3 Men and a Body (18 page)

“I know you don’t want to talk,” Carlotta said, “but did I

ever tel you what a tiny penis Detective Jack Terry has? I

walked in on him in the bathroom when he was doing

surveil ance from my house. T-I-N-Y. What Liz Fischer sees

in him, I don’t know. But then I’ve heard that woman wil

sleep with anything pointed. Anyway, just wanted to

share. You can call me back on my cel sometime. Talk

soon.”

She hung up, feeling marginally better that anyone

listening in would happily share the fabricated description

of Jack’s johnson and his tartlet, Liz. Then Carlotta

immersed herself in the entertainment magazine that

she’d inadvertently taken from the morgue in Boca Raton,

which featured a retrospective article on Kiki Deerling’s

short life.

The young woman had been raised in Atlanta, with a

background that sounded similar to Carlotta’s—the best

neighborhood, the best schools, a professional father, a

socialite mother. At fourteen, though, Kiki had begun

modeling, and at sixteen, had begun dating boy-band

superstar and all-around badass Matt Pearson. Soon she

was a fixture on the Hol ywood party scene, with clothes

designers clamoring to get their duds on her tall, lanky

frame.

Then came her own line of clothes, her own perfume and a

record deal. Kiki exuded that blend of wholesome

innocence and sexuality that fed into fantasies. And the

camera loved her. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but

imminently photogenic and instantly recognizable. She

and her pug, Twizzler, were favorites of the paparazzi, and

Kiki courted an entourage wherever she went. Lately,

though, she’d suffered from overexposure, and her

behavior had taken a turn toward the lurid. Rumors of

drug use and sexcapades flourished, fueled by unflattering

photos and videos of Kiki half-dressed and looking stoned.

The public couldn’t get enough.

Enter Camp Kiki. The apparent brainchild of a concerned

manager, Camp Kiki was nestled in the mountains of north

Georgia and specialized in reforming “troubled”

disadvantaged teens, leaving many fans with the opinion

that Kiki could benefit from a stint at the camp herself. She

had put in appearances as a “guest” counselor, making it

an attraction for groupies and the more ambitious

paparazzi who were wil ing to hike in and hang out in trees

for a bankable photo. But there were success stories, too;

many teens had testified that the camp had been a life-

changing experience for them.

Carlotta flipped through the pages of photos, admittedly

as fascinated by the young girl’s celebrity as other people

were. And saddened that Kiki’s entire life seemed to have

been a spectacle for the entertainment of others. Had she

loved the spotlight as much as she appeared to? Or had

she simply become addicted to the fame?

One photograph in particular, though, stopped Carlotta. In

the foreground Kiki was on stage, singing—or, as many

claimed, lip-synching—wearing an outfit that resembled a

slingshot with sleeves. The background showed an

audience caught up in worship for Kiki. One individual was

unmistakably recognizable: the redheaded “priest” who’d

made an appearance at the morgue in Boca. And the way

he was looking at Kiki sent chil s up Carlotta’s spine. His

expression was one of hate, loathing…revulsion.

She flipped back to the beginning of the magazine and

studied all the photos careful y. The man was in two other

shots, always in the background, and always staring at Kiki

with a twisted look on his face. A stalker? Attempting to

get into the morgue to see her one last time? To do

something vile to her body? And who were the other two

men trying to get their hands on Kiki? Henchmen for the

tabloids, trying to heist the corpse for photos? Something

even more depraved? Those two men seemed more

corporate than the pretend priest, who struck Carlotta as

just plain creepy.

She climbed out of the tub and murmured a prayer for the

girl’s family, who were undoubtedly confused and

profoundly sad. It was strange how people in the same

gene pool could turn out so differently and yet be bound

by a sense of relatedness. The things family members did

for each other, to each other and because of each other

were truly mind-boggling. And unexplainable.

Why else would Carlotta be starting to make room in her

brain for the remote possibility that her father was

innocent?

She pul ed on her fuzzy chenil e robe, denying the rogue

thought that had slipped into her head. After ten years of

thinking the worst of her dad, how could she allow him to

sway her opinion in a surprise ten-minute appearance?

How could he stil have that much power over her?

Yet he did, she acknowledged miserably. That’s why she

didn’t give up Randolph when she had the chance.

She replayed the conversation in her head for the

hundredth time, then retrieved a notebook from her

dresser and recorded every detail she could remember.

He’d worn a beard, sunglasses, fishing hat and nondescript

clothing. He’d said he’d been fol owing them, waiting for

an opportunity to talk to her; said he’d been keeping tabs

on her and Wesley, that he’d been gathering evidence to

prove his innocence. He’d said that her mother had been

“sick” on and off, with the implication that she was stil

drinking heavily. He’d asked her not to tel Wesley about

his visit, that he’d be laying low for a while, but would

contact her. He knew their phone was tapped; he knew

she had a new cel phone. He said that Peter was in a

position at the firm to help him.

I’m going to need your help, too, sweetheart.

She closed her eyes and cursed her inability to hate

Randolph Wren, a weakness that she couldn’t seem to

overcome. Like a good daughter, she was prepared to put

her life on hold and wait until she heard from him again.

Because her life would be on hold until she could put this

interminable situation with her father behind her, anyway.

Meanwhile, she needed to make plans to see Peter…and

to “stay close” to him, as her father had instructed.

20

Richard McCormick extended a big, fleshy hand.

“Welcome to Atlanta Systems Services, Wesley.”

Wesley pumped it and swallowed the pain that shot

through his arm. “Your department acronym is ASS?”

“Huh?” McCormick frowned, then laughed. “Oh, yeah, I

guess so. Come on, I’l show you where you’l be working.”

Wesley fol owed the lumpy guy through a maze of cubicles

and bul pens that hummed with machinery. Huge clumps

of black and gray cables snaked everywhere—over desks

and floors, clipped to wal s and across ceilings. A few faces

looked up from computer monitors as he passed through,

but for the most part, everyone seemed engrossed in

whatever they were doing. It was his first experience in an

office environment and he was suddenly nervous. He

didn’t know what to expect.

“Here you go,” the man said, gesturing to a workstation

connected to three others in a cluster, occupied by two

young guys and a girl.

“Everyone, this is Wesley.”

“Hey,” he said, nodding.

“Hi,” they chorused.

“I’m Jeff,” a dark-haired guy said. His shirt was missing a

button and he looked as if he hadn’t slept—or showered—

in a couple of days.

“Ravi,” offered the other guy who appeared to be of

Middle Eastern descent and was wearing latex gloves as he

tapped on a keyboard.

“Meg,” the girl stated. She wore a black Georgia Tech

sweatshirt and zebra-striped glasses, her dishwater-blond

hair twisted up into coiled pigtails.

“Help Wes get settled in,” Richard said. “He’s going to be

working on our legacy databases.”

The two guys snickered, and when McCormick walked

away, Jeff said, “Dude, you just got the shittiest

assignment in this cesspool.”

“Mainframe work sucks,” Ravi said.

“Ignore Dumb and Dumber,” Meg said dryly. “This isn’t a

bad place to work. McCormick even lets us work on school

projects when we need to.”

“You go to Tech?” Wesley asked, setting his backpack on

the empty desk.

“We al do,” she said. “We’re in a work-study program.

What about you?”

“A community service sentence.”

She frowned. “Did you get arrested or something?”

“Yeah. For hacking into this place.”

“Cool,” Jeff said, and Ravi nodded. Meg, on the other

hand, looked bored with him already.

Wesley scanned the PC sitting on his desk. “Does this boat

anchor even have a math coprocessor?”

“Doesn’t matter much,” Jeff said. “It’s basically just a

monitor to give you access to the mainframe.”

“No Internet access?”

“Nope. We all use our phones.” They held up various

models of expensive PDAs, all of which had more memory

than the dinosaur of a PC on his desk.

“Don’t worry. We’l build you something better,” Ravi

offered.

“How long wil you be around?” Meg asked.

McCormick had decided to divvy up Wesley’s one hundred

hours of community service into four-hour chunks. “Every

morning for about six weeks.” He sat in his assigned dusty,

upholstered chair and rubbed his arm. The gashes were

starting to heal, but the skin was painful y taut. He was

down to two OxyContin pil s, and would like to get more

from Chance, but one problem nagged at him—the

possibility that when he reported in to E. on Wednesday,

she would make him provide a urine sample for a drug

test. If he failed, E. wouldn’t think twice about having him

tossed in jail, not after giving him a pass on the aborted

drug deal in which she’d intervened.

Although with The Carver stil on his ass and Father Thom

to pay, too, jail might be the safest place to hang out for a

while. Wes really needed to win the pot Wednesday night

in the game that Chance had secured for him.

Throwing caution to the wind, he palmed one of the

remaining pil s and chewed it, washing it down with a

bottle of water from his backpack. When he looked up,

Meg was staring at him. He gave her his best disarming

smile, easier because the OxyContin was already flashing

through his system. She looked away.

“Nice tie, man,” Jeff said with a laugh. “You don’t have to

wear one here.”

“I have to for my other job.”

“What’s your other job?” Ravi asked.

“I’m on call to move bodies for the morgue.”

“Cool,” Jeff said again. “What’s the grossest thing you’ve

seen?”

“Motorcyclist versus I-285. He lost.”

“Ew,” Meg said. “Don’t you go to col ege?”

Wesley scoffed. “I don’t need col ege.”

“You’re going to move bodies for the rest of your life?” she

asked, obviously unimpressed.

“No. I’m a card player. I’m going to the World Series of

Poker.” At her dubious look, he added, “Someday.”

“Sounds like a real career plan,” she said before pushing

back from her desk and walking away. She had possibly

the best ass he’d ever seen in a pair of jeans.

“Forget about her,” Jeff warned. “She’s way out of your

league, man. Smart as shit, rich as hel , and under that

sweatshirt, has a body that won’t quit.” He sighed. “She

turned down Harvard and Princeton. Her father is some

genius geneticist, and she’s fol owing in his footsteps.”

From the looks on Jeff’s and Ravi’s faces, it was clear they

were obsessed with her.

“If she’s rich, why is she working here?”

“I think it makes her feel normal,” Jeff said. “You know,

part of the working masses.”

“I think she’s some kind of spy,” Ravi said. “Or an alien.”

Wesley squinted. “What’s with the latex gloves?”

“Germ phobe,” Jeff interjected.

“A computer keyboard is more contaminated than a toilet

seat,” Ravi explained.

“Welcome to the freak show,” Jeff said to Wesley. “Let’s

go see if we can steal you a better machine.”

Over the next couple of hours, the four of them pieced

together a halfway decent system for Wesley from

components they begged, borrowed and stole from all

over the department. Jeff and Ravi were instructive and

friendly, if a little goofy. Meg was amicable, but

standoffish. Wesley was secretly impressed with their

knowledge and intrigued by the way they talked about

their classes at Georgia Tech—as if they wanted to be

there, wanted to fil their heads with as much information

as possible.

And he was excited by the prospect of having access to his

father’s court files.

McCormick pul ed him into his office and gave him the

broad strokes of the systems the department supported.

Legacy systems were fat, old and slow, and ran on

behemoth computers of days gone by. They were typical y

the backbone systems of any company—payrol , accounts

payable, human resources—and in the city’s case,

courthouse records. And because legacy systems were so

large and so important, they were usually the last