Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (13 page)

and placed it on a black cloth for Carlotta’s inspection.

Carlotta’s pulse sped up. The miniature cigar with a tiny

etched band looked identical to the one she’d personally

witnessed falling out of the second victim’s mouth when

she and Wesley had prepared to move the body from the

crime scene.

“I’ll take it,” she said. “Do you have any cars?”

“Several,” the woman said, sweeping her hand over a

section of the tray.

Carlotta bit her lip. She hadn’t seen the car charm that

reportedly had been in the third victim’s mouth, nor the

gun charm found in the mouth of the fourth victim. “I’ll

take the cigar, all of the cars, and do you have any gun

charms?”

The woman looked surprised, then nodded. “Three

different ones.”

“I’l take those, too, one of each,” Carlotta said, then slid

her bloated credit card across the counter, hoping it would

withstand the purchase. She exhaled when the woman

bagged the charms and handed them over, along with a

receipt to sign.

Carlotta walked back to Neiman’s and guiltily stored the

charms in her locker. Maybe col ecting the same charms

the kil er had left behind would help her to figure out if

Michael Lane was behind the senseless kil ings.

As she walked back to her station, she mentally reviewed

her interaction with Michael over the past few years,

trying to recall any personality tics that she should’ve

picked up on, any red flags that would’ve indicated he was

the narcissistic serial killer that Detective Maria Marquez

said he was. True, he’d murdered two women over the

identity-theft ring he’d spearheaded, and tried to

eliminate her when she’d uncovered his plot, but kil ing for

self-preservation was wildly different than kil ing for the

sake of kil ing. She found it difficult to wrap her mind

around her former coworker being that damaged.

With Michael weighing heavy on her heart and her mind,

she was skittish all afternoon and grateful for the presence

of the security guard who was practical y hanging on the

fixtures by the time she ended her shift. He escorted her

out to the parking lot, where she thanked him, then

straddled her new scooter and turned it in the direction of

the town house. The wind on her face as she headed south

on Peachtree Street felt soothing, and her spirits lifted.

She told herself it had nothing to do with the fact that she

was meeting Jack.

But when she rol ed into the driveway of the town house

to find Detective Maria Marquez leaning against the sedan

that Jack normally drove, Carlotta conceded a stab of

disappointment. She parked the scooter and dismounted

awkwardly, then removed her pink helmet, thinking that

the carmelicious detective wouldn’t be caught dead with

helmet hair.

“Nice ride,” Maria said, her voice curling with amusement.

“Thanks,” Carlotta murmured.

Maria moved toward the front door. “Jack said you

needed to get an outfit?”

She made it sound so frivolous. “That’s right.”

“Give me your keys and tel me what you need, and I’l get

it.”

Carlotta handed over her keys and fol owed Maria as she

climbed the stoop and unlocked the door. “It would be

faster if I picked out the clothes.”

Maria gave her a disparaging look, but Carlotta refused to

back down from the standoff. It was clear there was more

going on here than just picking out a cocktail dress.

“Okay,” the female detective finally said. “But stay behind

me and don’t touch anything.”

Carlotta made a face at the woman’s back.

“I saw that in the window,” Maria said.

Carlotta winced. “Sorry, it’s just that this is my house.”

“But right now it’s a crime scene,” the woman said,

snapping on thin latex gloves before breaking through the

yellow tape stretched across the entrance.

Carlotta fol owed her into the house, which was dark and

stil . “My bedroom is down the hallway, first door on the

right.”

The detective turned on lights along the way, revealing

black residue around the light switches, on appliances and

flat surfaces where they’d lifted fingerprints.

“Is there a reason why Jack didn’t come?” Carlotta asked

casually, fol owing Maria into the bedroom.

“He’s with the state guys.”

Carlotta nursed a pang of embarrassment as Maria

perused her juvenile white furniture, lingering on the bed

in which Carlotta and Jack had rol ed around a few times.

“Has there been a development in The Charmed Kil er

case?”

Maria turned and frowned. “As if I’d tel you.”

Carlotta crossed her arms. “Why not?”

“To begin with, you’re not a law enforcement officer.”

“But I’m involved in this case.”

“Yeah—as a possible suspect.”

Carlotta laughed. “You can’t be serious. I think you’re

letting your personal feelings get in the way here.”

Maria scoffed. “I don’t know you wel enough to have

personal feelings for you, Carlotta.”

“I meant your personal feelings for Jack.”

The woman stopped, then dipped her chin. “I don’t have

personal feelings for Jack. He’s my partner.”

But Carlotta knew that look. Stil , there was no use

flogging the detective. Instead, she turned toward her

closet and gestured to the residue-covered doorknob.

“Wil you open it for me?”

The detective obliged, and Carlotta flipped through the

clothes jammed on the racks inside.

“Nice Valentinos,” Maria murmured, stroking a gloved

hand over a pair of silvery crisscross high-heeled sandals.

“Thanks.” Carlotta pul ed out a red crepe spaghetti-strap

short cocktail dress with a swing skirt, and a cream-colored

sheath with silver-chain trim. “Which do you think I should

choose for a charity auction at a country club?”

Maria angled her head. “The cream one if you want to fit

in, the red one if you want to be remembered.”

Carlotta frowned. “Hmm…I can’t decide.”

“Take both and decide later.”

“With the Valentino sandals?”

“Oh, yeah, they’l go with either dress.” Maria pointed.

“With the Lauren Merkin bubble clutch.”

“Good choice,” Carlotta agreed, then pul ed it from a shelf.

She put both dresses in a garment bag, then backed out

and Maria closed the closet. They retraced their steps to

the front door, then Carlotta cursed. “I forgot about being

on the scooter. I can’t get these to Peter’s.”

“Give me the dresses,” Maria said. “I’l fol ow you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Carlotta protested.

“No problem. That way I can tel Jack you got home okay.”

Carlotta was nervous having Maria behind her on the short

ride to Peter’s, but she conceded that the woman was

going above and beyond the call of duty to make sure that

she was safe. Al for Jack, of course.

At the entrance to Martinique Estates, Carlotta punched in

Peter’s code and waved to the guard as she and Maria

drove in. When she pul ed the scooter into the driveway to

the immense house, she grimaced at the sight of the

broken fountain. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a

flash of yel ow fur disappear into the thick foliage of the

landscaping. It seemed that the pesky stray cat hadn’t yet

found its way home.

“Nice place,” Maria said from the car.

Carlotta climbed off the scooter and walked over to take

the garment bag the woman held out the window. “It is,

isn’t it?”

“I can see why Jack is jealous.”

Carlotta’s head came up. “Jealous? I don’t think so.”

Maria’s mouth twitched downward. “There’s something

you should know. The state agents took Jack off The

Charmed Kil er case.”

Carlotta gasped. “What? Why?”

“Territorial issues. They want to run their own

investigation and they think Jack’s too close to some

aspects of it.”

Realization dawned. “You mean too close to me, don’t

you?”

“Among other reasons,” Maria said. “Carlotta…you need

to be more careful about the men you let into your life.”

Then she drove away.

11

Peter squeezed Carlotta’s hand as they walked into the

twinkling ballroom of the Bedford Manor Country Club.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, conjuring up a smile. In truth, she

couldn’t get Maria Marquez’s words out of her head. Jack

had been removed from The Charmed Kil er case. He must

be going crazy.

“You look more than fine in that red dress,” Peter said,

raking his appreciative gaze over her. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you.” At the last minute, she’d decided against the

dress that would make her fit in, in favor of the one that

would make her memorable, as Maria had put it. And

based on some of the looks they were getting from mil ing

guests, she had hit the right note. “You don’t look so bad

yourself.”

Peter preened in his black Joseph Abboud tux that fit his

lean frame and broad shoulders flawlessly. “I was hoping

you’d notice.”

“I noticed,” she murmured, giving herself a mental shake

to return to the present. Hadn’t she dreamed of this

moment, when she would take her rightful place among to

the people who had cast her out, on the arm of one of

their own?

She pushed Jack’s dilemma and The Charmed Kil er from

her mind as she glanced around at the beautiful people

gathered at draped tables, wineglasses clinking and

diamonds winking. No one in this grand room was worried

about the sordid things that went on outside their

community—their lives were insulated with glamour and

amusement and privilege. Crime was something that

happened to other people. She suspected the only reason

they hadn’t turned their backs on Peter when Angela had

been murdered so fantastically was because of his parents’

far-reaching influence.

“Mom, Dad,” Peter said as the prim couple approached.

“Good to see you.” He embraced his mother and shook

hands with his father. “You remember Carlotta Wren.”

“Of course,” his mother said with a nod.

Carlotta extended her hand to each of them in turn. “Good

to see you, Mrs. Ashford, Mr. Ashford.” The couple

seemed unnerved by her presence, glancing around as if to

see if anyone else had noticed she’d broken rank.

“I was told there are two empty seats at our table if you’d

like to join us,” Peter said.

“Oh, we’d love to,” his mother said, then wet her lips. “But

we promised the Daileys that we’d sit with them.” She

looked to her husband for confirmation and he nodded

vigorously.

Carlotta’s face stung at the reproach.

“Another time, then,” Peter said easily. After the couple

moved on, he said, “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize for them,” she said, feeling sorrier for

Peter than for herself. The couple treated him more like a

business acquaintance than a son. She wondered if her

relationship with her parents would’ve ended up the same

way. Assuming, of course, that they hadn’t abandoned

her. “We’l have fun tonight anyway.”

He smiled down at her, his eyes shining. “Yes, we wil .”

Then he nodded at her clutch. “Keep an eye on your purse,

though. We’ve had some reports of women’s bags going

missing lately. It’s become a bit of a problem. Security has

been beefed up, but you can’t be too careful.”

“Surely no one would steal at a charity auction,” she

murmured.

“One would think,” he agreed.

They walked among the tables until they found their

assigned seats. A couple was already at the round table,

the poufy-haired young blonde coiffed within an inch of

scientific probability, and her older companion, bleary-

eyed, his hand curled around a drink.

“Carlotta Wren, meet my neighbors, Sissy and Tom

Talmadge.”

“Hel o,” Carlotta said as Peter held out her chair.

“Hi there,” the woman said, leaning forward on her

elbows. “You must be Peter’s new houseguest.”

“Sissy and Tom live in the blue house just up the hil ,”

Peter offered.

With a start Carlotta realized that this was probably the

person who’d been spying on her with binoculars. “That’s

right. Peter and I go way back.”

“I see,” the woman said, her voice singsongy. “How long

wil you be staying?”

Carlotta blinked at the woman’s unconcealed nosiness.

“As long as she likes,” Peter answered for her. “Something

to drink, Carly?”

“Red wine,” she murmured. “A big glass.”

“I’l be right back.” He gave her a bolstering wink, then

walked away.

When she looked up, she noticed that Sissy was watching

Peter’s retreating back with an expression akin to longing.

The woman glanced back to Carlotta and smirked. “Peter

is quite a catch.” She slid a meaningful glance to her blob

of a husband who sat in a stony stupor.

Carlotta’s mind raced to change the subject. “Do you, by

chance, have a blond Persian cat?”

“No. Why?”

“We’ve seen a stray around Peter’s house.”

“It’s not ours. I’m allergic.”

“Hel o al .”