have a strong stomach?” asked the man on the phone. Coop laughed. “Cut it out, man, you’ll make him nervous, and you know how hard it is to find good help these days.” Wesley smiled, but his insides were churning—maybe eggs Benedict wasn’t a good idea before his first-ever body run. He’d assumed the nursing-home call would be picking up some old geezer who’d died in his sleep with a smile on his face, but what if it were some kind of freak accident? Or what if they had died of some kind of flesh-eating disease? He wrinkled his nose. Or what if it were some old lady—naked? He wasn’t sure if he was ready to see that. Coop disconnected the call, and Wesley shifted in his seat, suddenly not feeling so well. “Is this going to be gross?” “You ever seen a dead body before?” “No.” “Lucky you.” Coop made a rueful noise. “Death is never pretty, but some retrievals are more messy than others. Our job is to be calm and professional, no matter what. The relatives might be close by and it’s not good if they see us react badly, no matter what the situation is.” Wesley swallowed hard. “What’s the grossest case you ever had?” “Garbage-truck compacter,” Coop said without hesitation. Then he looked over. “That, my friend, is a bad way to go.” Wesley winced. “What happened to the guy who used to help you?” “Couldn’t hack it. I told you when you answered the ad, Wesley, this job isn’t for everyone, but it’s necessary and honorable work.” Wesley nodded solemnly, hoping he didn’t let the man down. “So,” Coop said, turning the radio knobs, “your sister.” Wesley looked at him suspiciously. “Yeah, what about her?” “She’s cute.” “You like her or something?” Coop shrugged. “Just making conversation.” “You should ask her out.” Coop was quiet for so long Wesley thought he might have misread him. “Think she’d go?” he finally asked. Wesley laughed. “No. She doesn’t date much and I don’t think you’re her type.” “Let me guess—she’s into guys who wear moisturizer.” Wesley thought a minute. “I guess so. The guy she was crying over all night is some preppie dude she dated, like, ten years ago. He dumped her.” Coop frowned. “And she’s still crying over him?” “No—I mean, she hasn’t seen him in years, but she ran into him last night and I guess it upset her.” He chewed on his lip, trying to decide how much of his life to divulge to his new boss. He didn’t want to come across as some kind of drama case. “My sister’s life hasn’t been easy.” “How so?” “She raised me since I was nine, and I’ve been kind of a shithead.” Coop smiled. “What happened to your parents?” Wesley looked out the window. “Long story, man.” “Some other time then,” Coop said easily. “We’re here.” Wesley’s pulse kicked up as the nursing home came into view. It looked more like a shabby brick apartment building than a medical facility. Coop backed the hearse into a parking place near the door reserved for ambulances, climbed out and straightened his jacket as he walked toward the entrance. “Stay close and do what I tell you.” Wesley nodded. “Aren’t we going to take in the gurney?” “I like to go in first and assess the situation, greet the family if there’s anyone around, maybe give them time to say goodbye while I make a trip back to get the gurney.” Wesley digested the info, nodding. His stomach was pitching now. When they walked into the facility, the first thing that Wesley noticed was the smell—old building, old paint, old people. Mothballs, mold and Metamucil. They stopped at the front desk where a woman in a nurse’s uniform stood at attention and smiled wide. “Good mornin’, Dr. Craft.” She arched her back so that her boobs stuck out. “Good morning, Sarah. Meet Wesley, my new sidekick.” Wesley exchanged greetings with the woman, but she quickly turned back to Coop, her eyes alight with interest that seemed to extend beyond gladness that they were there to take a body off her hands. “That jacket looks nice on you, Dr. Craft,” she gushed. Coop smiled. “Thanks, Sarah. I figured we’d have an audience.” “That you do.” She handed him a folder. “Gentry Dunbar, third floor, room eighteen. The spectators are lined up in the hallway.” “Any family?” “A sister, Ilse Dunbar—she has a room here, too.” “Thanks.” Wesley followed Coop down a long hall of gleaming green linoleum tile and white walls, past a dining room full of old people, some in their pajamas, some dressed up for breakfast as if they were going to church. The scent of scorched coffee and prunes nauseated him further. They passed a few residents in the hall, shuffling toward their destinations, bent from bone disease and sheer weariness, he assumed. God, he hoped he never grew old. He frowned. Of course, that meant dying young… Coop walked past the elevator, pushed open the door leading to the stairwell and began the climb to the third floor. “That nurse digs you,” Wesley said. “You think?” Coop asked, looking amused. “She called you doctor.” “Yeah,” Coop said. “Sarah’s a good girl. It takes special people to work with old folks and kids. But I don’t mix business and pleasure, if you know what I mean.” All Wesley knew was that if he had a busty girl throwing herself at him, he’d go for it, screw business. When they reached the third floor, Coop opened the door onto a hall where the green linoleum floor was dull and gray, the scarred walls a grubby off-white. Dozens of old people lined the hallway, some sitting in chairs that they had pulled out of their rooms, some leaning against the walls, some sitting in wheelchairs. “Here’s the body man,” a woman announced loudly, probably in deference to those who were hard of hearing or had dozed off. Everyone perked up, calling greetings to Coop and making sorrowful noises about “poor Mr. Dunbar.” “He’s in there,” several people said, pointing to the only door on the floor that was closed. “Thank you kindly,” Coop said, stopping to pat arms and shake hands. “Ilse is in there with him,” a woman said sadly. “Poor thing has been sittin’ by his bed, holding his cold, dead hand all mornin’.” Wesley suppressed a shudder as he waded through the spectators and followed Coop to the door. Coop knocked, then waited a few seconds before going in. Wesley steeled himself for the sight of a cold corpse, then blinked at the empty bed. His gaze went to the man reclined in a ratty yellow La-Z-Boy chair, fully dressed in suit, tie and hat, as if he were going on a trip, his hands crossed over his lap, his eyes permanently closed. If the man in the recliner was ninety, the woman sitting next to him, her veined hand over his, had to be one hundred. She looked up and smiled sadly at Coop. “How are you, Doc?” “Fine, Miss Dunbar,” Coop said, walking closer. “I see that Gentry here is in a better place.” She nodded, her eyes tearing up. “He told me he was going to die soon, but I didn’t believe him. This is his burying suit, so he must have known before he went to sleep last night that he wouldn’t make it ’til morning.” Wesley hung back, feeling weird and tingly. The dead guy didn’t look real, more like a wax figure. Uneasily, Wesley looked to the ceiling and the corners of the room—he’d read something once about the spirit lingering for a while after leaving the body. Was the old man hanging around, watching them from the light fixture? He began to shake. “You all right, Wesley?” Coop asked. Wesley nodded curtly, put his hand over his mouth and inhaled deeply. He had to stop thinking about the dead guy. He was freaking himself out. “God, how he loved that old chair,” the old woman said, smiling, giving the ancient yellow tweed chair a thump that dislodged dust motes into the air. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I used to take care of him when he was a little tyke. Our parents died when he was young, so we’ve always been close. Neither of us married, and the rest of the family has died off.” She gave them a watery smile. “We always looked out for each other. Now it’s just me.” Coop touched her rounded shoulder. “You’re in a nice place, Miss Dunbar. There are a lot of people here who care about you.” Wesley listened as Coop comforted the old woman, but he realized with the impact of hitting pavement that he could be looking at a future picture of himself and Carlotta—growing old alone, winding up in the same nursing home, for Christ’s sake. Until this moment, he’d never considered the possibility that their parents wouldn’t come back. The thought made him feel sick…and even more appreciative of Carlotta. Although, if he continued to get in trouble, how much longer would his sister stick by him? All the more reason to fix things, the sooner, the better. “Has Mr. Gentry seen a physician recently?” Coop asked the woman. “This morning, when Dr. Tessler came and pronounced him dead.” “Before that.” “About six weeks ago.” “If the person hasn’t seen a physician within thirty days, an autopsy is automatic.” Her mouth twitched. “Can we still have an open-casket viewing?” “Of course—the medical examiner will be respectful, I promise.” She nodded. “Have you selected a funeral home, Miss Dunbar?” The woman smiled. “Everyone here speaks highly of your family funeral home, Dr. Craft. I thought we’d have Gentry’s service there.” Coop smiled. “Thank you. My uncle will take good care of him. We’re going to give you time to say goodbye. We’ll be back in a few minutes.” She nodded, smiling. “Okay.” They left the room and closed the door behind them. Wesley gulped non-dead air as their audience leaned in for details. “Is he sure enough dead, Doc?” one of the old men asked. “Sure enough,” Coop said. “But it looks as if he was ready to go.” Agreement chorused through the hallway, and a few amens. They threaded back through the crowd to the stairs. “This is going to be harder than I thought,” Coop murmured. Wesley frowned. “What do you mean? The guy even dressed up in the suit he wants to be laid out in. I wouldn’t think it could get any easier than that.” “Ever tried to move a body in full rigor mortis?” Wesley swallowed. “No.” “Let’s just say that nothing bends.” “But the guy is sitting up.” “Exactly.” Wesley grimaced, feeling like he could lose his eggs on the spot. They passed Sarah, who angled a sly smile at Coop, and then they walked outside to the hearse. The fresh air revived Wesley a bit as Coop unlocked the rear door and pulled out the gurney. Staring at the flat surface, Wesley asked, “So how are we going to get a guy frozen in a seated position to lie flat on the gurney?” Coop sighed. “Good question. It wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t have an audience, but a sheet’s not going to hide anything.” He scratched his head, then worked his mouth from side to side. “In the back seat, there’s a hand truck. Get it.” Wesley did as he was told, and soon they were back in Gentry Dunbar’s room. His sister, sensing the end, was crying softly. Wesley’s heart went out to her and he wondered if the old man in the chair had put his older sister through as much hell as he had put Carlotta through. Coop helped the woman to her feet and led her toward the door. “We need to move Gentry now, Miss Dunbar, but I was wondering—since he loved this chair so much, how about if we give him one last ride in it?” Her eyes rounded. “You mean take him out in the recliner?” “Yeah,” Coop said, as if it were perfectly normal. “We’ll make sure you get the chair back, of course.” The old woman smiled wide. “He’d like that. And just give the recliner to Goodwill.” “Fine,” Coop said. “We’ll be right out.” When she left, Coop handed Wesley a pair of rubber gloves and donned a pair himself. Then he turned to assess Gentry. “He’s starting to smell,” Wesley said, covering his nose with his sleeve. “The cells begin to break down the second the heart stops beating,” Coop offered calmly. He bent over and pried open the man’s mouth with two gloved fingers. Wesley winced but couldn’t look away. Coop made a noise in his throat. “Just as I suspected.” “What’s wrong?” Wesley asked. “The reason that Gentry here had prior knowledge of his death is because the old boy did himself in.” Wesley’s eyes bugged. “Suicide?” “Yeah.” “How do you know?” “Look—his tongue is dry and flushed, probably an overdose of antidepressants.” He closed the man’s mouth, then walked over to a side table, opened a drawer and pulled out several prescription bottles. “Doxepin and trazodone—probably took a little of each, just enough to do the job.” Wesley bit his lip. “His sister will be crushed.” “She won’t hear it from me,” Coop said lightly. “But won’t it be on the death certificate?” “Only if the medical examiner notices.” “You’re saying he won’t?” “He, she, whoever is doing the autopsy. Gentry’s an old man who died in a nursing home and probably was being medicated for a number of ailments. His autopsy isn’t going to be a high priority in an office where hundreds of autopsies are performed every day.” “But you spotted it right away,” Wesley said. Coop was silent for a few seconds, then said, “I’ve been doing this for a while.” He covered the man with the sheet, tucking it in around the sides of the chair. “Okay, when I tilt the chair, slide the hand truck underneath.” Wesley did and between the two of them, they managed to balance the chair on the hand truck. When they wheeled it out into the hall, there were guffaws of laughter, applause and an impromptu rendition of “I’ll be Seeing You.” Wesley couldn’t help but smile as they wheeled the old man out to the hearse. Getting the recliner into the back of the hearse was another matter, but they managed. In the process, Wesley’s hand slid under the sheet and he accidentally touched the man’s stiff fingers. He flinched, then realized the skin felt more like a cold bar of soap than anything sinister. A few minutes later when he swung into the front seat and banged the door closed, he was feeling pretty good about himself. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said to Coop. Coop gave him a lopsided smile. “Don’t get too cocky on me.” “Do you get a lot of funeral home business this way?” “Yeah,” Coop admitted. “There’s decent money in contracting body retrieval with the morgue, but to be honest, it also helps my uncle’s business. People get to know us. If they haven’t already selected a funeral home, nine times out of ten, they’ll go with us.” A shrewd businessman, Wesley decided, and wondered how much Coop was worth. Death was probably a pretty lucrative business, since it never let up. “So when do I get paid?” Coop’s eyebrows rose and he laughed. “Jumping the gun a little, aren’t you? We haven’t even officially delivered the body to the morgue.” Wesley gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I have a fine to pay off, man.” Not entirely the reason he needed the cash so soon, but it would do. Coop nodded. “I hear you. I’ll pay you every Friday, twenty-five bucks for every body you help me move.” Wesley nodded. “Sounds fair.” His internal calculator kicked in. Even if they moved only four bodies a day, that was a hundred bucks, seven hundred per week, and with the crime rate and traffic fatalities in Atlanta, he was probably being conservative. Business would probably be even better on weekends and holidays. Wesley’s pulse began to drum with excitement. For the first time in his life, he was earning real money. “You have to get that fine taken care of so you can clear your record and move on,” Coop said. “Right,” Wesley said, half listening. With the kind of money Coop would pay him, he could eventually afford to buy into a high-stakes poker game. One big win would put him in the clear with everyone, and help him build a local reputation at the tables. His promise to Carlotta that he would stop gambling rang in his head. Something akin to guilt stabbed him, but he shrugged it off as the familiar excitement of an impending card game began to build. He hated to go back on his word, but all he needed was one big win. Just one. 12 “Well, at least Wesley’s working,” Hannah said. Carlotta sighed into her cell phone. “But he’s moving dead people.” “Somebody’s gotta do it. I mean, when you think about it, it’s really kind of cool.” “Christ, you sound like Wesley. All he talks about is how cool it is to ride around in the hearse, and how cool his undertaker boss is.” “Is his boss creepy?” Carlotta thought of the long-legged, funky-looking man who had seemed so comfortable at their breakfast table. “He’s not as creepy as you are.” “Funny.” “But how normal can the man be if he works around dead bodies all the time?” “I don’t know,” Hannah said dryly, “some days it sounds preferable to working with live ones. Fridays suck, don’t they?” “Let me guess—trouble with your pastry-instructor lover?” “Since we got back from Chicago, he’s cooled way down.” “Do you think it might have something to do with the fact that he goes home to his wife every night?” “Maybe.” Carlotta bit her tongue to keep from scolding Hannah for taking up with yet another married man—the memory of kissing Peter Ashford two nights ago was still too fresh for comfort. What a hypocrite she was. She looked up and nearly dropped her cell phone to see Angela Ashford charging toward her counter. Had she somehow conjured up the woman with her illicit musings of Peter? “Oh, shit.” “What’s wrong?” Hannah asked. “Gotta go,” Carlotta whispered, then disconnected the call. Angela bore down on her, wearing the expensive black knee boots Carlotta had sold to her, black trench coat flapping. A paralyzing thought struck Carlotta: what if Peter had developed a guilty conscience and confessed the kiss to Angela? That vengeful-wife ass-kicking that she had been warning Hannah about for years might just be coming her way. She swallowed and straightened her shoulders, and although her heart threatened to pound through her breastbone, she managed a shaky smile when Angela stopped in front of the counter. “Angela…hi.” “I’m glad you’re here,” the woman slurred, her expression dark. Carlotta drew back slightly at the woman’s flammable breath—another head start on her martini lunch, apparently. “What…what can I do for you?” “Take it back,” she said, leaning into the counter. A sharp inhale tightened Carlotta’s chest. “T-take what back?” Angela swung a shopping bag onto the counter with a thud. “The man’s jacket you talked me into buying. It was all wrong.” Carlotta was so giddy with relief that she decided to allow the gibe to slide. “It didn’t fit?” she asked, reaching for the bag to hide her guilty flush. “Hmm?” Angela asked, seeming preoccupied. “Oh…right.” Automatically, Carlotta’s sales expertise kicked in. “Would you like to exchange the jacket for something else? Another size?” “No—I need the cash.” Carlotta looked up, surprised. “Oh.” Angela recovered unconvincingly. “I mean, I’d rather have a refund.” Carlotta reached into the shopping bag and withdrew the charcoal-gray jacket that she had thought would look so handsome on Peter—the same jacket that she had inquired about at the cocktail party and that Peter seemed to have no knowledge of. Had Angela given it to him since? Had it spawned an argument? Had Peter admitted running into her and that she’d spilled the beans about the jacket just before allowing Peter to put his tongue in her mouth? She glanced at Angela beneath her lashes and the fact that the woman was studying her with unveiled loathing did not put her at ease. She had the feeling that the woman knew something…or was it simply her own guilt getting the best of her? Unnerved, Carlotta gave the jacket a shake. When the stench of cigarette—no, cigar—smoke reached her nose, she frowned. The jacket’s tags had been removed, and it appeared a bit disheveled. She bit her lip. Exchanges and returns under her employee ID were being closely scrutinized since the trouble she’d gotten into over returning clothing that she’d bought and worn for a special occasion (or three). Since Peter had obviously worn the jacket, there was no way she could take it back without getting into trouble. “It, um, it looks like the jacket has been worn, Angela. I can’t give you a refund, but I can give you a store credit.” Angela’s head snapped up. “No way, I want cash.” “But—” “Do you know how much money I spend in this store?” “Yes, but—” “And that I could buy and sell you if I wanted to?” That stung. It was true, but the woman didn’t have to remind her. People were beginning to stare. Moisture gathered on her neck and she cast about for something soothing to say. She put her hand out. “Angela, this isn’t personal—” “Personal?” Angela’s eyes turned murderous. “Everything between us is personal, Carlotta, considering my husband is still in love with you.” Carlotta’s throat convulsed. Did she know about the kiss? “Th-that’s…not true, Angela.” “Yes, it is!” Angela shouted, her eyes watering. She reached across the counter, grasped the gold-plated Judith Leiber fox pendant around Carlotta’s neck and yanked her forward, until their faces were inches apart. Carlotta’s feet left the ground as she floundered forward onto the counter. Nose to nose with the wild-eyed Angela, she was too shocked and alarmed to speak. Angela twisted the chain, tightening it against Carlotta’s throat. “You’re fooling around with him behind my back, aren’t you?” Carlotta flailed, gasping for air and kicking emptiness. She could hear commotion around them, but she couldn’t process the noises because she was feeling light-headed. Even Angela’s voice fused into one long droning sound. When the pressure on Carlotta’s windpipe increased, self-preservation kicked in. She managed to get a handful of Angela’s blond hair and yank with all her strength. She was rewarded with Angela’s howl and her release. Carlotta fell back, sprawling on the floor, heaving and sputtering for air. And suddenly Angela was on her again, this time crawling over her and straddling her, hair and eyes wild, hands circling Carlotta’s throat. With what little air and energy she had left, Carlotta grunted and fought back, bucking and kicking, thinking that if she lived, she would probably be fired for creating a spectacle. Abruptly, Angela was dragged off her. Carlotta pushed to a sitting position, rubbing her throat, and saw a wide-eyed Michael Lane holding Angela, forcing her arms to her sides. “Calm down,” he ordered the woman who was struggling against him. “Security is on the way,” he assured Carlotta. “She’s screwing my husband!” Angela screamed, then sagged against Michael, sobbing. He gaped at Carlotta and as soon as he loosened his grip, Angela sprang to life, jerking away, then running haphazardly toward the escalator. “Keep the damn jacket,” she yelled over her shoulder. Michael looked back to Carlotta for guidance. “Let her go,” Carlotta said, sitting on the floor, dazed, trying to process what had just happened. A crowd had gathered, covertly looking over clothing racks and around shelving units. Her skin tingled, her face burning with shame as she pushed to her feet and righted her clothing. From the direction of the elevator Akin Frasier came jogging toward her, his head pivoting side to side, looking for potential perps. Her boss was right behind him. “Are you all right, Carlotta?” Lindy asked. “I got a report that you were being assaulted,” Akin said. “I’m fine,” Carlotta said, growing more mortified by the moment. “It was…a misunderstanding with a customer.” “Was it someone you knew?” Lindy asked. “Yes,” Carlotta admitted slowly. “It was Angela Ashford, but I think that she’d been drinking. She wanted a refund on something and became a little…belligerent when I offered a store credit instead.” “What did she do?” Lindy demanded. Carlotta swallowed. “She…uh…” “She tried to choke Carlotta,” Michael said dryly. “I was coming up the escalator and saw everything.” Akin’s eyes narrowed as he reached for his phone. “I’m filing a police report.” “No,” Carlotta said quickly, then gave a little laugh. “It was just a misunderstanding. I wouldn’t want to blow it out of proportion.” She gave her boss a reassuring smile, but Lindy Russell’s gaze was wary. A flush burned its way up Carlotta’s neck. The only thing that had kept Lindy from canning her over the clothes-returning business a few months ago was her exemplary sales record. An altercation with a customer was not helping her cause. “I don’t think a police report is necessary,” Lindy said finally. “How much longer on your shift, Carlotta?” Carlotta glanced at her watch. “Forty-five minutes.” “Why don’t you straighten up here and then go home? If Ms. Ashford returns, someone else will deal with her.” Carlotta nodded, knowing she was getting off lightly. Akin and Lindy walked away and the knots of people dispersed, leaving only her and Michael. “What was that all about?” he murmured. “She was drunk,” Carlotta said, picking up the jacket that Angela had left. “She said you were sleeping with her husband.” “I’m not,” Carlotta said, although she couldn’t make eye contact with him. “Peter Ashford and I go way back, but he broke off our relationship years ago to date Angela, and then he married her. End of story.” “Wow, I knew there was tension between the two of you, but I had no idea a man was involved.” “It’s all in her head.” “Are you sure?” Carlotta looked up at her friend’s concerned expression. “Yes. There’s nothing between me and Peter Ashford.” Anymore. “Okay,” Michael said, although his voice was still uncertain. “I have to get back to work. Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yes. Thanks for your help.” “No problem.” She watched her friend walk away and only then gave in to her frayed nerves. Her hands shook as she bagged and tagged the jacket with an ambiguous “hold” note. Then she made her way toward the employee break room, her legs still wobbly over the encounter. She felt her neck where it would surely be bruised and wondered if Angela really meant to hurt her. The woman’s accusation that she and Peter were having an affair reverberated in her head. What had Peter told his wife? Anger flared in her chest. He had no right to pull her into his marital difficulties. Just as he’d had no right to kiss her the other night. Her head was beginning to thump as she walked through the parking garage. She massaged the bridge of her nose and fought back sudden tears as the scene unfolded in her head. Good grief, hadn’t she deserved the confrontation? Kissing another woman’s husband—what had she been thinking? She couldn’t blame Angela for being angry. Even if the woman didn’t know the whole story, her intuition apparently told her that there were unresolved feelings between her husband and his former girlfriend. How maddening would that be? Carlotta squeezed her eyes shut against the confusion assailing her, but the sound of an accelerating car jarred her out of her reverie. She jerked around to see a long, dark car with tinted windows speeding toward her. She stood frozen for a split second, then dived to the side and landed with a whoomph on the ground between her car and the vehicle next to it. She lay there, her heart beating wildly, expecting the driver to stop, apologize and ask if she was okay. Instead, the car sped down the ramp of the parking garage. She pushed to her feet, cursing at the general craziness of Atlanta drivers who were too distracted by cell phones and road rage to be bothered with pedestrians. And she blamed herself for walking out in front of the car. It was only after she was behind the wheel and backing out of her parking place that Angela Ashford popped back into her brain. Could the woman be angry enough to try to run her down? Then she almost laughed in relief. Angela drove a luscious red Jaguar. She’d seen the woman climb into it on more than one occasion at the valet stand. The rash of crimes around the mall was another possibility—had someone targeted her for a mugging? That didn’t seem likely since the driver hadn’t even stopped to wrestle away her Coach bag. Then her blood went cold as the threat from her brother’s creditor ran through her head. A henchman had come to visit her at the store once before. Was it possible that they were following her, that they had tried to run her down as a warning? She shuddered and kept one eye on the rearview mirror as she drove home, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, no dark cars with tinted windows following her. Still, as she pulled her car into the garage, she was thinking about the fact that in a few days, that thug Tick would be back, demanding another payment that Wesley wouldn’t have. Even with his new job, he’d be lucky to have half of what the fat man would want. And then there was next week… She sighed, swung out of her car and slammed the door in frustration. Rounding the Monte Carlo, she gave it a kick in the back tire, wishing she could sell the redneck car but knowing that was impossible considering how much she owed on it and what it was worth. She eyed her beloved white Miata, and conceded that even crippled, it could bring a few thousand dollars. But that would be a last resort. Surely there was something else she could sell. She walked into the house and smiled at the noise and good smells coming from the kitchen. “I’m home,” she shouted. Wesley came to the doorway and waved. “How does lasagna sound?” “Fantastic.” He eyed her up and down. “What happened to your clothes? You look like you’ve been in a brawl.” She glanced down at the black marks on her skirt and blouse—between the Angela Ashford incident and skidding across the parking garage, she was a mess. And she wasn’t about to tell Wesley about her “brawl.” “I walked out in front of a car when I was leaving work and decided to sacrifice my outfit.” “Good call.” “I thought so.” “Go get cleaned up. Soup’s on in ten.” “Okay,” she said, moving toward her bedroom. She rubbed the shoulder that she’d landed on, her mind still clicking with worry over the bad element that continued to haunt their lives. If only she could get her hands on enough cash to get the loan sharks off their backs. She turned on the shower, then backtracked to her bedroom. From beneath her bed she pulled a small trunk, and from the trunk, a red House of Cartier ring box. Her pulse raced as she raised the hinged lid and stared at the glittering one-carat diamond solitaire engagement ring that Peter had given her ten years ago. When he’d broken their engagement, he’d told her to keep the ring, to sell it if she needed to. And how many times had she been tempted to do just that to pay for utilities or school clothes or insurance? And how many times had she refused to part with her only remaining link to Peter? Carlotta fingered the sparkling stone and bit down on the inside of her cheek. Perhaps it was time. 13 “That was amazing,” Carlotta said, pushing away her plate and smiling at her brother. “I know,” he said with a smirk, still mopping up red sauce with crusty Italian bread. He pushed up his glasses. “I could teach you how to make it sometime.” She batted her lashes. “And spoil your pleasure in cooking for me? Never.” He wiped his mouth, then wadded up the paper napkin and threw it at her. Frowning, he leaned forward. “Hey, what happened to your neck? It looks like someone tried to choke you or something.” Her hand flew to her throat and she could feel the angry welts left by the chain that Angela Ashford had twisted around her neck. “It’s…an allergic reaction to a necklace I wore, that’s all.” Wesley looked unconvinced, so she changed the subject. “When does your community service begin?” “I have an appointment with my probation officer Wednesday. He’s supposed to arrange for me to work with the city geeks on their lousy security.” “Good—maybe that’ll lead to a full-time job.” “I already have a full-time job.” “And it’s fine for now,” she said carefully. “But you can’t move dead bodies for the rest of your life.” “Why not? Coop does okay.” She frowned. “But this body-moving thing is just a side job for him too, right?” “A side job from the funeral home, yeah. He contracts with the morgue when the M.E.’s office is short of vehicles.” Carlotta looked at the clock—almost seven. “You’re not working tonight?” “I’m on call. Coop said most weekend calls are late at night. Shootings, drunk-driving accidents, that kind of thing.” She winced. “I think he likes you.” “Who?” “Coop.” Her eyes widened. “Your creepy boss likes me?” “He’s not creepy. He’s kind of…nice. And, yeah, he asked about you.” She frowned, remembering that she’d looked a fright the morning she’d met him, the morning after her crying jag over Peter. “Asked what?” He shrugged. “You know, if you were single and stuff. He said he thought you were cute.” She raised an eyebrow. “Cute? What is he, in grade school?” “Don’t worry, I told him that he wasn’t your type.” “Oh.” She studied her nails—she needed a manicure badly. Then she looked up. “What’s my type?” Another shrug. “You know—smooth, slick. Coop said you were probably into metrosexuals.” She frowned. “And how could he possibly know that? When he met me, if I remember correctly, I was in my pajamas, wearing no makeup, and my hair was a foot tall.” “Yeah, but still, he could tell you were classy.” She smiled. “You think I’m classy?” “Don’t let it go to your head.” She laughed and in the wake of the cozy moment, she considered asking Wesley about the postcard she’d found from their parents. It had been a long time since they’d really talked about their parents. Maybe it was time to reopen that can of worms. “Wesley—” The chirp of his cell phone cut her off. He lunged for the tiny device sitting on the counter. “Hello?” He smiled. “Yeah, man.” Carlotta wondered if it was that Chance Hollander, calling to lure Wesley into some kind of Friday-night trouble. Rich little bastard. He surrounded himself with people like Wesley who were impressed by the toys and good times his money could buy—people who would do his bidding. Wesley grabbed a pen and scribbled something on a napkin. “Got it. I’ll get there somehow.” Then he disconnected the call. Carlotta set her jaw, gathering verbal arguments for Wesley not to meet up with his troublemaker friend. “That was Coop,” Wesley said breathlessly, his eyes shining. “We have a job.” “Oh,” she said, her arguments vanishing as her thoughts turned foolishly to how she would greet Cooper Craft now that she knew he thought she was cute. “But there’s one little problem.” At the catch in her brother’s voice, she was instantly on alert. “Oh?” Wesley chewed his lip, then sighed. “It’s a residential pickup, and Coop was close to the address when he got the call. Would you mind driving me there?” “You’re not serious?” “Well, I could drive—” “You know you can’t drive on a suspended license!” “I can’t get there on the train.” Carlotta acknowledged that her brother was right, and felt herself wearing down. She’d hounded him about a job, and now he finally had one. It wouldn’t kill her to drive him; it wasn’t as if she had something better to do. “Okay, just don’t make a habit of this.” He whooped. “Thanks, sis. I’ll grab my backpack while you put on a bra.” She glared and swatted at his arm as he walked by, then pushed away from the table. The things she did for love. She went to her room wondering what would be appropriate to wear. She surveyed her flare-leg Levi’s, Juicy Couture T-shirt, Michael Kors high-heeled Mary Janes, and decided the outfit would have to do. She donned a bra and added a brown shrug sweater against the evening chill, then slid chocolate-pink lip balm onto her lips to keep them from getting chapped, not because Cooper Craft thought she was cute. “Come on,” Wesley said from the doorway of her bedroom. “You’re dropping me off. You don’t need lipstick.” “It’s lip balm.” “Whatever, come on already.” She swung her purse to her shoulder. “You owe me for this.” “Yeah, well, add it to the list.” They blew by Mrs. Winningham who was weeding her flower bed. “Wait! I want to talk to you two!” “Some other time, Mrs. Winningham!” Carlotta promised the woman as they ran for the garage. “But someone has been parking on the street and watching our houses! Don’t you care?” “No!” they yelled in unison, ducking under the opening garage door and bolting for the Monte Carlo. “Christ,” Carlotta muttered under her breath. “It’s probably that Detective Terry snooping around.” “Yeah, probably,” Wesley said in a noncommittal voice. Or any one of several other undesirables, she conceded miserably. “Do you have the address?” she asked as she backed out. “Yeah, it’s in Buckhead.” He read off the street name and number and Carlotta frowned. “Hmm, that’s a nice area. Did he mention the neighborhood?” “Yeah, it’s Martinique Estates. Know it?” She frowned. “Maybe. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” She’d probably crashed a party there sometime, but didn’t want to say so in front of her brother. Besides, those days were behind her—no more party-crashing. She’d made an exception the other night and it had put her in the path of Peter Ashford, a scene which may have caused the humiliating takedown today at work. Her skin crawled at the memory and she touched the tender place on her throat. Thank God Lindy hadn’t called the police or the situation could have spiraled into something much more messy. “Did someone have a heart attack in their home?” she asked. “Coop didn’t say, but that’s a good guess.” Unbidden, her parents came to mind. They would be in their mid-fifties now. If her mother was still drinking, she couldn’t be in good health. And her father had smoked like a chimney and enjoyed his bourbon. Occasionally she wondered if she and Wesley would even be notified if they were sick…or worse. But according to the postcard that Wesley had kept hidden, they were still kicking. She glanced sideways at her brother in the dark cab of the car, unspoken words simmering on her tongue. But his face was a mask of concentration. It wasn’t an appropriate time or place to bring up their parents’ latest communication. Ten minutes later they were winding through the community of Buckhead, Atlanta’s premier address, featuring enormous tree-laden lots and even more enormous amenity-laden houses. Old money met new money behind the soaring gates of the private communities where residents lifted a collective nose at the rest of Atlanta. Carlotta knew, because she’d grown up in just such a neighborhood. “You missed the turn,” Wesley said, exasperated. She frowned and looked in her rearview mirror. “I’m doing the best I can. It’s so dark out here!” “Turn around!” “Shut up and put on your seat belt!” They bickered until they pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of Martinique Estates. A squad car with a silent, flashing light sat next to the gatehouse. “Lot of commotion for a heart attack victim,” she said, impressed. A security guard accompanied by a uniformed police office approached the car as she rolled down the window. Wesley leaned forward and flashed an official-looking badge with his photo and something about the medical examiner’s office. The policeman looked at it, then handed it back and signaled for the gatekeeper to let them in. Recalling all the tickets that Wesley had counterfeited for her, she frowned. “Is that a fake badge?” “What? No. Coop gave me this. I’m official. Turn here.” She did and again had the feeling that the street name was familiar for some reason. She stared up at the monstrous brick houses that looked more like compounds than homes and, God help her, she felt a stab of envy. Money didn’t buy happiness, but it made certain aspects of life a whole hell of a lot easier. She’d lived on both sides of that wrought-iron gate, so she knew. Wesley was craning for house numbers, but that became a moot point when they both caught sight of a squad car and an ambulance, lights flashing, and various other official-looking vehicles parked at angles on the curb and in the downward-sloping driveway. The megamansion sat below curb level, judging by the way the land fell away and by the downward gaze of the onlookers. “I think we found the right house.” She guided the car closer, picking up an approaching cop in her headlights, then stopped and zoomed down the window. “You need to keep moving, ma’am.” “We’re here to help transport the body,” Wesley said, sounding amazingly mature. He handed the badge to the cop, who, after scrutinizing it, handed it back. “Okay, but you’ll have to park here and walk onto the property. The pool is down there.” “Pool?” Wesley asked. “The woman drowned,” the cop said curtly. Carlotta shuddered, then looked at Wesley. “Do you see your boss’s vehicle?” “No, but he’s probably parked near the house.” “I’ll pull over and wait a few minutes. If you don’t come back or call my cell, I’ll know you found him and I’ll go.” He sighed. “You worry too much.” “I know. Go.” He scrambled out of the vehicle and disappeared down the driveway. Carlotta pulled over to the curb and put the car into Park, giving the cop a little wave. Headlights shone in her rearview mirror, and then a car parked behind her. A suited man climbed out and walked by her car, his destination obviously the house. With a shock she realized it was Detective Jack Terry, just as he turned and recognized her. He stopped and tapped on her window. Reluctantly, she zoomed it down. “Ms. Wren, what are you doing here?” “Just dropping off my brother, Detective. He got a job with a local funeral home operator who contracts with the morgue to…uh…move bodies.” He pursed his mouth. “Did he now? Well, that explains why a hearse was parked in front of your place a couple of days ago.” She glared. “Stop spying on us.” His gaze raked over the Monte Carlo and one side of his mouth lifted. “I like the car—not exactly what I thought you’d be driving, though.” She put her hand on the gearshift to keep from swinging at him. “Good night, Detective.” Suddenly another set of headlights shone in her rearview mirror, these from a smaller car approaching very fast. Detective Terry flattened himself against the Monte Carlo as the little car careened past and screeched to a halt at a haphazard angle, leaving the smell of burnt rubber in the air. It was a dark Porsche, but she couldn’t discern the model. “Looks like the husband is home,” the detective said, his voice rueful. “This is always the hard part.” Carlotta felt an unexpected stab of compassion for the detective as he walked toward the man who flung himself out of the car. How horrible it must be to work with angry, distraught, and sometimes violent people, day in and day out. And based on the body language of the man who was trying to push past the detective, those were just the survivors. Riveted, she watched as Detective Terry visibly tried to calm the man. They were about the same height, but the detective’s bulk gave him the advantage of leverage. He led the man to where they could look down upon the house. From the way the man bent over and gripped his knees, she presumed they could see the pool from where they stood—and the body. Then the husband turned, as though to gather himself, and lifted his head in Carlotta’s direction. The breath froze in her chest as recognition slammed into her. Peter Ashford, looking disheveled and inebriated. She glanced at the monstrous house, eerily illuminated by uplights and headlights. This was Peter’s house? Which meant, she realized with dawning horror, that the woman who was dead was…Angela Ashford. 14 The lost look on Peter’s face made Carlotta’s heart swell in agony. Before she had time to think, she was out of the car and moving toward him in the semidarkness. “Peter?” He turned at the sound of her voice and when he saw her, his face creased in confusion. “Carlotta? What are you doing here?” “I dropped off Wesley. He’s here…in an official capacity,” she said vaguely. “We had no idea this was your house…that Angela—” She broke off, at a loss for words. He embraced her and she could feel desperation palpating through his heated skin. She could also smell the gin on his breath and on his shirt. He was drunk, and she wondered how much his clinging to her was to keep himself upright. Then he buried his face in her hair and pulled her body against his. She ached to give him the comfort he sought, but when she realized that Detective Terry was gaping at them, she reluctantly pulled away and cleared her throat. Detective Terry’s eyebrows sat high on his forehead. “I take it you two know each other?” “Old friends,” Carlotta supplied quickly, then her gaze caught on the pool about twenty yards below them, shrouded in the mist that rose from the surface of the heated water. Angela’s body, clad in black, lay on the pale background of the concrete pool surround, her limbs at awkward angles. Carlotta swallowed hard against the cold truth that Angela was dead. Peter looked at the scene and dragged his hand down his face. “I have to go to her,” he said, and the detective relented with a nod, falling into step behind him. Carlotta didn’t know whether to stay or to go, or to walk down with the men. She didn’t relish seeing the body up close, but she also didn’t want to just leave. She hugged herself, running her hands up and down her arms to ward off the damp chill that blanketed everything that didn’t move—which would include Angela’s body, she noted ruefully. Peter turned back. “Carlotta…I could use a friend right now.” She hesitated, darting a glance at the detective, who looked extremely irritated at the idea of her going with them. “Try to stay out of the way,” Detective Terry said, then continued tromping down the incline. She followed them, careful to stay behind while still in Peter’s peripheral vision. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He seemed so…so…disconnected. She wondered if he was in shock. No tears, no prostrate hysterics. Maybe the alcohol had numbed his senses, but back when they had dated, alcohol had always made him more emotional. He moved like an automaton, staring straight ahead, his hands hanging limply by his sides as he walked by the vehicles parked in the paved turnaround in front of the house, including a car with the medical examiner’s shield on the side and a plain white van that Carlotta assumed belonged to Cooper Craft. As they approached the tall wrought-iron fence that enclosed the pool, Carlotta glanced around nervously. She took in the palatial lines of the brick house, the sweeping steps that led from the turnaround, the huge fountain, the two-story entryway and the soaring Palladian windows, eerily dark. The house looked cold, empty…dead. By contrast, the gated pool area adjacent to the house was blazing with lights, the deep water an unnatural blue. With steam rising from the surface, the water resembled a witch’s cauldron. Taking deep breaths against the turmoil in her stomach, she followed the men down a short lighted stone path to a gate that had been propped open. The scent of chlorine burned the air, which seemed swollen with humidity and sadness. Wesley and Cooper stood off to the side of the pool next to a small waterfall, apparently waiting for the police to complete their investigation. A youngish man with Medical Examiner on his jacket stood over Angela’s body, taking photos. Carlotta made eye contact with Wesley, who looked confused at her appearance. Then his gaze went to Peter and back to her, wide-eyed. She nodded, trying to answer the questions that must be whirling through his mind, and walked over to where they stood. “Isn’t that Peter Ashford?” Wesley whispered. “Yes,” she murmured. “And that’s his wife?” “Yes.” “Jesus,” Wesley said. “Nice place.” “Wesley!” He looked contrite and pressed his lips together. “Do you know the family?” Cooper asked them asked under his breath. “That’s sis’s old boyfriend,” Wesley offered. “The one she was crying—” “Do you know what happened?” she cut in, shooting Wesley a lethal look. “Accidental drowning is what I was told,” Cooper offered quietly. “She must have fallen in.” Her gaze cut to Angela’s still body and the gray wetness around her on the concrete from her saturated clothing. When she’d been shopping for swimsuits, Angela had mentioned that she didn’t know how to swim. She was still wearing the chunky-heeled black knee boots that Carlotta had sold to her—they must have felt like lead when she’d gone under the surface of the water. The pool was about twenty-five feet wide—she would have been a mere body’s length from safety. The vision sent a shudder through Carlotta. The entire scene was surreal, an unimaginable nightmare. “The maid found her,” Wesley added, nodding to an open sliding glass door leading into the house. A small, older woman stood in the doorway, her shoulders hunched, a handkerchief covering her face. The uniformed officers apparently had been waiting for Detective Terry to arrive because when they saw him, they straightened from the body. Peter’s knees buckled and Detective Terry steadied him, guiding him toward the open door into the expansive house. She heard the detective say something about coffee. The maid scurried aside and turned on a light. The wall facing the pool was made almost completely of glass. From where Carlotta stood, she saw Peter sink into a chair around a table in a room that appeared to be a sunroom or a casual dining room. He covered his face with his hands. Carlotta’s body strained toward him, but she forced her attention away from the man with whom she had been so recently and so bizarrely reunited and back to the scene unfolding around the pool. The officers talking to Detective Terry gestured toward the water, perhaps indicating where they had found the body. At the end of the pool sat an outdoor kitchen with a stone fireplace, appliances and a bar. From her vantage point she could see at least two bottles of gin, along with a silver flask that looked like the one Angela had drunk from in the dressing room. Behind the bar area was a small cottage—the guesthouse, Carlotta presumed, recalling what Peter had said about the pool addition being more than he had envisioned. But she silently applauded Angela’s ambition. It was a garden paradise, with huge sago palms in clay pots, beds of lush flowers and a flagstone path to a hot tub lined with mosaic tiles. It was a picture out of Better Home and Gardens…except for the body lying poolside. Angela Ashford hadn’t lived to enjoy the luxurious addition to her posh home. Next to the pool, Detective Terry had been in discussion with the medical examiner, and now knelt over the body, pulling a set of plastic gloves from his jacket pocket. He snapped them on and lifted the mass of golden hair that had fallen across Angela’s neck. Then he lifted her lifeless hands, one at a time. Carlotta tried to reconcile the still form lying on the concrete with the animated, angry woman who had been so alive just hours ago. Her stomach rolled, sending acid to the back of her throat; she thought she might be sick. “Maybe you should go,” Cooper suggested quietly, his mouth near her ear. “This isn’t something that everyone should see, especially if you have a connection to the deceased.” She nodded, breathing deeply, and turned to leave. She walked to the open door where Peter sat, staring off into the distance, his jaw clenched. He looked up and a desperate look came into his eyes. He lifted his hand to her. With her heart clicking, she stepped into the house, immediately assailed by a sense of grandeur—the scale of the woodlined ceilings alone was awe-inspiring. “Will you close the door?” he asked, turning his head away. She did, glad to shut out the sounds of hushed voices and staticky police radios. The vacuum of the door closing sealed her into a room where the air was surprisingly stale, as if the house was rarely used. Through the wide doorway in the back of the room Carlotta caught a glimpse of the maid bustling around in a large kitchen. Hallways and stairways that extended out of her line of vision spoke of the house’s spaciousness. The scent of strong coffee wafted on the air. The room she stood in was another designer feat, a den with a soaring brick fireplace, built-in cherry-wood cabinets jammed with expensive-looking bric-a-brac, over-stuffed leather couches and chairs, plus a long carved mahogany table and twelve matching chairs. Peter sat in the chair near the end of the table, his back to the pool, fingering the tip of a flower in what had to be the most hideously huge silk flower arrangement that Carlotta had ever seen. “We argued about this stupid flower arrangement,” he said, still staring straight ahead. She stood motionless, letting him talk. “It didn’t matter that it was ugly,” he said with a laugh. “What mattered was that some upscale florist came to our house and designed it especially for Angela. He even gave it some ridiculous name, and I’d be ashamed to tell you how much it cost. Do you believe that we had a party so that people in the neighborhood could come and look at the damn flower arrangement?” He looked up as he finished, the anger in his voice traveling to his startling blue eyes, hardening the drunken lines of his face until he looked almost…mean. Carlotta was glad when the maid appeared with a coffee tray and set it on the table. The woman filled a cup and slid it in front of Peter, then offered Carlotta a watery smile. “Coffee, miss?” Carlotta shook her head. “I don’t think—” “Please,” Peter implored. “Sit with me, just for a little while.” She hesitated, then took the chair opposite him. Too late, she realized it gave her a direct view of Angela’s body. The woman’s pale face was turned toward Carlotta, her eyes slightly open. It was as if she were determined to watch Peter and Carlotta, even in death. Just as the maid set a cup of steaming coffee in front of Carlotta, the glass door slid open, revealing Detective Terry. He stepped in without being asked, although he did make a perfunctory pass at wiping his feet on the doormat. He scowled at her briefly before addressing the maid. “I understand, ma’am, that you found the body?” The old woman’s eyes teared and she nodded. “What’s your name, please?” “Flaur Stanza.” He made a note on a palm-size notebook he carried. “Can you tell me what happened, Miss Stanza?” “I…come home from store,” she said in broken English. “I see Miss Angela’s purse, so I know she is here. I call her name to see if she want tea, and she no answer. I come out here to sweep, and…and—” She began to sob, her shoulders shaking. “Take your time, Miss Stanza,” Peter said, his voice strangely calm. “I see her…in deep end…floating facedown,” the woman said. “She fell in, I think.” “Had she been drinking?” Peter bit out. Detective Terry frowned. “Mr. Ashford, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. Miss Stanza, did you see anything else, any signs of where she might have fallen in?” She nodded and pointed to the far end of the pool. “A broken glass on the edge. I show policeman when he get here.” Detective Terry made another note. “Anything else?” “Black marks, I think from her boots.” The detective nodded. “And you called 911?” “Yes, sir. And Mr. Peter.” She shot a quick glance at Peter and her face crumpled again. “It’s okay,” Peter soothed, patting her arm. “It’s not your fault. I was afraid something like this was going to happen.” Detective Terry perked up. “Oh? Has something like this happened before?” Peter pursed his mouth. “You mean Angela drunk? Only all the time. And she was a poor swimmer.” Detective Terry told the maid that she could go. The woman looked to Peter for confirmation, and he nodded. “Go home, Miss Stanza. I’ll call you tomorrow.” When the woman left the room, Peter gestured to the tray. “Would you like some coffee, Detective?” “No, thank you.” Then Detective Terry looked at Carlotta. “Ms. Wren, will you excuse us for a moment?” Realizing that he was asking her to leave, she started to stand, but Peter’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Stay,” he said, his voice beseeching, then he turned to the detective. “I have no secrets. Ask me anything.” The detective looked back and forth between them until Carlotta averted her gaze. This was really beginning to feel…wrong. “Okay,” Detective Terry said with a sigh. “Mr. Ashford, was your marriage in trouble?” Next to her, she felt Peter stiffen. “No more so than any other marriage, I would suspect.” Outside, the medical examiner and the police had stepped away from the body. Cooper unfolded a white sheet, whipped it open and allowed it to float down over Angela’s body. Carlotta stared until the woman’s face was completely obscured by the sheet. Wesley lowered what resembled a long plastic tray with scooped sides and black handles. With care that impressed her, Coop rolled the covered body toward him until Wesley had slid the tray underneath. Then he gently lowered the body and situated it onto the carrier. Both men tucked the sheet around the body with respectful concentration. She felt a swell of pride for Wesley, that he was handling such a terrible job with professionalism and obvious detail. “Were the two of you discussing a divorce?” The question yanked her attention back to the conversation. “No,” Peter said defiantly. Carlotta shifted in the uncomfortable chair, the memory of their kiss now even more sordid. She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them, found Detective Terry studying her before he turned his attention back to Peter. “Has your wife ever threatened to hurt herself?” “No, of course not.” Peter’s expression darkened. “You’re not thinking that she did this on purpose.” “Just covering all the bases, Mr. Ashford. Was she taking any medication?” Peter rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Sure, it was always something with Angela. She had insomnia and back trouble, and she took a ton of vitamins. You can check the medicine cabinet in her bathroom if you want the specifics.” Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should both go check, to see if Mrs. Ashford left a note.” Peter’s jaw clenched. “There’s no note.” “How can you be sure?” Peter pulled his hand down over his faced and sighed. “Because…I asked Miss Stanza to look for a note when she called me. She didn’t find one.” “So you suspected suicide?” Peter lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I didn’t know what to think, but it crossed my mind. You didn’t find one on…on her?” “No. The guesthouse was also checked, plus the sedan in the garage—I assume that’s Mrs. Ashford’s car?” “No, actually. Her Jag is at the dealership for regular maintenance. The sedan is a loaner.” “Mr. Ashford, where were you when Miss Stanza called to give you the bad news?” Peter’s mouth tightened. “If you must know, I was at a bar, Geary’s, not far from my office.” “Where do you work?” “Mashburn and Tully Investments. I’m a broker.” Recognition flashed in the detective’s eyes and his gaze flicked to her, then back. He’d made the connection that her father had once been a partner there. A harmless yet suspicious coincidence. “Were you alone at the bar, Mr. Ashford?” “Yes. What’s that got to do with anything?” Detective Terry shrugged his big shoulders. “I just wondered why I got here before you, that’s all.” “There was construction on the connector,” Peter said hotly. Warning bells sounded in Carlotta’s brain. Surely Detective Terry didn’t suspect that Peter had something to do with Angela’s death? She bit her lip, wondering whether to say that she’d seen Angela earlier that day and what her state of mind had been. But if she did, she’d have to admit that Angela thought that she and Peter were having an affair, and wouldn’t that only throw more suspicion on Peter? She clamped her mouth shut, telling herself that she was doing the right thing. Angela’s death was just a tragic accident, a result of a bad vice and bad balance. She felt the detective’s gaze on her and decided that her presence might be doing more harm than good. She pushed to her feet. “Peter…it’s time for me to leave.” Her throat convulsed. “I’m…so sorry for your loss.” “Before you go, Ms. Wren,” the detective said, holding up his hand, “I’d like to ask one more question.” Then he gave Peter a pointed look. “Were you, sir, having an affair?” Carlotta’s pulse skipped and she forgot to breathe. Peter put his hands on the table, then slowly pushed to his feet. “No, Detective, I wasn’t having an affair. My wife’s death was an accident, pure and simple. I’d think that the police have enough on their plate without trying to turn this tragedy into a crime.” Detective Terry closed his notebook, then looked contrite. “How right you are, Mr. Ashford. My sincere condolences.” Then he swung his gaze to her. “Ms. Wren, since I’m leaving, too, I’ll walk you out.” She couldn’t think of anything less appealing, but since she couldn’t think of a way to refuse, she simply nodded. “Peter, call me if…I can help.” He looked at her for a long while, then nodded. “Okay.” Aware that the detective was hanging on their every word, she quickly walked to the door, slid it open and stepped outside. Detective Terry was on her heels. She retraced her steps down the stone path back to the front of the house where Wesley and Coop were closing the door on the back of the van. “You okay, sis?” Wesley asked, his face contracted in concern. “I’m fine,” she said, slowing her pace. “Wesley, you remember Detective Terry.” “Hard to forget,” Wesley said wryly, then nodded. “How’s it going, man?” “Glad to see you got a job,” Detective Terry said. “This is my boss, Cooper Craft.” The detective nodded. “The doctor and I know each other.” Coop nodded, but his eyes were…wary? Carlotta wondered about the men’s history. And had the detective called him doctor? Detective Terry looked around. “I see the M.E. already left. Do you have the report?” Coop nodded and handed it to him. Detective Terry looked over the form, then glanced up. “Do you agree, Coop?” Coop hesitated. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree.” The detective’s mouth tightened. “I’m asking.” “Since you’re asking…no, I don’t agree with the report.” Carlotta pressed her lips together. This couldn’t be good. The detective grimaced in thought then said, “I want an autopsy. Take her to the morgue.” “But—” Coop began. “I’ll handle the paperwork,” the detective cut in. Coop gave a curt nod, then said, “Let’s go,” to Wesley. “We have another call after this one,” Wesley said to Carlotta. “Coop said he’d give me a ride home.” “Okay.” She turned to walk up the steep driveway, eager to be away from death and all this talk about the morgue. “Ms. Wren,” the detective said, catching up to her easily, “how exactly are you acquainted with Peter Ashford?” Her skin tingled as she pumped her arms to manage the climb in her high-heeled Mary Janes. “Peter and I used to date, ages ago, when we were kids. He’s older and when he went to college, we broke up, just like a million other teenagers.” She was proud of herself for how nonchalant her voice sounded. “He seemed pretty eager to rekindle your friendship. When was the last time you saw him?” In another few steps they were at the top of the incline in front of their vehicles. She stopped and turned to face him, breathing hard and blinking into the glare of a street-light. “I’ve seen him twice in the past ten years, Detective, once at the mall when he wasn’t aware of it, and once at a cocktail party.” “When?” “Three nights ago.” His eyebrows climbed. “Is that so?” “There’s nothing going on between me and Peter Ashford, Detective.” He studied her as if trying to determine whether she was telling the truth. Then suddenly he leaned forward and she had the insane notion that he was going to kiss her. She jerked back. “What are you doing?” “What happened to your neck?” he asked, squinting. She raised her hand to the welts on her skin that still felt raw and tender. Panic bolted through her chest that she bore marks left upon her by a woman who was now dead. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.” She turned and walked to her car, fumbling in her pockets for her keys before remembering she’d left them in the ignition. He followed her, wearing a dubious expression. She fisted her hand that hid the marks from his prying eyes. “Detective, would you please stop staring at my chest?” He lifted his gaze, but took his time. “Yes, ma’am. Good night, Ms. Wren. I’ll be seeing you.” “Stop spying on us. You’re making my neighbor paranoid.” “Wouldn’t have to if you’d cooperate.” She glanced at the purse that she’d left on the car seat and thought of the postcard from her parents tucked inside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Right,” he said, then turned and walked toward his own car. Carlotta stuck her tongue out at his back, then glanced down at the house just as Coop turned the white van around. When he pulled away, the open garage was fully lit, revealing a dark sedan sitting inside. Carlotta recalled the morbid conversation about checking Angela’s car for a suicide note, and grimaced. But as she stared at the loaner car, a memory chord strummed in the back of her mind. She couldn’t be sure, but the car looked like the one that had nearly run her down in the parking garage today. She jerked her attention away and hurriedly swung into her car, frantic to be gone. In her haste she nearly flooded the engine, but finally the ignition caught and she pulled away from the house, her hands clammy, her mind ringing with one truth: It was a good decision to have kept her mouth shut about her run-in with Angela, or that pesky Detective Terry might try to implicate her in the woman’s death by pointing out that she had plenty of motivation for wanting Angela dead. Carlotta rubbed at her temple where a headache had settled. As if she didn’t already have enough problems to deal with. 15 From his seat in the van, Wesley watched his sister careen out of the neighborhood and shook his head. “She’s in a hurry,” Coop observed wryly. “I guess this scene shook her up. She was engaged to that Ashford guy.” “Hmm.” “Kind of weird that she ran into him just a couple of days ago, then again tonight, huh?” “Hmm.” “And now his wife is dead.” “Hmm.” Wesley looked at his boss. “Are the husbands usually that calm in a situation like this?” Coop took his time answering. “Not usually, but sometimes. Ashford looked drunk to me.” Wesley stabbed at his glasses. “Well, I didn’t like the way he cozied up to Carlotta, seeing as how his wife isn’t even in the ground.” “It’s good that you watch out for your sister,” Coop said with a little smile, “but I have the feeling that she can take care of herself.” His mind flew to the disheveled state of Carlotta’s clothing when she’d arrived home. What had she said? That she’d walked out in front of a car when she’d left work and had decided to sacrifice her outfit. No way would Carlotta sacrifice her outfit unless she truly thought she was going to bite a car grill. And even though it was probably some soccer mom from Alpharetta trying to beat rush-hour traffic, there was the possibility that it had been someone who’d targeted her, someone who wanted to scare her, to send a message…to him. A sour taste backed up in his mouth. He’d heard rumors about The Carver running people down, and the bumper on his black Caddy did look as if a few objects had bounced off it. “Say, Coop, do you know where I could get a gun?” Coop’s head pivoted. “Why on earth do you need a gun?” Wesley shrugged. “You know—for protection.” “You’re on probation, chief, or have you forgotten? Besides, I think you’re overreacting on the protective-brother thing.” He chewed on his response for a while, then decided to talk to Coop man-to-man. “Look, I owe money to some bad dudes. One of them keeps showing up at the house and hassling my sister. I just want to be able to protect her, if necessary.” Coop scowled. “Maybe you should call the police.” “Yeah, right. And the next body-moving call you get will be me.” Coop didn’t respond and Wesley wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. His buddy Chance would probably know where he could get a gun with no questions asked. “That detective back there, he’s the guy who arrested me. Jerk.” “Jack Terry? We don’t always see eye to eye, but he’s usually just doing his job.” “He called you doctor, just like that lady at the nursing home.” “Uh-huh.” “And he asked your opinion on the M.E.’s report.” “Uh-huh.” “So what’s up with that?” Coop stretched in his seat and Wesley thought it was another one of those questions his boss would avoid. “I used to be a doctor,” Coop said finally. “Used to be?” Coop shot him an impatient look. “Yeah, as in I’m not anymore.” “What happened?” The man’s profile hardened and he seemed to turn inside himself. “Long story,” he said, mimicking Wesley’s response of a couple of days ago when Cooper had probed about his family. “Some other time, then,” Wesley said. “Yeah. We’re here,” Coop said, pulling the van into the parking lot of the city morgue. Wesley looked at the nondescript building, the third time he’d accompanied Coop to the place. They pulled around to the back where two guys in scrubs were just finishing a smoke break and going back into the building. “Working in a morgue, you’d think they’d know better than to smoke,” Wesley said. “Yeah,” Coop replied, “but sometimes the people who know better have the worst vices of all.” Something in his voice made Wesley think once again that Cooper Craft had secrets and maybe a shady past. And the set of the man’s mouth told him that something about this body pickup had bothered him more than usual. When Coop parked, Wesley jumped out to help him unload the body from the van and place it on a gurney. They rolled it up a ramp where Coop pressed a button on a call box and identified himself and their “delivery.” A few seconds later a buzz sounded, unlocking the door. A slender, suited man, maybe in his fifties, met them just inside the door, a thundercloud on his bushy brow. “Hello, Dr. Abrams,” Coop said pleasantly. The man didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “Is this the Ashford body?” “Yes.” “My medical examiner just phoned in. He said he ruled the death an accidental drowning.” “He did,” Coop said. “So why is she here?” “Detective Jack Terry told me to bring her here after he interviewed the husband,” Coop said, his voice even. “The M.E. had already left, Bruce.” The chief medical examiner’s expression changed to one of suspicion. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with the detective overriding the M.E.’s report.” Coop lifted his hands. “Just following orders.” The man expelled a long sigh and jammed his hands on his hips. “You’re putting me in a hell of a spot. I extended the transport contract for your family’s funeral home because we go way back, and in spite of everything, I respect you, Coop. But I can’t have you on the scene second-guessing my people.” Coop frowned. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to if your people would do their job. The guy barely looked at the body before writing the report and taking off. He didn’t even talk to the next of kin, only the maid.” Dr. Abrams made an exasperated noise. “Coop, you of all people know how it is—everyone here is overworked and underpaid. We’re lucky to fill the entry-level jobs, and we got bodies stacked up in here.” “Then one more won’t matter,” Coop said, his voice challenging. The older man’s expression hardened and his chin went up in the air. “No, Coop. That’s not the way things are run around here anymore. We follow the rules to the letter.” Coop’s mouth tightened, and then he shook his head, his eyes full of disdain. “That’s why you’ll never be a great M.E., Bruce.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You arrogant son of a bitch. You have the nerve to criticize me after the disgraceful way you behaved?” Wesley took a step back. The men obviously had history. Coop set his jaw and looked away. When he turned back, his expression was contrite. “I’m sorry, Bruce. You’re right—I was out of line. You don’t have to do an autopsy, but I’ll have to leave the body here while I make another run. I’ll pick it up when I make the next dropoff in about—” he looked at his watch “—two hours. Okay?” Dr. Abrams drew back, his eyes still wary despite Coop’s apology, his chin stubbornly set. “Take her to the crypt for now.” Coop nodded in acquiescence and told Wesley where to turn once they reached the end of the hall. He seemed to know his way around the place. The morgue was a cold, sterile building with industrial surfaces and a hushed, echoey atmosphere. At this time of day, the corners were dark, the glaring overhead lights ruthless. They passed workers wearing scrubs, their eyes and shoulders sagging in fatigue. A few of them recognized Coop and murmured hello, although their body language seemed awkward and their eye contact furtive. Wesley slid his gaze sideways to his boss. The man was indeed a mystery, but he had a feeling now wasn’t the best time to ask questions. As they rounded a corner, the body shifted in the gray body bag they had transferred her to. Wesley jumped back and Coop smiled as they repositioned her. “Relax, man, she’s not going to hurt anyone.” Even in the voluminous body bag, her breast implants were obvious, jutting up, pushing the plastic taut. “It freaks me out a little because she was so young,” Wesley said. “Unfortunately, you’d better get used to that.” “But she’s, like, my sister’s age.” “Uh-huh.” “So you don’t think her drowning was an accident?” Coop pursed his mouth and resumed pushing the gurney. “As a matter of fact, it probably was an accident. I have a tendency to look for a devious angle even where there is none.” He smiled. “I can be rather morose, if you hadn’t noticed.” “I guess this job will do it to you.” “Yep.” They reached the stainless-steel doors marked Crypt. Coop knocked and handed some paperwork to the young orderly who came to the door and said, “We’ll take it from here.” Wesley handed off the gurney and turned to go. Coop took a little longer and cast a lingering glance over Angela Ashford’s body as it disappeared through the doors. Then he turned to Wesley and clapped him on the back. “Louis Strong at the Sonic Car Wash on Monroe Avenue.” Wesley frowned. “Who’s that?” “The man who can get you a decent handgun without a lot of questions. He’s not cheap, but he has a good reputation. Tell him I sent you, and don’t shoot your damn foot off, okay?” Wesley grinned. “Okay.” “Wipe that grin off your face. I’m doing this because I don’t want to see anything happen to your sister, capisce?” Wesley’s grin widened. “Capisce.” 16 By the time Carlotta parked the Monte Carlo in her garage, she was shaking uncontrollably. A hot shower did little to dispel the chill that had seeped into her skin, a reminder that Angela Ashford would never again be warm. Sleep was out of the question. Instead, she huddled against her headboard wrapped in the fuzzy chenille robe, watching the Style Network through a haze of tears that wouldn’t fall and aching all over from a misery that she couldn’t define. Hovering along the edges of guilt over how many times she’d wished terrible things upon Angela was a profound fear that she’d never felt before—her own mortality. She and Angela were the same age, and Angela had been surrounded by everything that Carlotta had once thought would be hers someday, including Peter. In Carlotta’s eyes, Angela had been the luckiest woman in Atlanta, yet it all had been snatched from her in the time it took to fall into a quarter-of-a-million-dollar swimming-pool addition and drown. How long did it take for a person to drown? Carlotta wondered. One minute? Three? Five? All that time, Angela would have been thrashing in the water in those boots that Carlotta had coveted, trying to hold her breath until at last giving in and drawing chlorinated water into her burning lungs. Had Angela’s last thoughts been of Peter, of the man she’d married? Had she died thinking that her husband was having an affair with his former fianc?e? Had she mourned that her life hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped? If so, Carlotta thought sadly, then she and Angela actually had a lot in common. With her bedroom lights blazing, Carlotta listened to the comforting hum of voices from the television as the pretty people on the entertainment news show floated through their glamorous lives, smiling wide and lifting one-hundred-dollar glasses of Clarendon Hills syrah, climbing in and out of their European sports cars, wearing couture clothing from Milan. Their lives seemed so perfect…the life she’d always aspired to have. She picked up the Cartier ring box from her nightstand and fingered the marquis-cut engagement ring that Peter had given her when she was seventeen. She’d been much too young to be thinking about marriage, she knew that now, but her love for Peter had obliterated any other goal she might have had for herself. The fact that the ring he’d given her surpassed what most adult women received spoke of the incredible wealth that Peter had at his disposal. Too young, too clueless and too wealthy…completely unprepared to deal with reality. She sighed. After ten years of hard knocks, sometimes she still felt unprepared to deal with reality. Her mind churned, consumed with the quandary she’d put herself in by kissing Peter Ashford the night of the cocktail party. After ten years, she had run into him and fallen into his arms, and only a couple of days later, his wife was dead. Life was nothing if not uncanny. But as she dwelled on the horrific coincidence, the terrible thought that she had managed to keep at bay stubbornly worked its way through the nooks and crannies of her brain and presented itself: What if Peter had killed Angela? As soon as the notion materialized, she dismissed it as absurd. Why would Peter kill Angela? Because of you. Angela’s accusations rang in her head like a gong. My husband is still in love with you. You’re fooling around with him behind my back, aren’t you? Carlotta shook her head, refusing to believe any of her own foolish conjectures. How conceited would she be if she thought that Peter would murder his wife just so he could be free? The idea was positively ludicrous. The blaring ring of the phone on her nightstand startled her so badly, she cried out. The clock radio displayed the time as just after midnight. She set down the ring box and answered, thinking it was Wesley because she hadn’t heard him return yet. “Hello?” “Carly, hi. It’s me…Peter. Did I wake you?” Her chest constricted painfully at the rasp of his voice. He sounded as if he’d been drinking again. “No, I was awake. How…how are you?” “Not good,” he admitted. “I just finished calling everyone in the family. Angela’s parents are on a cruise, so it took me a while to track them down.” “I’m so sorry, Peter.” “I know,” he said. “I just called to thank you for…staying this evening. You didn’t have to.” “It’s okay,” she murmured, struck by an overwhelming sense of d?j? vu. How many times had she lain curled up in bed talking to Peter on the phone? Hundreds? Thousands? “I only wish that I could help you.” “You did, simply by being there. I’m just sorry that you had to hear all the hateful things that Neanderthal detective said.” She twisted a hank of hair that had fallen next to her ear, a nervous habit she’d given up years ago after her hair-dresser had chastised her. “I’m sure he was only doing his job.” “Still, he tried to make it sound as if…as if I had something to do with her death.” Carlotta’s heart pounded and moisture gathered around her hairline, but she remained silent. Peter gave a little laugh. “I almost got the feeling that he thought you and I were having an affair or something.” She tried to mimic his laugh, but the noise that emerged sounded high-pitched and strangled, a noise similar to what she imagined Angela had made in the throes of death. “Well…we’re not.” “I know,” he said, “but I don’t have to tell you that if the police knew that we ran into each other earlier this week and that we…kissed…they might be suspicious. I’d hate to see you dragged into this mess over a misunderstanding.” “Right,” she said, her mind spinning over his words and the memory of his searing kiss. “Did the detective question you?” “Yes. I told him that we dated when we were kids, but…I didn’t mention the kiss.” Or the fact that I’m still crazy in love with you. His sigh of relief whistled over the line. “Good. Of course, the M.E. ruled the death accidental, so I guess there’s no reason to worry—about the police somehow involving you, I mean.” His reaction raised warning flags in the back of her mind. On the heels of such a tragedy, was it normal for Peter to be concerned about such trivial things? Unless…unless he had a reason to be concerned. And hadn’t she heard with her own ears Detective Terry tell Coop to take the body to the morgue to be autopsied? Should she mention it to Peter? “Peter, Angela came into the store today.” “And?” “And she wanted to return the man’s jacket that I told you she’d purchased.” “She did?” “Yes. But it looked, um…worn. And when I told her that I couldn’t give her a refund, she went berserk.” “What do you mean?” “She…attacked me.” “What? Did she hurt you?” “I’m fine,” she said. “She’d been drinking, and she accused me of fooling around with you behind her back. Why would she think that?” He made distressed noises. “I don’t know. And I’m so sorry that Angela made a scene. I hope it didn’t get you in trouble at work.” “Don’t worry about it. I’m only sorry that the jacket must have been a sore spot between the two of you.” “When a marriage is going south, petty things tend to get blown out of proportion.” “I thought you’d love the color,” she said, fishing. “Brown always looked good on you.” “Thanks,” he said. “It was thoughtful of Angela.” Her hand tightened on the phone. The jacket was gray. Maybe Angela had bought it for someone else. But if so, why would Peter pretend otherwise? Or maybe he was just too overwhelmed with everything else to remember details like the color. “Peter,” she said carefully, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to call me, considering everything that’s happened.” “Oh,” he said, his voice colored with disappointment. “I thought you were my friend, but you’re right—it was wrong of me to call.” She closed her eyes, frustrated with her warring emotions. She was suddenly afraid—afraid he would ask her to come over, to comfort him in his grief, and that in a moment of weakness, she would. “I am your friend, Peter. I’m trying to advise you as to what’s best, that’s all.” “I know, Carly. You’re the only person in my life who ever truly cared about me, and I ruined everything.” She bit down on her tongue. The pain helped to clear her head. “Peter, I don’t think now is the time to discuss the past. You have other things to worry about. You’re not going to be alone tonight, are you?” “Sort of. I couldn’t stay at the house, so I checked into the Ritz-Carlton for a while. Room 539.” “That’s good,” she murmured, shifting on the bed but unable to find a comfortable position. Did he think she’d offer to come to the hotel and keep him company? She couldn’t do that, but somehow she wound up writing the room number on a notepad next to the phone. Peter heaved a sigh. “Angela and I were having problems, but I never thought it would end like this.” A chill went through her at the despair in his voice. Was he on the verge of making a confession? “Peter, I really don’t think I’m the person you should be sharing this with.” “You’re right, of course. I won’t bother you anymore, Carly.” “You’re not bothering me,” she said quickly, her mind racing. “But you need to take care of yourself. Try to sleep, okay?” “Okay,” he said, sounding disoriented and childlike. She gripped the phone, not wanting to let him go. “Good night, Peter.” “Good night, Carly.” She put down the receiver, her heart squeezing painfully, her head spinning. Why did life have to be so hard? Useless tears pressed on her eyelids as she fought the push-pull emotions she felt for Peter. She wanted to believe him, but could she? He had betrayed her trust once, and now he seemed remorseful, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Shouldn’t he be too consumed with grief to be worried about anything else? She huddled down in the covers, turned up the volume on the television and immersed herself in the figures moving across the screen. As always, watching the exotic lives of the rich and the beautiful helped to remove her from the turmoil raging in her life and in her heart. Even after paid programming came on at 3:00 a.m., she fought sleep. She didn’t want to go where she couldn’t control her thoughts and fears. There were too many faces to haunt her, too many questions pulling at her—her parents’ disappearance, the loan sharks’ lurking presence, Peter’s betrayal and their illicit reunion, and now, Angela’s death. And the chief tormentor in her fitful dreams was Jack Terry, who prodded and poked at her, demanding to know the truth about her parents, about their lives, about her feelings for Peter, about her suspicions regarding Angela’s drowning. He pursued her, crowded her, menacing and relentless, his eyes all-seeing, his big hands reaching for her, as if he were going to wring the truth out of her— “Carlotta.” Her eyes popped open and she shrieked, scrambling away from the voice. “Sis, hey, it’s just me.” She blinked through the morning light and Wesley’s concerned face came into view. “Oh.” Her muscles relaxed in abject relief. “Hard night, huh?” She nodded against her pillow, then alarm seized her anew and her gaze flew to the clock. “What time is it? Oh my God, I overslept. Lindy’s going to fire me for sure!” She flung back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I left you some breakfast on the table,” Wesley said. “I have to take off—I’m working with Coop today.” “Okay, thanks,” she said, her head heavy as she stood. “What time did you get in last night?” “Late.” He was headed toward the door, talking over his shoulder. “We ran into some trouble at the morgue with the Ashford woman’s body, and then—” “Trouble?” she cut in, pushing her hair out of her face. “What kind of trouble?” “The chief M.E. almost refused the body, said his examiner determined the death accidental and he wasn’t going to do an autopsy. There’s some history between the guy and Coop—they argued. I think they used to work together, but Coop didn’t want to talk about it.” Carlotta waved her hands to dismiss the details about Coop—who cared? “Is there going to be an autopsy or not?” “Not, from what I could tell. We had to leave the body there because we had another run, but we picked it back up a couple of hours later.” No autopsy. She went limp with relief. “I’ll be late again tonight,” he said. “Weekends seem to be a popular time to die. Don’t wait on me for dinner.” “Okay,” she said, but he was already gone. Another glance at the clock had her jogging into the bathroom for a quick dip in and out of the shower before the water even had time to warm up. As she toweled off, her mind raced ahead to the things she had to do today and suddenly, the events of last night came rushing back full force. Angela Ashford was dead. And Peter Ashford was behaving suspiciously. Before her thoughts became paralyzing, she pushed them away and forced herself through her morning routine at lightning speed, pulling a red jersey DKNY “emergency” dress from her closet. A gray cashmere shrug would pass for a jacket and trusty black Miu Miu slingbacks would get her through the day sans Band-Aids. She turned on the local-news radio station, and just as she was flossing her teeth, there was mention of Angela’s death. “A Buckhead woman, Angela Ashford, was found drowned in her home pool yesterday. Alcohol is believed to have been involved. In other news…” Carlotta paused in her flossing. Two sentences? Angela’s life and death had been acknowledged in two lousy sentences. She was here, now she’s gone, with the implication that her death had been her own darned fault. The woman was no saint, but still, it hardly seemed fair. But life wasn’t fair. Hadn’t that lesson been her own constant companion over the past ten years? Traffic was surprisingly light, so she wasn’t as late as she might have been when she crashed through the door and tossed her belongings into a locker in the break room. Still, Lindy Russell glared at her as she slid into place behind an available counter and offered to assist a customer. Carlotta moved like a zombie through the morning hours. Her department was busy, even for a Saturday, but everywhere she turned, she pictured Angela Ashford’s body lying next to the pool, with water streaming from clothes that she had bought here. She felt detached from what she was doing, as if she were floating above her own body. She kept telling herself that Angela’s death being ruled an accident was a good thing, but her conscience nagged at her. Michael appeared midday, his eyes glittering and wide. “Did you hear about Angela Ashford?” “I heard,” she offered noncommittally. “She drowned,” he barreled ahead, “in her own pool. Can you believe it?” “No,” she replied honestly. “After that drunken scene that she caused yesterday, I’m not surprised that she fell in. Sad, though.” “Yes, it is.” He leaned in close. “I have a friend who works in a Botox clinic on Piedmont. She said that Angela was a patient there and always showed up drunk on her ass. Guess it was only a matter of time before she hurt herself or someone else.” Carlotta chewed on her lip. Everyone seemed eager to believe that Angela had brought her untimely death upon herself. It did seem like the simplest, neatest explanation…but was it true? She hadn’t particularly liked the woman, but it was starting to dawn on her that she was in a peculiar position to ensure that Angela’s death received more than a passing glance. Michael frowned. “Are you okay?” Carlotta managed a nod. “It’s just such a shame, to die that way. She was so young and so beautiful.” “That’s pretty big of you considering that yesterday the woman tried to kill you.” “You’re exaggerating, don’t you think?” “No,” he said flatly. “I still think you should have filed an assault charge. Your neck is bruised where she tried to choke you.” She covered her neck with her hand. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” “No,” he agreed, then sighed dramatically. “She’s gone, along with her big fat commissions. Poor you.” “Yeah,” she said, trying to mimic his light tone. “Of course, there’s always her husband,” he said, wagging his eyebrows. “Not to be tacky, but any chance that you’ll hook up with the grieving widower, or are you two really just friends?” I thought you were my friend, Peter had said. But what if he was playing her so that she would protect him instead of revealing that he might have had a motive for killing his wife? But how could she report the facts without implicating herself? “Hey, I was only joking,” Michael said. She exhaled and gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s not you. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” “Hmm. Guilty pleasure or guilty conscience?” She flushed under his gaze and murmured, “I need to find an aspirin.” “Don’t dawdle,” Michael said softly. “Lindy is watching your every move.” With his threat ringing in her aching head, Carlotta moved through the rest of her shift fighting bouts of paralyzing paranoia. If she went to Detective Terry with details about Angela and Peter’s relationship, things were bound to get a lot worse for her, and she couldn’t afford to draw more negative attention to herself at work. No, she decided as she clocked out and made her way toward the mall, she would leave Angela Ashford’s death to the professionals. And for now, she’d try not to think about the fact that Peter, the love of her life, was now a single man, and what that might mean to her life. She wove her way through the Saturday crowds, dodging packs of suburban kids and in-town kids making their rounds, young marrieds on their way to the cinema, and pathetic people like her who had convinced themselves that an evening of window-shopping was better than a date. With her new autograph book in mind, she decided to cruise by the Sunglass Hut to see if anyone famous was trying on the new Maui Jim sunglasses. Next to Blue Pointe restaurant in Buckhead and the Fulton County Courthouse, it was the best place in Atlanta for celebrity sightings. She had just sidestepped a teenage couple who only had eyes for each other when the back of her neck prickled and she was overcome with the feeling that someone was watching her. She swallowed hard and tried to shake the eerie feeling, chalking it up to the events of the previous day and her frayed nerves. But as she continued walking, the feeling grew stronger. Fighting panic, she turned into the sunglass shop. From the display case, she picked up a pair of retro Ray Ban aviators and jammed them on her face, then adjusted the mirror to see behind her. There…a few feet back in the mall stood a man, his torso and face obscured by a newspaper—a cartoonish ruse. She could tell little from the jeans-clad legs other than that he was a big man. Her pulse spiked. One of Wesley’s thugs, following her? Maybe planning to jump her on her way to her car and take her cash? Fear coalesced into anger. She punched 911 into her cell phone, then whipped off the sunglasses and charged out into the mall and up to the man, wielding the phone like a weapon, her thumb over the Send button. “I’m onto you, mister, and I’m going to call the police.” The corner of the newspaper came down, revealing Detective Jack Terry wearing a dry smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Ms. Wren.” 17 At Detective Terry’s nonchalant declaration, Carlotta’s anger detonated. “How dare you follow me like I’m some kind of criminal!” He folded the newspaper carefully and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “I wasn’t following you. I just happened to be out shopping.” He lifted a ratty Dick’s Sporting Goods bag as proof. “Really? That’s funny, because there’s no Dick’s in this mall.” Then she angled her head. “Of course, if you’re talking about just plain old dicks, I could probably point one out for you.” “A muscle car and a sense of humor—wow, you’re just full of surprises.” “And you’re full of crap. What the hell do you want?” “Like I said, I’m off duty, just doing a little shopping. But since I ran into you, I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. How about we grab a cup of coffee?” Instantly wary, she asked, “What do you want to talk about?” He smiled again. “The weather, the Braves, your parents—there are so many things.” Through clenched teeth, she said, “I told you, I don’t know where my parents are.” He held up both hands, Dick’s bag swinging. “I’ve been reading the files, and I just want to clarify a few details, that’s all.” A cajoling smile transformed his big features into almost handsome, dammit. “Come on, let me buy you a cup of coffee for all the trouble I’ve caused you.” She hesitated. “Ms. Wren, you’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later. Let’s try to keep this as informal as possible.” She narrowed her eyes. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Peter Ashford?” “Should it?” “No,” she said quickly. “I just thought…after last night…” “No, I got final word from the coroner’s office this morning. They stand by their accidental-death ruling. Case closed.” “Oh.” So even the police had put the matter to rest. “How about that coffee?” She frowned. “Don’t you have something better to do on a Saturday night?” “Apparently not. Did I interrupt some kind of sunglass-shopping emergency?” A flush warmed her cheeks. “I wasn’t looking for sunglasses. I was looking for celebrities.” “Excuse me?” She tapped her purse, not caring whether he thought she was silly. “I collect autographs, and this is a great place to spot famous people.” He pursed his mouth. “Good to know.” Then he gestured toward the food court. “Shall we?” She nodded curtly, then fell into step with him. He had traded his suit and shoddy tie for Levi’s, a black T-shirt and a pair of black western boots. Ten points for the boots since western wear was back in style, although she suspected that Jack Terry didn’t know or care that he was accidentally in vogue. She became hyperaware of his size as they walked. The man was a mountain, with a thick torso and long legs. More than one woman turned to look at him as they made their way toward a coffee shop. The two of them must look like quite the odd couple, she realized. Not that they were a couple…or that anyone watching them could mistake them for a couple. “Is this table okay?” he asked, gesturing to a tiny caf? table with two chairs. She nodded and awkwardly lowered herself into the chair he held out for her. With a shove, he scooted her so close to the table she felt as if she were in a high chair. “I’ll get us some coffee. How do you like yours?” “I’ll have a double latte with fat-free soy milk and a bottle of Pellegrino.” He gave her a small smile that told her he had no idea what she’d said. “I’ll be right back.” She watched him walk up to the counter, obviously out of place at the yuppie establishment. Dread ballooned in her stomach as she pondered the questions he had for her. Just the thought of him reading the files on her father’s case made her tingle in embarrassment—he knew all the family secrets and scandals, and seemed intent on making her relive the part of her life that she most wanted to forget. Her fingers itched. Christ, why had she stopped smoking? “Here we go,” the detective said, setting a tray on the table. “Two coffees with cream, a bottle of springwater and two chocolate ?clairs.” She frowned. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” He sat down on the diminutive chair and slurped his coffee, then bit into the ?clair and chewed heartily. “How’s your brother?” “Fine. Better, I think. Although I can’t say that I’m crazy about his job choice.” “There are worse jobs. It might scare him straight, confronting death like that.” “I noticed last night that you seemed acquainted with his boss.” “Cooper Craft? Yeah. When I first joined the force, he was the coroner.” She frowned. “The coroner? As in, a doctor?” “Yeah, Dr. Cooper was the chief medical examiner.” “But I thought he worked for his family’s funeral home.” “He does now. He had some problems with alcohol and there was some kind of blunder with a high-profile case. There was an inquest and he lost his license—and his job. I think he might even have served some jail time.” Carlotta was astonished. The tall man with the long sideburns who thought she was cute had quite a colorful past. “So now he works for a funeral home and moves bodies for the morgue.” “Yep. And he seems to have put the booze behind him. He’ll be a good influence on your brother.” “Good. Wesley worships the man.” “He’s probably just starved for a father figure.” He cleared his throat, reached into the Dick’s Sporting Goods bag and pulled out a folder. “Speaking of which, I was hoping you could help me fill in a few gaps regarding your father’s disappearance.” Her spine stiffened as she sipped from the cup of surprisingly good coffee. “I doubt it, but I’ll try.” He opened the folder that contained a half-inch sheath of papers, most of them printouts and official-looking reports. “Do you remember the day your father was indicted?” She nodded and looked into her coffee, recalling the tension that had blanketed the town house, overrun with a constant stream of lawyers and the addition of a bay of file cabinets to keep up with the paperwork. “Everything seemed to be leading up to that day. Wesley and I stayed home, but we heard the news on the radio before my parents returned home.” “So they did return home?” She nodded. “My mother was crying and my dad was angry, saying that he’d been framed and that he’d get even with everybody.” “Did they mention that they were thinking of leaving town?” “No.” “You had no idea?” “No,” she said evenly. “My parents said they wanted to go to dinner alone, to talk about some financial issues. They left about seven o’clock and…they simply never came home.” His expression darkened. “That was the last time you and your brother saw them?” She nodded. “When we got up the next morning, their bedroom door was closed. I assumed they’d gotten in late and were sleeping in. I got Wesley ready for school and we left. When we came home from school, Liz Fischer was waiting for us. She’d been looking for my father all day.” His eyebrows went up. “Liz?” She squirmed, remembering that he and Liz had history. “You were aware that she was my father’s attorney?” “Yeah, it’s in the files, but I thought she was simply on the defense team. I assumed she was handling things behind the scenes.” Her smile flattened. “She was. Liz and my father were—how did you put it? Oh, yes. Friendly.” He scratched his temple. “Are you saying that something was going on between them?” “Why don’t you ask her the next time you…see her?” “I will,” he said smoothly. “So you were saying that Liz was waiting for you?” “Right. She said she’d been trying to reach my father all day. From the look of my parents’ bedroom, it appeared as if they hadn’t been there since they’d left the previous evening.” “Did they leave a note?” She swallowed more coffee. “No.” “Did they call?” “No.” His mouth twitched downward. “Do you remember the date?” “December second, three weeks before Christmas.” She heard the bitterness in her own voice. He sipped from his coffee. “Does that have something to do with the little Christmas tree in your living room?” She looked up sharply. “I noticed it when I went there to take your brother in. It’s hard to miss.” She picked at the ?clair in front of her. “Yes. Wesley wouldn’t let me take it down.” “Even after all this time?” “Even after.” He made a rueful noise in his throat. “When did you first hear from your parents?” She looked off into the distance, and tried to make her voice sound detached from the information she conveyed, as if it had happened to someone else. “It was about six months later, in June. We received a postcard from Michigan, I think.” “Do you have family in Michigan?” “None that I know of. My mother’s parents were deceased before I was born, and she was an only child. My father’s parents died when I was in grade school. He has a half brother in New Zealand, and a couple of extended cousins somewhere in Utah, but he wasn’t close to them. I believe the police followed up with them, though.” He scribbled on a piece of notepaper. “Where did your family go on vacations?” She shrugged. “Where didn’t we go? All along the eastern coastline, north and south, France, Germany, England and Ireland, cruises to the Caribbean. My father liked to live large.” The only vacation she and Wesley had taken since then were the three days they’d spent at Walt Disney World when he was eleven. It had taken months of saving every dime and had been marred by Wesley’s conviction that Carlotta was holding out on him—that their parents were going to join them in Orlando as a big surprise. Of course that hadn’t happened, and Wesley had cried the entire eight-hour drive back to Atlanta. She straightened. “How much longer, Detective? I’m rather tired, and I haven’t eaten yet.” “Jack.” “Hmm?” “Why don’t you drop the detective stuff? My friends call me Jack.” She glanced at the notes in front of him and reminded herself that the man was manipulating her to get the information he needed to bring her father home, which would only plow another furrow through her and Wesley’s lives. She stood and smiled down at him. “Goodbye, Detective.” He nodded. “Ms. Wren, before you go…was there something you wanted to tell me about the Angela Ashford case?” Her hand moved automatically to cover her neck as she tried to look innocent. “Uh…no.” His gaze went to her neck. “Really? Because if you know something…” She knew she had reached the point of now or never. “W-well, it probably doesn’t mean anything.” He slurped his coffee. “Why don’t you let me decide?” “Angela was a customer of mine,” she blurted before she lost her nerve. “She purchased a man’s jacket last week. A couple days later I ran into Peter at a party and asked him about the jacket, but he didn’t know anything about it.” She decided to leave out the fact that she’d asked Peter about the jacket again last night and he hadn’t corrected her when she’d said it was brown. The detective frowned. “I don’t get it.” “Well, I started thinking that…perhaps she had bought the jacket for…someone else.” “You mean a lover?” “I have no idea. I’m just telling you what I know.” “You mean what you think.” Carlotta gritted her teeth. “Anyway, she returned the jacket yesterday.” “When yesterday?” “In the afternoon.” “Was she acting strangely?” “She’d been drinking,” Carlotta admitted. “The man’s jacket had been worn and when I told her I couldn’t give her a refund, she became…verbally abusive.” “What did she say?” “She had the idea that…Peter and I were having an affair.” He lifted his cup to his mouth. “Why would she think that?” Carlotta fidgeted. “Perhaps because he and I were engaged before they were.” “But you said that happened years ago.” “Yes. Peter ended our relationship about the same time my parents left.” He frowned. “He dumped you when the going got tough, huh?” “He was just a kid,” she said defensively. “I was hurt, but I eventually understood why he did what he did.” “So maybe Mr. Ashford has been pining for you all these years?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” “But Mrs. Ashford seemed to.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Look, what I’m trying to tell you is that Angela might have been the one having the affair. I don’t know if it means anything, but I felt obligated to tell you, so there.” At this point, mentioning that the woman had also tried to strangle her seemed like overkill. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head slowly. “You want to know what I think? I think that you imagined this thin story of Angela Ashford having a lover to make yourself feel better over the fact that whatever was going on between you and her husband might have made her take a flying leap into that pool all on her own.” Carlotta’s mouth opened, then closed as denial washed over her. He lifted his cup to her. “This theory that you have—where I come from, we call that borrowing trouble. The truth is, Ms. Wren, you and Peter Ashford both should be thankful that the M.E. ruled the death an accident.” He smiled. “Now you can carry on with a clear conscience.” White-hot anger whipped through her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked her up and down over the top of his cup, then he gave a little laugh. “Maybe not, but I know guilt when I see it, lady.” Carlotta glared at him, then wheeled and stalked away as fast as her high heels would allow. The man was insufferable! And dead on. 18 Carlotta pulled up in front of Hannah’s apartment building just as Hannah bounded outside, long black leather skirt flowing, thick buckles and silver chains clanging. She opened the passenger-side door of Carlotta’s car and slid inside. “Hiya.” Carlotta stared at the goth garb. “Hannah, for Christ’s sake, this is a funeral not a Halloween party!” “I’m wearing black,” Hannah said, unfazed as she buckled her seat belt. “When are you going to let me give you a makeover?” “Let me see…uh, never. Besides, what does it matter what a person wears to a funeral?” She snorted. “I can promise you the person in the casket doesn’t give a crispy crap.” Carlotta frowned. “Funerals are for the living, and I can promise you, everyone at this funeral will be dressed as if they were going to the Oscars.” “Do you think they’ll have food? I’m starving.” “No, they won’t have food, you idiot. It’s a funeral. Haven’t you ever been to a funeral?” “No,” Hannah said. “Have you?” “No,” Carlotta admitted. “But I’ve seen them on television, and there’s no buffet.” “I don’t know why you want to go to your ex-boyfriend’s wife’s funeral anyway. It’s like you’re rubbing it in that you’re still alive and she’s…not.” “That’s a terrible thing to say. I knew Angela—we went to school together, and I told you, she was a customer of mine.” Hannah gave her a sideways glance. “But what aren’t you telling me?” “Nothing.” “Huh?” “Nothing.” “Huh?” Carlotta sighed. “Okay…the other night when I ran into Peter at the party…” “Yeah?” “When I left, he followed me.” “And?” “And…we kissed.” Hannah whooped. “You kissed a married man? After all the shit you’ve given me over the years?” “It’s not something I’m proud of.” Hannah hooted. “This is great.” Then she stopped. “Oh, wait. You kissed the man and a couple of days later, his wife drowns in a pool. That’s not great, that’s…weirdly coincidental.” Carlotta wet her lips. “I know.” “Oh my God, do you think he killed her?” Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Of course not.” Hannah jumped up and down in her seat. “Maybe he killed her because he’s still in love with you! Oh my God, that’s so romantic!” Carlotta was starting to regret her decision to ask Hannah to attend the funeral with her, but she’d thought she’d stick out more if she went alone. Now with Hannah’s getup—and her oozing mouth—the only thing she needed to draw more attention to them was a flare. “Peter didn’t kill Angela,” Carlotta said carefully. “She was drunk and fell into the pool. The coroner’s office ruled her death an accidental drowning.” “Mighty convenient for you,” Hannah said slyly. “That’s not remotely funny.” “But it’s true. You must still have feelings for this guy, Carlotta. I saw how shaken up you were the night you ran into him. I’ve never seen you have anything more than disdain for men. In fact, I was beginning to think that you might prefer women.” “Also not funny. And my reaction to Peter, well, I was just so shocked seeing him after all these years, I was disoriented.” “So…you don’t have feelings for him.” Carlotta rolled her shoulders. “I didn’t say that. I’m confused. Besides, I don’t think it’s appropriate to lust after a man who’s grieving for his wife.” “Are you kidding? If he’s as rich as you say, there’ll be single women stacked up at this shindig to wipe his tears. If you want him, you’d better be prepared to claw your way to the top of the pussy pile.” Carlotta frowned. “I have no intention to claw my way anywhere. Here’s the place,” she said, slowing and signaling to turn into the Motherwell Funeral Home, a stately white plantation-style home in front with some less attractive additions jutting off the back. “Damn, look at the cars,” Hannah said. Indeed, Carlotta felt self-conscious parking her muscle car next to the Beemers and Mercedes and Bentleys, but it couldn’t be helped. She climbed out, aware that their arrival had garnered a few stares from other attendees who glanced at her car—and Hannah—with faint distaste as they strolled by. Seriously suited men and severely coiffed women made their way toward the entrance of the funeral home. Carlotta’s pulse pounded harder as they fell in with the crowd, still questioning her decision to attend but unable to deny the compulsion that had grown since her encounter with Jack Terry. Damn him, he was right about her guilt. Her conscience wouldn’t let her rest and no matter what she’d told the detective, or Hannah, for that matter, she wasn’t at peace with the M.E.’s ruling of the cause of death. She had convinced herself that attending the funeral might settle her mind, give her a sense of closure. She dearly hoped so. They were almost to the entrance when a man’s voice sounded. “Carlotta, hello.” She turned her head to see Walt Tully and next to him, his daughter Tracey. Recalling that her last encounter with her estranged godfather had been during her accidental reunion with Peter, Carlotta almost panicked, but pulled a smile out of thin air. “Hello, Walt, Tracey.” “Carlotta, it’s been just ages,” Tracey said, raising her left hand to her cheek in a way that sent the sun beaming off the knuckle-spanning cluster of diamonds. “Daddy said he ran into you the other night…with Peter, of all people.” “That’s right.” “I can’t believe Angela drowned in her own pool,” the woman said, her voice melodramatic. “And I can’t imagine a more horrific way to die.” “Actually,” Hannah interjected, “I read on the Internet that the most painful way to die is in a garbage-truck compacter, but drowning ranks near the top.” Tracey glowered at her, then turned her attention back to Carlotta. “Didn’t Peter used to date you?” “We used to date each other,” Carlotta clarified quietly. “A long time ago.” “Oh…right,” Tracey said, then looked puzzled. “So…are you here for Peter?” To support him, or to nab him? The innocent question was loaded with catty suspicion. Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Actually, I’m here because I know—knew Angela.” “Really? That’s strange because Angela was a very good friend of mine and never mentioned you…in that way.” Carlotta wondered in just what “way” Angela had mentioned her name—in tandem with the C word, no doubt. While Carlotta cast about for an ambiguous response, Tracey changed tack. “What is it that you do again, Carlotta? Seems like I remember that you worked for Neiman’s years ago.” “Still do,” Carlotta said cheerfully. “Oh.” Only her mother had been able to inject more disapproval into one word. Hannah dug her elbow into Carlotta’s side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” “Uh, Hannah Kizer…Walt and Tracey Tully.” “Lowenstein now,” Tracey gushed, flashing her ring again. “Mrs. Dr. Lowenstein.” “Mrs. Dr.?” Hannah asked, feigning awe. “I’ll bet that looks great on your vanity license plate.” Tracey’s eyes narrowed, then she huffed and tugged on her father’s arm. Walt gave Carlotta a suspicious, lingering look that unnerved her before he hurried away. “Behave,” Carlotta hissed. “That’s my godfather.” “Damn, I’d hate to see how they treat complete strangers.” “Shh,” Carlotta said as they stepped into the crowded wood-paneled foyer of the funeral home. The sickeningly sweet smell of live flowers rode the air as they shuffled forward on industrial-grade beige carpet toward what appeared to be the main parlor. At the far end of the entryway, a tall man in a striking brown suit nodded to her over the heads of the crowd. Surprised, she smiled and nodded back. “Who’s the deep dish?” Hannah said into her ear. “It’s Wesley’s boss, Cooper Craft. I guess this is his family’s funeral home. I had no idea.” “Yowza, he’s hot.” “He’s a funeral director,” Carlotta reminded her friend, but she had to admit, the man knew how to wear a suit. “So? What’s the saying—cold hands, big schlong?” Carlotta shook her head in exasperation as they were swept up in the crowd and herded into the burgundy-and-hunter-green parlor where low organ music played. They seized two of the few remaining empty seats, and the walls were quickly lined with overflow guests. Standing room only, Carlotta thought morosely. Angela would be thrilled, if only she weren’t dead. But she was dead, lying, presumably, inside the gold-and-white casket on display at the top of three steps at the front of the long room, flanked on either side by countless baskets and wreaths of flowers, crammed into every square inch of space, each seemingly more huge than the next. “Christ,” Hannah groused, “how many acres of hot-house flowers were depleted for this send-off?” Carlotta ignored her and as discreetly as possible looked for Peter. She spotted him in the front row, head bent as he spoke to the tanned, older couple next to him—Angela’s parents, no doubt. On the other side of him sat his own parents, spines ramrod straight, the picture of propriety. The same propriety that had driven Peter to end their engagement ten years ago. How different things might have been if only… A few rows in front of them, Tracey Tully bent her head to whisper into the ear of the woman sitting next to her, and the woman turned around to send a laser stare Carlotta’s way. She watched as Tracey’s companion then whispered to the next woman, who turned to gawk. One by one, the entire row of women turned to look, all of their noses identically chiseled, their mouths tattooed with permanent lip liner. “Are the clones friends of yours?” Hannah asked dryly. “Hardly,” Carlotta murmured, “although I’m sure I went to school with some of them.” The rise of organ music signaled that the service was about to begin. A minister strode down the aisle and stopped to shake hands with Peter and with Angela’s parents before ascending to the podium. He read a short, dry eulogy in a detached monotone and as he droned on, Carlotta realized that the man had probably never met Angela Ashford or, if he had, that he didn’t know her. He divulged no personal details, nothing to conjure up images of Angela as a living, breathing human being. The same was true for the three women (all of them with names ending in “i”), who had apparently requested or had been asked by the family to talk about Angela. “She loved Peter more than anything,” Staci gushed into the microphone. “The day they were married was the happiest day of her life.” “She worked out and took care of herself,” Lori said. “Everyone on the tennis team is really going to miss her.” “Her house was her pride and joy,” Tami said, “down to the last flower arrangement.” “Egad,” Hannah whispered behind her hand. “If that was her life, she’s probably glad she’s dead.” Helplessness tightened Carlotta’s chest as she remembered the two sentences the radio announcer had used to sum up Angela’s life and death. The indifference was heartbreaking, but Carlotta had expected more out of the woman’s friends. “Would anyone else like to share their memories of Angela?” the minister asked, giving the audience a cursory glance. Stand up, Carlotta willed Peter. If you had any feelings for this woman, don’t let people leave here thinking that the sum of her existence was being your wife, going to the gym and living in a big house. “Very well,” the minister said. “Wait,” Carlotta said, lurching to her feet. She felt everyone’s heads turn toward her and the weight of their attention fall on her. “Yes?” the minister said. “You’d like to say something?” Now what? her racing mind screamed. Her gaze flitted over the expectant crowd and to the bewildered expression on Peter’s face. “Go ahead,” the minister urged. Carlotta wet her lips and clamped her hands on the back of the seat in front of her. “Angela and I were friends a long time ago,” she said, her voice high and shaking. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “A lifetime ago really—we were just kids, trying to make sense of things.” She gave a little laugh. “Angela had a talent for drawing cartoons. She would make up characters and stories about them and put together her own little comic books. She was really good at it, and said that she’d like to draw comics for a living someday.” The room was deadly quiet now, and Carlotta’s throat tightened. Fervently wishing she’d never stood up, she pressed on. “Angela bit her fingernails to the quick, she always dreamed of owning a pinto-colored horse and she could hit the high note in ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’I remember her saying that one of her favorite movies was Awakenings—she was captivated by the fact that people could be frozen inside themselves, and how agonizing it must be to want to get out and not be able.” People were gaping at her now, and she realized that this crowd didn’t really want to hear anything deep or meaningful about the woman in the casket. They simply wanted to do their duty as neighbors and club members and put in ass-time at the funeral. Some of them were already glancing at their watches. Angela’s parents seemed confused and although Peter was smiling, based on the way people were looking back and forth between them, she wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. “She’ll be missed,” Carlotta finished abruptly, then sat down. “That was memorable,” Hannah muttered. As the minister brooked the awkward pause with a thank-you and some throat-clearing, she could feel people’s sideways glances land on her and whisperings ensue. “Who is that?” “Is she drunk?” “What was she talking about?” In front of her, the Clone Club was practically buzzing. Her face flamed as she shifted in her seat. In trying to reveal a side of Angela that no one else seemed privy to (or would own up to), she’d simply made a spectacle of herself. And the kicker was, she couldn’t explain what had made her do what she’d done. At the side of the room, she caught the eye of Cooper Craft, who was staring at her with a little smile. He inclined his head as if to say “well done,” but she couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t making fun of her. She stared at her hands for the rest of the service, standing at the end to join in the processional past the casket and to shake hands with the family. Her feet felt like lead as she made her way up the aisle, but she shuffled along until she stood before Angela’s parents and Peter. Even as she shook hands with the stoic couple, she felt Peter’s gaze on her. When she finally looked at him, his blue, blue eyes bored into her, and she could sense that he was holding himself back from embracing her. He clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers, sending wholly inappropriate sensations tumbling through her body. Her heart expanded painfully. “Thank you for coming,” he said, just as if she were anybody…or nobody. “You’re welcome,” she said, then pulled her hand away and followed the crowd out into the parlor where people were pouring out the front door, moving toward their cars, already discussing where they might have lunch. On the other side of the foyer, Cooper Craft stood erect with his hands folded in front of him, a serene expression on his face, the picture of poise and comfort. “There won’t be a graveside service?” an older woman was demanding to know. “Um, no, ma’am.” “Why not?” the woman pressed, clearly affronted. “Mrs. Ashford requested that her body be cremated, ma’am, rather than be buried.” “Cremated? Burned alive?” He wiped his hand across his mouth, but to his credit, kept a straight face. “It’s a very respectful procedure, ma’am, and good for the environment.” The woman hmphed and walked away, shaking her head. Coop smiled in Carlotta’s direction, and Hannah nudged her from behind. “Introduce us.” Carlotta threw Hannah a withering look, then stepped toward him. “Hello,” she said as they walked up. “Hi,” Coop said, his light brown eyes crinkling in a smile. The man had nice eyes, she conceded, and wondered what he looked like without his glasses. Hannah bumped her from behind. “Oh, um, Cooper Craft, this is my friend Hannah Kizer.” Coop stuck out his hand. “How do you do?” “Thoroughly,” Hannah cooed, practically licking her lips as she clung to his hand. Carlotta laughed nervously. “I didn’t realize that Motherwell’s was your family’s funeral home.” “My uncle’s,” he clarified. “I just help out. By the way, that was nice, what you said in there.” She smiled weakly, then looked behind her to see that the main parlor had almost emptied. The family would be coming out soon. “Hannah,” she said, pressing her keys into her friend’s wayward hand, “would you mind waiting for me in the car?” Hannah scowled. “Yes, I would.” “Hannah.” “Okay,” Hannah said, then turned a wry smile to Coop. “Guess she wants to keep you to herself.” “Hannah, go.” Carlotta watched her friend stomp away in her black combat boots, then looked back to Coop. “Sorry about that. Can I…talk to you?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” “I mean about Angela Ashford.” He frowned. “What about?” She leaned forward. “I overheard what you said the night that…it happened. You told Detective Terry that you thought the body should be autopsied. Why?” He shrugged slowly. “Because it would be easy to tell if she drowned accidentally…or not.” Then he angled his head. “Why are you asking?” Carlotta squirmed and told him what she’d told the detective, about the men’s jacket that Angela had bought and returned, and that Peter had denied knowing anything about it. “You think that Angela had a man on the side?” She lifted her chin, prepared to be laughed at again. “I have no idea, but I had to tell someone.” “You should be talking to the police.” “I did. Detective Terry blew me off.” “Why?” She sighed. “Because I have history with Peter Ashford.” “Yeah, Wesley told me.” Carlotta frowned. “My brother talks too much.” She glanced over her shoulder, then back to Coop. “Look…I guess I’m asking if you saw anything peculiar about the, um, body when you…did whatever you do to bodies to get them ready for viewing.” He pursed his mouth and appeared to be chewing on her words. “Maybe.” Her pulse ratcheted higher. “You did?” “That doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.” “Jack Terry said you used to be a medical examiner.” Coop frowned. “Jack Terry talks too much, too.” “Is it too late to check?” she asked, her heart thudding against her breastbone. “No,” he murmured. “Not until the body is cremated.” Then he folded his arms. “Carlotta, you must have been close to Angela Ashford.” “Not really,” Carlotta admitted. “Like I said in there—friends, a lifetime ago. But no matter what’s happened since, I can’t just let her be overlooked.” Coop glanced in the direction of the parlor, then back. “Not even if it means your former boyfriend might somehow be involved?” Carlotta swallowed hard, battling a bout of vertigo, as if she were balanced on a precipice, rocking back and forth between the past and the future. “N-not even.” She said goodbye and walked out the front door, staring straight ahead and ignoring the people and things in her peripheral vision. Hannah stood leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. “Got another one of those?” Carlotta asked, opening the driver’s-side door. “You betcha.” Carlotta swung into the driver’s seat and accepted a cigarette that Hannah offered but her hand was shaking so badly, Hannah had to light it for her. “Jeez, what did you and the delectable undertaker have to talk about that’s got you so hot and bothered?” “Nothing important,” Carlotta said, then took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled in blessed release. She looked at the cigarette. “God, this is good. Why did I stop smoking?” “Because it’ll kill you?” “Oh, yeah,” Carlotta said, then thought of Angela and the fact that there were lots of things that would kill a person faster than smoking. “If I start up again, I can’t let Wesley know—he’ll start up, too.” Thoughts of her brother sent pangs of anxiety to her stomach. Tomorrow, and every Tuesday into the foreseeable future, was pay-up day. There was no way her brother would have a grand pulled together to pay that brute, Tick. Her gaze went to her Coach bag with the Cartier ring box stowed inside. “Hannah, do you know a reputable pawnshop?” “Sure. What do you want to sell?” Carlotta took another drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “My soul.” 19 The woman behind the counter sucked her teeth. “Name?” “Wesley Wren. I’m here to see—” He checked the slip of paper he held. “E. Jones.” The woman tapped on a computer keyboard. “Spell the name.” “J-O-N-E-S.” Eye roll. “I meant your name, hotshot.” “Oh. W-R-E-N.” “Date of birth?” He told her. More tapping ensued, then the woman jerked her thumb to the left. “Down the hall, second door on the right. Knock before you go in.” He did as he was told, but dread cramped his intestines. With his luck, his probation officer would be one of those hard-ass military types with a crew cut and ripped arms, bent on scaring his charges straight. Wesley stopped at the door and knocked. “Come in,” a muffled voice sounded. He opened the door and stared at the back of his probation officer—all five foot and ten willowy inches of her. “Park it,” she said over her shoulder as she walked her fingers through hanging files in a cabinet drawer. Wesley settled into a chair facing the desk and busied himself studying the shapely E. Jones’s rear end, encased in snug khaki-colored pants. No crew cut here—instead, glossy auburn hair was twisted in a knot on the back of her head and secured with a pencil stuck down through it. But her arms were ripped—lean and tanned beneath the short-sleeve yellow shirt she wore. He could only hope that her front was as hot as her back. She whirled around and pinned him to the chair with blazing green eyes. Damn, she was…gorgeous. “What’s your name?” she barked, dropping into the chair behind her desk. Name? “Uh, Wesley,” he stammered. “Wesley Wren.” He leaned forward and handed her the slip of paper that he’d received in the mail. She glanced at the paper, then sifted through a stack of folders on her desk and pulled one from the pile. She didn’t look up, but Wesley didn’t mind because it allowed him to study her unobserved. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and she moved like a cat, with no wasted motion. Her lashes were dark and incredibly long, her nose petite, her mouth full and pink, although it was at the moment tightened in a disapproving little bow. “So, Mr. Wren,” she said without looking up, “you’re a bad computer hacker.” He bristled. “I got in, didn’t I?” “Yes, and you got caught.” She sat back in her chair and assessed him with narrowed eyes. “You’re what, eighteen?” “Nineteen,” he said, sitting straighter. She seemed unimpressed. “Okay, I’m supposed to help you get a job.” “I already got a job,” he was glad to report. “Where?” “It’s not in a location. I’m a body mover.” “Excuse me?” “I work with a guy who contracts with the morgue for body retrieval.” She pursed her pink mouth and nodded. “It’s a niche. But I’ll need a note from your employer, or a paycheck stub.” “Okay.” “And you need to set up a payment schedule with the court to pay your five-thousand-dollar fine.” He winced. “How will that work?” “Make regular payments to the court cashier, with a check or money order, preferably every week.” Another weekly payment. He was still feeling queasy over the fact that Carlotta had met Tick at the door yesterday morning and handed over a grand before fatso had a chance to ring the doorbell. His sister didn’t want to say where she’d gotten the money, but when he’d insisted on knowing, she’d admitted that she’d pawned the engagement ring that Peter Ashford had given her. She’d mooned over the guy for ten years, and now that he was available, she’d pawned the ring. If he lived to be five hundred years old, he’d never understand women. Of course, between Father Thom and The Carver, his chances of living to be a hundred didn’t look too good. The rapid snapping of fingers caught his attention. “Are you with me?” He flushed, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. “Sorry.” She frowned. “Are you high?” “No.” She pulled open a drawer and produced a cup. “Then you won’t mind giving a urine sample before you leave.” His neck and ears warmed. “No.” “Drug use, possession of a firearm and any other legal violation will land your ass in jail, do you understand?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Your probation also stipulates that you aren’t to access a computer, except when you begin your community-service work with the city to improve their computer security.” “Right.” “And I see from your file that your driver’s license has been suspended for multiple speeding violations.” “Right again.” “How do you get around?” “I ride the train or walk.” She frowned and reached inside yet another drawer and pulled out a Marta train pass. “Here.” “Thank you.” “Now…back to paying off your fine. Can you swing fifty dollars a week?” “Probably.” “Can you or can’t you?” “Yes, ma’am.” She made a note in his file. “How soon can you begin your community-service work?” He perked up. “The sooner, the better.” “What about your work schedule?” “My boss knows my situation. He’ll work around it.” “Okay, I’ll make a couple of phone calls and get back to you.” She asked for and wrote down his cell-phone number. “Regardless, you’ll need to meet with me once a week. Are Wednesdays okay?” He nodded. “Any questions?” “Yeah. What does the ‘E’ stand for?” “I beg your pardon?” He stabbed at his glasses, then pointed to the nameplate on her desk. “Your first name—what does the ‘E’ stand for?” Her pink mouth twitched downward. “You don’t need to know.” She handed him the cup for his urine sample. “Down the hall, to the right. Leave the sample with the officer there. I’ll see you next week. Don’t forget to bring your paperwork.” Feeling thoroughly dismissed, Wesley stood and walked to the door. “Mr. Wren?” He turned back, eager to have more contact with the intriguing E. Jones. “Yeah?” She tapped his file with an ink pen. “For some reason, your probation has been flagged by the D.A.’s office for close scrutiny. Why is that?” Deciding he could be mysterious, too, Wesley shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the D.A.” For the first time, he detected a light of curiosity in her green eyes. “I will.” He left her office with a bit of a spring in his step and, after depositing a sample of his whizz with the dour-faced guard in the john, walked out of the building, whistling under his breath. Suddenly, probation was looking like a more pleasant prospect. He certainly could get used to looking at E. Jones every week. With his probation officer’s warning about possessing a firearm ringing in his head, he used the pass she’d given him to take a Marta train to the Midtown station, then made the several-block walk to the Sonic Car Wash, a huge enterprise that was always jammed with business. He asked a fellow in the exit lot who was hand-drying the windshield of an SUV to point out Louis Strong. The man pointed across the lot to a short, rawboned guy supervising the tire-cleaning of several vehicles, shouting orders and waving cars forward. Wesley walked over to the man who sported tattoos across his knuckles. “Louis Strong?” The man turned and eyed Wesley up and down. “Who wants to know?” Wesley leaned in. “Cooper Craft gave me your name. I need a gun.” Panic flared in the man’s eyes as he grabbed Wesley by the shoulder and looked around. “Keep your voice down, man. Are you trying to get me arrested?” “No.” Wesley pushed his glasses up. “Sorry.” “Where’s your car?” “I don’t have one.” “Well, come back when you get one,” he said, disgust in his voice. “If people just walk up and start talking to me, my boss is going to get suspicious, got it?” He walked away, shaking his head, leaving Wesley feeling like a fool. Cursing under his breath, Wesley walked off the lot, dialing his buddy Chance Hollander’s number. “Yeah?” Chance answered. “Dude, it’s Wes.” “I thought you’d died or something, man. Where you been since you got out of jail?” “Working.” Chance laughed. “Working? You flipping burgers?” “No, man, I’m moving stiffs to the morgue.” “You’re fucking with me, man.” Wes’s chest expanded. Chance wasn’t easily impressed. “No, I’m serious.” Chance guffawed. “That’s righteous.” “Listen, dude, I need a gun.” “What kind?” Chance said, instantly all business. “Handgun.” “You in trouble?” “A little.” “You can borrow one of mine.” Wesley’s shoulders dropped in relief. “You sure, man?” “Absolutely. Come on over.” “I’m on foot. I’ll be there when I can.” “Oh, right, you don’t have a license.” Chance’s hearty laughter sounded over the line. “Man, you should’ve taken care of your own speeding tickets, too.” “I know,” Wesley said, hating to pretend that he was dumb. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you. I’m bored as shit anyway.” Wesley told him where he could pick him up, then walked to the corner and waited. A few minutes later, Chance’s black BMW coupe came into view. He stopped in traffic and gestured for Wesley to get in. When a car horn sounded behind him, Chance gave the guy the finger and swore out the window. “Fuckers need to chill,” Chance said. His chunky body was dressed in Tommy Hilfiger and sprawled in the driver’s seat. He smiled behind his Oakley sunglasses, but even without seeing Chance’s eyes, Wesley knew he was stoned. “Did you bring the gun?” Wesley asked as they pulled away from the curb. “Glove compartment,” Chance said happily. “In the black case. It’s a .38 special, easiest gun in the world to fire. There’s a half box of shells in there, too.” Wesley opened the case and removed the small revolver to heft its weight in his hand. His heart beat faster as he stroked the cold metal. “Thanks, man.” “Don’t worry about it,” Chance said. He was always generous when he was high. “Just find a good hiding place.” “Is it registered to you?” Chance snorted. “No way. It’s practically untraceable.” Wesley nodded, thinking that his friend was pretty street-smart for a frat boy. He put the revolver and the shells in his backpack, then asked, “So how’s school?” “Sucks a big, hairy one. You’re lucky that you don’t have to go.” “Yeah,” Wesley said, thinking that Chance didn’t realize how lucky he was that his parents provided the means for him to go to school, have a great apartment and car, and all the spending money he wanted. They would’ve paid for an Ivy League school if Chance could’ve gotten accepted, but as it was, he’d barely scored high enough on the SAT to get into a state college. “So tell me about this body-moving gig,” Chance said. “Oh, it’s cool. We go to hospitals, people’s houses, anywhere there’s a stiff, and transport them to the morgue or to a funeral home.” “Worked any traffic accidents yet?” “A couple.” “How bad was it?” “Not pretty,” Wesley said, bracing himself against the car’s dash as Chance zigzagged through traffic and wondering if some day he and Coop would be peeling his buddy off a guardrail. “So you got probation in your case, huh? You must’ve had a kick-ass attorney.” “Yeah, she was great, not bad to look at either.” “Did you fuck her?” “What? No. She’s a woman—she’s not interested in me.” “Don’t be so sure,” Chance said. “And trust me, older women are great in bed.” Wesley smirked. Chance had more women than he could count. The guy was legendary in his conquests, and bragged that he’d once bedded four women at once. Wesley didn’t doubt it. Girls loved Chance’s money and his parties and to hear Chance tell it, his dick. The guy had it made, Wesley thought, shaking his head. As his friend guided the little sports car down the street toward the town house, he said, “Thanks for the ride home, man. And the piece.” “Call it a bonus for taking care of the speeding tickets.” Chance laughed. “I pretended to be an employer doing a background check and called to see if the tickets were gone. My record is clean as Clorox.” “Great.” Wesley jerked his thumb toward the town house. “Want to come in?” “Nah, I’ll pass,” Chance said. “All that talk about women got me horny. I think I’ll go get a massage, if you know what I mean.” He did. Chance liked paying for sex, even though he didn’t have to. But his trust fund had to be spent somehow. “Catch you later,” Wesley said. “I keep hearing rumors of a high-stakes poker game being put together. When it happens, I’ll give you a call.” “Okay,” Wesley said, and stepped away from the car. He approached the house with trepidation, looking up and down the street for suspicious cars. Seeing none, he breathed a little easier and went inside. After he reached his room, he closed the door and inspected the gun again, taking a couple of test aims in his mirror. Then he glanced around for a hiding place, trying to think of somewhere that Carlotta—and the police—would never look. He considered and discarded the top of his closet, the clothes hamper and a boot. Then he glanced at Einstein’s enclosure and smiled. No one would look there. He unlocked the pin, slid the screen top aside and reached in to place the small revolver and box of shells in the base of a driftwood decoration that he seemed to like more than Einstein did. As he expected, Einstein barely moved. “Hungry yet?” He retrieved the squeaking mouse from its temporary home and dangled it in front of the python, without consequence. “A few more days and I’ll have to force-feed you,” Wesley warned, returning the mouse to its container. “Just don’t swallow my gun. I’d have a hell of a time explaining that one to the veterinarian.” And to Carlotta. She’d never understand that having the gun within reach made him feel better able to protect her. He smirked, thinking of his green-eyed, flame-haired probation officer. If she knew he had a gun, she, too, would have his hide. He lay down on his bed and crossed his hands behind his head. Of course, that might be fun. Yes, things were definitely looking up. 20 “Is everything okay, Carlotta?” Carlotta started from her reverie as she nodded to her boss. “Fine, thanks.” “Glad to hear it,” Lindy said. “You’ve seemed preoccupied of late. Last week’s sales reports just crossed my desk and for the first time that I can remember, your name wasn’t at the top.” A flush burned its way up Carlotta’s face. “Um, I guess I’m going through a little slump.” “It happens,” Lindy said. “I just hope it doesn’t last too long. There are lots of sales associates who’d love to have a crack at your department.” Carlotta’s stomach did a little flip and she dipped her chin. The fact that Neiman’s prided itself on having the best, sharpest employees was what had attracted her to the company in the first place—next to the employee discount, of course. “I understand, Lindy. Don’t worry, things are…back to normal.” “Good,” Lindy said. “Carry on.” Watching her boss stride away, Carlotta gave herself a mental shake. She had to get her mind back on her job and off the preoccupations that threatened to drive her insane, namely, Angela’s death, and Peter’s possible involvement. Oh, and then there was everything else that was wrong in her life. It had been three days since Angela’s funeral, three days since she’d spoken with Coop about the men’s jacket and her suspicions concerning Angela’s death, and the more time that passed, the more she wished she’d kept her big mouth shut. Detective Terry was right—her deep-seated guilt over her feelings for Peter were driving her to make preposterous assumptions about the jacket issue, which could’ve been innocent and completely unrelated to Angela’s marriage and drowning. Scowling at her own stupidity and determined to be rid of the jacket, she went to the dressing-room area and searched through a long rack of items tagged to be returned to the floor or to the manufacturer. She located the jacket and decided the best place for it was the trash—it was paid for, and no one was going to claim it. And with the heavy scent of smoke clinging to it, clearly it couldn’t be returned to the floor. She took the jacket from the hanger and wadded it up, cursing herself for even getting involved, and felt something unyielding in the inside breast pocket. Curious, she reached inside and pulled out a cigar encased in a small plastic bag with a zip top. Peter had an aversion to smoke—surely the cigar wasn’t his. She held up the jacket and checked the size. When Angela had purchased the jacket, Carlotta had assumed that Peter had filled out in the past ten years, but now that she’d seen him, this jacket was way too big for Peter. She squinted, recalling the thin frame of Angela’s father. This jacket was way too big for him as well. The hair on the back of her neck tingled as she considered the jacket and the cigar. She carefully rehung the jacket and covered it with a garment bag. There was no way she could smuggle it out and take it home—employees’ bags were checked when they left the store. But the cigar… She studied the eight-inch brown cylinder, wondering if it could help her locate the person who had purchased it. On the back of the plastic zip bag was a gold seal. She squinted to make out the letters: Moody’s Cigar Bar, Atlanta, Georgia. She considered calling Detective Terry and telling him about this new development, but the thought of his sarcastic reaction stopped her short. She had enough trouble with the man as it was. Besides, the cigar might lead to nothing at all, and it would be easy enough for her to locate Moody’s and ask a few discreet questions herself. A quick check of the phone book at the checkout counter gave her a street address—on the fringes of downtown Atlanta in an unpredictable part of town. Despite her promise to Lindy and to herself to get her mind back on her job, she was distracted and jumpy until her shift ended, then blew off Michael in the employee locker room in her rush to get to her car. Traffic was horrible, as usual, the roads choked with commuters vying to get home and tourists flocking to the aquarium. She craved a cigarette in the worst way—God, it didn’t take long to fall back into a bad habit. Like Peter, for instance. Toying with the radio buttons and tapping on the steering wheel helped to keep her hands busy, but her mind continued to rehash the events of the past couple of weeks. She had hoped that selling his engagement ring would help her to sever the bond she had foolishly maintained with Peter’s life. Yet with this little field trip, would she open yet another can of worms? Insinuate herself further into his affairs? She kept telling herself that she should just let it go, but something compelled her to keep moving. She got lost twice trying to find the address, but finally spotted the small neon sign—Moody’s—in a dark window, and darted in front of another car to nab a lone parking space. The area was on the verge of gentrification, but Moody’s, sandwiched between a new trendy-looking coffee shop and an adult video store, appeared to be part of the old neighborhood. She climbed out, dropped a few coins in the parking meter and made her way inside. A brass bell tinkled when she opened the big, solid door with a leaded glass insert. The shop was what the name implied—a dark, atmospheric space housed in a deep, narrow storefront with tall ceilings, art deco light fixtures and original black-and-red checkerboard linoleum tile floors. The lazy swirl of low-hanging ceiling fans did little to dispel the acrid odor of tobacco that permeated the air, tickling her nose and throat, making her want a cigarette even more. A horseshoe-shaped black lacquered counter dominated the center of the store. The walls were lined with glass cabinets housing boxes of cigars and clear canisters filled with fragrant blends of loose tobacco. A scratchy recording of big band music sounded from an unseen source. The crammed, quaint space gave her the feeling that she’d stepped back in time, back to when pompadours and polka-dot dresses were in style, when men wore sock suspenders and hats with their suits. She liked it instantly. The sound of footsteps drew her attention to a stairway near the back of the room that she hadn’t noticed. A pair of shapely legs preceded a gray pencil skirt hugging slim hips, a prim white blouse straining over generous breasts and a nice double strand of pearls. The woman’s face appeared, and the words steel magnolia sprang to Carlotta’s mind. The pink-lipstick smile was welcoming, but beneath the teased pouf of bleach-blond hair, the kohl-lined eyes were piercing. “Hello,” the woman said as she made her way down the stairs, her drawl low and smooth. She was well into her fifties, and looked as if she’d kicked some ass in her day—and could still cause some serious harm if the situation called for it. In her elegantly manicured hand she held a half-smoked cigar, its smoke plume wafting behind her. At the bottom of the stairs a sign with an arrow pointed to a martini and wine bar on the upper level and Carlotta realized suddenly why the parking places were full and the store empty. “Hello.” “Can I help you, darlin’?” “Maybe,” Carlotta said, suddenly nervous as she reached into her purse and withdrew the cigar. She walked deeper into the store and could hear the buzz of a crowd overhead. “I’m looking for the person who purchased this cigar from your store.” The woman stepped forward with a little frown between her eyebrows. She set her cigar in one of the dozen colored glass ashtrays lining the massive black bar, then reached for the plastic bag. A young man wearing a waiter’s waist apron came clopping down the stairs and, referring to a notepad, moved from case to case, selecting cigars, obviously filling orders. A knot of customers came down, businessmen all of them, ties loosened and voices raised. “See you next time, June,” they said to the woman, and she called them each by name when she said goodbye. When the door closed behind them, the woman handed the plastic bag back to Carlotta, then picked up the cigar she’d been smoking and took a hearty puff. “That is a very expensive cigar, Miss—?” “Um, Carlotta. Carlotta Wren.” “I’m June Moody,” the woman said with a slow nod. “May I ask how it came into your possession?” “I…found it,” Carlotta said, hedging. The woman’s mouth twitched. “Do you smoke, Carlotta?” “Not cigars.” June Moody smiled. “You ever tried?” “No.” “Would you like to?” Carlotta hesitated. “Well…sure.” The woman’s smile lit her eyes and Carlotta had the feeling that she’d just passed some sort of test. “Why don’t you join me upstairs, and we can talk about how you happened to find such a fine cigar.” Intrigued and edgy, Carlotta followed the woman upstairs. “Carlos,” June said as they ascended, “would you please bring me an Amelia when you come up?” “Sure thing, Miss Moody.” They walked upstairs, where the furnishings were plush and the air was rich with smoke. The martini and wine bar resembled an old-fashioned parlor, with deep velvet chairs and thick rugs. The bar lined one side of the landing, surrounded by groupings of chairs and couches around low tables. Most of the seats were occupied by businessmen, with a stray woman here and there. Behind the bar was an older gentleman with a ponytail. He nodded to the women, his gaze raking Carlotta with appreciation. “May I offer you a drink, Carlotta?” June asked. “On the house.” “A martini, thank you,” Carlotta said to the man, taking in the art deco barware, decanters and glasses. “Nice place.” “I’m glad you like it,” June said, nodding her approval when the man dropped two olives in each crystal-clear martini. “Thank you, Nathan. Will you ask Tonia to keep an eye on the shop? Carlotta, let’s take our drinks in here.” Carlotta picked up her martini and followed the woman into a room where more tables and chairs were situated around a fireplace that, even unlit, was a welcoming feature. It was easy to see why Moody’s was a busy little place and Carlotta wondered with consternation why she hadn’t heard of it before now. “How long have you been in business?” she asked June as they sat in sumptuous gold-colored club chairs. “It was my father’s business,” the woman said, taking a sip of her drink. “He passed away four years ago. It’s been my place since then.” Carlotta surveyed all the men sitting back, cradling drinks and puffing on cigars. “I wondered where all the straight men in Atlanta were hiding.” June laughed. “They’re right here, darlin’. Bring in your girlfriends sometime.” Carlotta smiled at the thought of bringing Hannah and Michael to this place. They wouldn’t exactly “blend.” Carlos appeared and handed June a small, slender cigar about five inches long. June thanked him, then handed the cigar to Carlotta. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of choosing a cigar I thought you’d like.” “Not at all,” Carlotta said. “But I don’t know what to do first.” “Some people take off the band, but I like to leave it on so that the tobacco doesn’t stain my fingers, at least until it burns down.” She read the colorful band: Key West Havana Cigar Company. “Okay.” “Here’s a cutter,” June said, handing her one of the small guillotine-looking devices that littered the tables next to enormous art-glass ashtrays. “The tapered end is the cap end. That’s the end that you cut and light. See the cut line?” Carlotta scrutinized the cigar, and saw the faint impression. “Yes.” “Don’t cut beyond the line or you’ll risk cutting the wrapper leaf.” Carlotta situated the cutter and severed the cap with surprising little effort. “Good. Do you have a lighter?” She withdrew from her purse the trusty mother-of-pearl lighter that she’d unearthed from a bureau drawer yesterday—just in case a cigarette fell into her lap. “Hold the cigar in your hand and rotate the cigar tip near the flame. It’s best if you don’t actually touch the tip to the flame. Just let it char from the fumes.” Carlotta did as she was told, fascinated. When embers began to appear, June said, “Okay, now put the cigar to your mouth and draw by pulling in your cheeks, like this.” She imitated the woman, noting the unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, taste of the leaf upon her lips. She was gratified when the tip of the cigar began to glow. “Good.” June sat back in her chair and raised her martini to her mouth. “It’s like giving a blow job, only more enjoyable.” Carlotta inhaled sharply at the unexpected comment and her lungs rebelled, sending her into a coughing spasm. “Don’t inhale,” June said, laughing. “Take it slow, puffing occasionally to keep it lit.” She smiled. “Also like a blow job.” Carlotta recovered, thinking it was a good thing that her memory was long, or the comparison would be lost on her. But she acknowledged that she liked the feel of the cigar in her hand, and that she was very tempted to like the woman across from her, although admittedly, June Moody was difficult to read. “So,” June said, turning her head to exhale, “tell me about the Dominican Cohiba.” Carlotta recognized the name as the brand of the cigar she’d brought in. Her mind whirled for an explanation more reasonable than the real one. “I work in a department store, and someone left it. I’m just trying to find the owner.” “I see,” June said mildly. “That’s mighty generous of you.” Carlotta smiled guiltily. “Did you actually see the person who left it?” “N-no.” “You just found it?” “In the pocket of a men’s jacket that had been returned.” “Ah. So why couldn’t you just check the sales receipt?” June puffed on her cigar casually, but her eyes were wary. Carlotta averted her gaze and pretended to concentrate on her cigar. “If you expect me to give you the name of my best customers,” June said, “you’re going to have to come up with a better story than that.” With a sigh, Carlotta decided to come clean with the woman. What choice did she have? “The jacket that I found the cigar in was purchased by a woman named Angela Ashford, who’s…dead.” She had June’s full attention now. “Go on.” “Angela drowned, but the circumstances around her death are suspicious and I thought…that is, I wondered…if she could have been involved with a man who had…hurt her.” June exhaled, then gave Carlotta a pointed look. “You mean, killed her?” “I don’t know.” “If her death is suspicious, then why aren’t the police involved?” “Let’s just say they’re not interested.” “So you thought you’d do a little investigative work on your own?” Carlotta nodded. “Were you friends with this Ashford woman?” “Sort of,” Carlotta hedged. “Was she married?” “Yes.” “So this jacket, the cigar—they don’t belong to her husband?” “No.” June’s eyebrows shot up. “I see. So the person who bought the cigar could have been a lover?” “Maybe. Again, I don’t know.” June sat forward and tapped ash into the beautiful ashtray. “So you’re asking me to divulge the names of the customers who bought this particular kind of Cohiba, knowing that it could lead to an investigation?” Carlotta nodded again. “If it’s an expensive cigar, it couldn’t be that many customers.” “Only a handful,” June confirmed. Carlotta’s heart began to beat faster, partly due to the nicotine infusion, partly due to the feeling that she was onto something. She puffed on the cigar, then exhaled in a frustrated sigh. “Are you going to help me?” June studied her for a few seconds, then leaned forward and used her cigar to gesture to the people around them. “Carlotta, most of the guys in here are decent fellas who come to hang out because their wives don’t want cigar smoke stinkin’ up the living-room curtains. But some of my customers—well, they aren’t the nicest people. Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Carlotta swallowed a mouthful of the martini, then shook her head against the sting of alcohol. “No. But this feels…necessary.” Besides, she was starting to get used to having “not nice” people in her life: a fugitive father, lurking loan sharks, a detestable detective. June lifted her glass. “Fair enough, darlin’. I’ll give you what you want. But you’d better watch your step. If your suspicions are correct, one dead girl is plenty enough.” 21 “Mrs. Susan Harroway,” Carlotta read from the napkin on which she’d written the names that June Moody had given to her the night before, after the cigars had been smoked and another round of martinis exhausted. “Harroway is an old Atlanta name,” Hannah said, reclining on Carlotta’s bed in full goth getup and fingering the silver barbell piercing her tongue. “I don’t know a Susan in particular, but I’ve catered parties for various Harroways.” “I’ll ask Michael at the store. Maybe he’ll know something about her.” Carlotta worked her mouth from side to side. “But June told me the woman said the cigar was a gift, so that could mean her husband, her father, a brother.” “Or a boyfriend,” Hannah added. Carlotta frowned. “Not everyone cheats on their spouse.” “Sure they do, if they live long enough. Who else is on the list?” “Dr. Joseph Suarez. I looked him up in the phone book and he’s a plastic surgeon. His office is in Buckhead.” “A plastic surgeon in Buckhead? Ooh, big surprise.” “Michael mentioned that he had a friend who worked in a clinic where Angela got Botox injections. Maybe Dr. Suarez works there.” “Hmm. Next name?” “Bryan D’Angelo. June says he’s an attorney and I got the feeling that he’s a little shady.” She bit the end of her fingernail. “Maybe Liz Fischer knows him.” “Who’s that?” “Wes’s attorney,” she said dryly. She hated the thought of calling the woman. Liz’s history with Detective Terry made her even less palatable in Carlotta’s eyes. “Do you have a beef with Liz?” “She was my dad’s attorney, too.” “Oh?” Hannah’s voice rose in curiosity, probably, Carlotta presumed, because she rarely mentioned her father. “What about Dennis Lagerfeld?” Carlotta asked to redirect Hannah’s attention. Her friend squinted, as if the name was familiar. “His is the last name on the list. June said he used to be a professional athlete.” “Oh, right,” Hannah said, nodding. “Receiver for the Falcons, maybe ten years ago. Man, he was fucking gorgeous. I wonder if all that muscle has gone to fat.” “There’s no obvious connection to Angela.” “They could have met anywhere—at a party, at the club, at a day spa.” “Or he could be a client of Peter’s,” Carlotta murmured. Mashburn and Tully prided themselves on representing the investments of athletes and celebrities. Part of the reason she had first begun collecting autographs when she was a teenager was due to the access her father had once had to famous people. “So what if you find out that one of these people does have a connection to Angela Ashford? Are you going to confront them, Nancy Drew?” “I don’t know.” Carlotta sighed. “I’ll cross that bridge if I get there.” “Any news on whether there’s going to be an autopsy?” “No. I haven’t talked to Coop since the funeral.” “What, you need an excuse to talk to the hunky undertaker? Step aside and let me at him.” Carlotta smirked. “You just want to have sex in a coffin, don’t you?” “Doesn’t everyone?” “You need help, you know that?” Hannah smirked. “So have you heard from the grieving husband?” Carlotta laid the napkin on her nightstand. “He’s called a few times.” Six, to be exact. “But I haven’t answered.” “Did he leave messages?” “Just that he called and would like to talk to me.” In the last couple of messages, though, she’d detected a bit of desperation in Peter’s voice. “Are you going to call him?” “Probably,” she admitted. “Eventually.” Hannah held up a pack of menthol cigarettes. “Want a smoke?” “Yes,” Carlotta said, then moaned. “No. I have such a headache after smoking that cigar last night…of course, the martinis probably didn’t help.” “I can’t believe you didn’t take me with you.” “You were working.” “Still.” Carlotta smirked as she reached for a cigarette. “I’ll take you back sometime—you’d love it. Everyone there looked married.” Hannah clapped her hands. “This is great. I thought when you gave up the party-crashing, you were going mainstream on me. But then you kissed a married man, and now you’re smoking again!” “I can’t afford to start smoking again. I’m already broke, and do you know how much cigarettes cost these days?” “Yeah,” Hannah said holding up the box of cigarettes from which Carlotta had taken a smoke. “I kind of bought these. And for someone who’s always broke, you always seem to always have money to spend on clothes.” Carlotta looked at her closet that was too full for the double doors to close. Designer bags and shoes, belts and coats, dresses and jeans bulged past the door frames. She thought of the money from her pawned engagement ring that was rapidly dwindling. “Too bad I can’t sell some of this stuff.” “You can,” Hannah sang. “eBay.” “Under the rules of Wesley’s probation, we can’t have a computer in the house.” “Oh. Bummer.” Then Hannah brightened. “I know a place—Designer Consigner, in Little Five Points. They’ll take all this name-brand crap off your hands.” Carlotta frowned. “For how much?” “You set your price, and they add a percentage. You get paid when it sells, and you know this shit will sell, like, instantly.” Carlotta picked up the purse she’d carried last night—last season’s Coach, but still in prime condition. And she had at least two dozen more like it, all different brands. Even if she could sell them for a third of what she’d paid for them, she could pay down her credit cards and maybe have her Miata fixed. The thought of being able to get rid of the dreadful Monte Carlo made her giddy. “Why don’t you load up a few things and we’ll take them in,” Hannah suggested. Carlotta narrowed her eyes. “You despise designer clothes. How do you know about this place?” “It’s next door to a place I shop, and the same people own it. Stop stalling.” She grimaced at the overflowing closet. “Good grief, Amelia Earhart could be in there.” Carlotta emptied the contents of the Coach bag on her bed, then went through her closet, choosing purses that she’d grown tired of but that were still in great shape, many of them protected by dust bags. Hannah began pulling out clothes in clumps. “How long has it been since you wore this?” Carlotta studied the fitted orange tweed jacket. “I can’t remember.” Hannah tossed it on the bed. “It goes.” “Wait a minute!” “Jesus, Carlotta, the closet rods are bowed. You couldn’t wear all this stuff in ten years!” With a sigh, Carlotta relented and thirty minutes later, they were piling clothes and shopping bags of accessories into Hannah’s retro refrigerated catering van that was covered in graffiti. “When are you going to get this thing painted?” Carlotta asked. “It is painted,” Hannah said, clearly annoyed. “Some of the best graffiti artists in Atlanta live in my neighborhood and have left their mark on my ride.” She stepped back and gestured to the words Do yourself written in stylized white lettering, highlighted to look three-dimensional. “See the signature—Zemo. He’s huge. This van is going to be in the Smithsonian one day.” “Right,” Carlotta said as she rearranged the bags stuffed full of clothes. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “It smells like garlic in here.” “Last night’s gig,” Hannah said, closing the rear halfdoors. “I made so many garlic rolls I swear this morning I crapped a clove.” “You really should write poetry.” “I just might someday.” Carlotta climbed up and swung into the cracked blue vinyl bench seat and slammed the door hard to get it to stick. When Hannah pulled away from the curb, Carlotta waved at a frowning Mrs. Winningham, then rolled down the window and lit the cigarette she’d been playing with for an hour. It was a breezy, cloudless spring day and she couldn’t stave off the pang of sadness that Angela had been dead for mere days and the world had marched on, with hardly a pause. She wondered what Peter was doing—if he’d returned to work yet, sold Angela’s car, spread her ashes, ordered her grave marker. Would he order a double headstone, with thoughts of someday being buried next to his young wife, or was he already thinking ahead to inviting another woman into his life? Like her. “Why can’t you let it go?” Hannah asked, wrestling with the huge steering wheel with one hand, holding her cigarette in the other. “What?” “You know what—Angela Ashford’s death. Everyone but you thinks it was an accident. And if it was an accident,” she said lightly, “doesn’t that sort of clear the way for you to get back with the love of your life?” Carlotta flicked ash out of the window. “I suppose so.” “Well, I’m no shrink, but either you think Peter killed her or you’re conflicted about your feelings for him and are going to some pretty extreme lengths to avoid the situation altogether.” Carlotta studied the cigarette she held, asking herself why people did things that they knew would hurt them eventually, and if she had a particular propensity for self-destruction. She took a long draw, then exhaled. “Well, like you said, you’re no shrink.” Hannah frowned and replied by leaning forward and turning up the volume on the radio, blasting Marilyn Manson into the cab for the short ride south into Little Five Points. Carlotta felt torn over shutting out her friend, but she was already so confused about Peter, she was afraid that talking about him, that putting words to half-baked feelings, might send her into an emotional abyss. What if she did give in to years of pent-up longing and allow Peter into her life…and into her heart? Would he tire of her after he felt he’d paid penance for abandoning her? After all, how much did they really have in common now? She slid her gaze sideways at Hannah, the tongue-pierced, stripe-haired, smoking and cursing bondage queen…with a heart of gold. Her best friend, but would Peter accept her and her eccentricities? And how would he feel when he discovered that she herself had had a couple of, er, misunderstandings with the law? And she doubted that Peter’s boss, Walt Tully, would look kindly upon him taking up with the daughter of the man who had stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars from their clients, the man responsible for an embarrassing asterisk on the company records. So what could she really ever be to Peter—a pastime…closeted? “This is it,” Hannah said, throwing the van into park. Carlotta looked up and took in their eclectic surroundings. The people and shop owners in Little Five Points prided themselves on their individuality. Antique book-shops, organic restaurants, futon stores, bike shops, alternative-music stores, hip T-shirt shops. The theaters and playhouses and trendy eateries had caught on with the younger Buckhead crowd determined to prove that they were get-real cool despite their black American Express cards, so the clientele was slowly changing from students with pocket change to young professionals with loads of disposable income. Ergo, next door to a retro used-clothing store called Rebound Rags sat Designer Consigner. They loaded up armfuls of bags and clothing and headed for the door. Carlotta felt a little sheepish to be taking her personal items in to hock—it smacked of desperation. Her mother, she thought, would be appalled at the notion of Carlotta selling her clothes—consignment stores and yard sales were too pedestrian for the Wrens. Embezzlement, bail skipping and child abandonment, on the other hand, were acceptable. She followed Hannah into the store that was remarkably well merchandised for a consignment shop. A petite Asian woman with a sleek bob and wearing a Chanel suit as well as anyone Carlotta had ever seen looked up from a table where she sorted items that, presumably, the two women standing in front of her had just brought in. “I’ll be right with you,” the Asian woman said in a clear, cultured voice. The two customers turned and Carlotta blinked in surprise—one was Tracey Tully…er, Lowenstein. Mrs. Dr. “Carlotta,” Tracey said, her voice chilly. “How utterly bizarre to see you again so soon.” “Hello, Tracey.” A flush blazed its way up Carlotta’s neck as she saw Tracey take in the bulging shopping bags she and Hannah held. Humiliation washed over her. Tracey gestured to the dry-cleaner bags of clothing stacked on the table. “My friend Courtney and I were just dropping off some items for the Women Helping Women clothing drive.” The other woman smiled tightly without making eye contact, as if Carlotta and Hannah might qualify as some of the women who needed help. “Well…what a coincidence,” Carlotta said, lifting her chin. “So are we.” She ignored Hannah’s strangled noise as she lifted the shopping bags to the table. After she jerked her head meaningfully, Hannah did the same with the bounty she’d carried in. From the top of one of Carlotta’s bags, Tracey plucked a nearly mint Kate Spade leather hobo bag from two seasons ago. “Yes, underprivileged women will appreciate these items, even if they are hopelessly dated.” Then Tracey made a face. “This stuff smells like garlic.” Carlotta smiled through clenched teeth as the woman carelessly tossed the expensive purse back into the bag. “You’re very generous, ma’am,” the salesclerk murmured to Carlotta. Carlotta tried to keep smiling as the woman gathered up the bags and disappeared with them in a back room. There went the extra cash she’d hoped to have. When the salesclerk returned, Tracey snapped her fingers, as if she were talking to a servant. “I’ll be needing a receipt so I can deduct this from my income taxes. I’m a doctor’s wife and in our tax bracket we need all the deductions we can get.” Hannah coughed, disguised her muttered “bitch” as a wheeze. “Yes, ma’am,” the salesclerk said, then she smiled at Carlotta. “If you’ll write down your name and phone number, I’ll give you one as well.” Not that it mattered in her tax bracket, Carlotta thought miserably. Tracey snatched the receipt from the woman’s hand, then turned to Carlotta. “Now that Angela is gone, I guess I’ll be seeing you at the club.” Carlotta frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tracey tossed her hair. “I mean, it’s pretty clear that you and Peter Ashford are going to pick up where you left off…if you ever stopped.” She gestured toward the back room where the salesclerk had taken the shopping bags. “You’re probably giving away all your old things because you think that Peter is going to buy you whatever you want now. Poor Angela, not even cold in her grave.” Anger flared in Carlotta’s chest and she struggled to keep her voice steady. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, it’s not just me talking,” Tracey assured her with a cocked hip. “After you made a spectacle of yourself at the funeral and the way that Peter fawned over you afterward in front of everyone, trust me, everyone is talking.” Then Tracey smiled meanly. “But considering the way you were raised, no one is surprised.” Carlotta flinched as if she’d been slapped, but Hannah apparently wasn’t nearly so traumatized. “Mrs. Dr., how’d you like my pointy-toed boot up your charitable ass?” “We’re leaving,” Tracey said, looking them up and down with contempt as she and her friend made their way toward the entrance—but not without a parting shot. “Really, Carlotta, you’ve gone to the dogs.” Hannah lunged toward them, but Carlotta grabbed her arm. Still, it was enough to send Tracey and her sidekick scrambling out the door. When Carlotta turned back to the salesclerk, the woman had a faint smile on her face. “Sorry about that,” Carlotta murmured, then bent to write her name and number on the receipt book. “They have history,” Hannah added unnecessarily. “So I gathered,” the woman said, her dark eyes shining. She extended the receipt she’d written to Carlotta. “Thank you very much for the donation.” “You’re welcome,” Carlotta said, feeling guilty as hell as she took the slip of paper. When their hands brushed, a strange look crossed the woman’s face. She clasped Carlotta’s hand. “Wait.” From the sharp tone in the woman’s voice, alarm blipped through Carlotta’s chest. “What is it?” The woman had turned Carlotta’s hand palm up and was studying it, a crease between her perfectly arched brows. Carlotta glanced at Hannah, who only shrugged. After a few awkward seconds had passed, the woman looked up. “I don’t mean to worry you,” she said quietly, “but you are facing danger.” Carlotta squirmed. “Why would you say that?” The woman’s cheeks turned pink. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I have a gift…for seeing things. When I touched your hand, I felt danger. Do you have a big, strong man in your life to protect you?” Hannah snorted. “No.” Carlotta nervously withdrew her hand. “We’d better be going, Hannah.” The woman smiled. “My name is Amy, Amy Lin. I didn’t mean to scare you, but please be careful.” Carlotta studied the woman’s body language for some sign of a con or impending sales pitch. Instead, Amy Lin’s eyes burned with sincerity and…concern. Without responding, Carlotta backed away and left the store, with Hannah at her heels like an excited puppy. “Oh my God, that was a psychic moment!” “I don’t believe in psychics,” Carlotta said as she climbed into the van. Hannah catapulted herself into the seat and slammed her door. “Well, I do, and I’ve always wanted something like that to happen to me.” “If it makes you feel better, I wish it had happened to you, too. That kind of stuff is wasted on me.” “I wonder what she meant by you facing danger?” Hannah bounced in the vinyl bench seat. “Ooh, ooh—maybe Peter Ashford is the danger, and you need someone to protect you from him.” Carlotta sighed, exasperated. “It doesn’t mean anything, Hannah. It’s one of those blanket statements that could apply to anyone, anytime.” She gestured to the cars around them as Hannah wedged the van between two moving cars. “I’m in danger just sitting in traffic in this city.” “Still,” Hannah said solemnly, “you shouldn’t dismiss something like that.” Carlotta laid her head back. “Just take me home. This is turning out to be a lousy day.” “Hey, what’s up with you giving all your loot to charity back there? That was probably hundreds of dollars’ worth of stuff.” “Thousands,” Carlotta corrected, closing her eyes. “Jesus God, even worse.” “I just couldn’t stand the thought of that woman spreading stories to her friends about me selling my clothes. Everyone will think I’m broke.” “You are broke.” She expelled a long sigh. “I know.” Her chest and head ached when she thought about the things that Tracey Tully had said. Did everyone assume that she and Peter were having an affair, or perhaps had been all along? If Angela had thought so, it made sense that the woman had confided in her friends. And she hadn’t helped matters by making a spectacle of herself at the funeral. Good grief, when had life gotten so complicated? Hannah rattled on about a psychic moment she’d had with a dog, until they arrived at the town house. Cooper’s white van sat in the driveway. “Wesley must be going on another body run,” Carlotta said as they parked. “Let’s go with them!” “Are you nuts? I’m not getting involved this body-moving business.” “Why not? It’s fascinating.” Cooper Craft came out of the house dressed in jeans and a dark sport coat, and strode toward his van. “And so is he,” Hannah murmured. “Down, girl,” Carlotta said before opening the door and dropping to the ground. Coop glanced up and smiled as they approached. “Hi. I didn’t expect to see you.” “Are you and Wesley going out on a…job?” “Yeah, he’s changing.” Carlotta swallowed at the force of his eye contact behind his glasses. When had the man gotten so…appealing? His hair was nicely rumpled, his shirt had French cuffs and his jeans were snug against long, muscular legs. “Remember me?” Hannah said, stepping up and practically bursting out of her tattooed skin. “Sure I do, Hannah,” Coop said cheerfully, but his gaze snapped back to Carlotta. “Right,” Hannah said dryly. “Okay, I’m taking off. Call me later, Nancy Drew.” Carlotta glared at her friend as she climbed into her graffiti-van. “What was that all about?” Coop asked with a laugh. “Nothing,” Carlotta said. “Except I think that Hannah is crushing on you.” He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the edges. “It must be the spring weather. I’m feeling a pretty intense crush coming on myself.” The way he looked at her made it obvious that Hannah wasn’t the object of his affection. Carlotta’s chest tingled with pleasure, but she didn’t believe in starting something that she couldn’t finish. What the man did for a living just creeped her out too much. And since he was going to be around a lot, she thought she should be honest. “Look,” she said, breaking the pregnant pause, “you’re really nice—” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/stephanie-bond/body-movers-books-1-3-39869576/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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