Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (22 page)

hit him. He looked at Coop and realized that the man’s

eyes were a little glassy. “Have you been drinking?”

Coop frowned and straightened. “What business is it of

yours?”

Wes lifted his hands. “I’m just saying you could get into a

lot of trouble—”

“How about you keep your mouth shut, and I don’t tel

anyone that you’re high right now?”

Wesley blinked. “Me, high?”

“As a Chinese box kite.”

They stared at each other and tension whipped through

the air. Wesley wanted to come clean to Coop, but he

didn’t want to concede to another mistake. Besides, he

and Coop were going through the same thing. The Oxy,

like the booze for Coop, was just a small indulgence to

help ease him over a rough spot. A temporary prop. A

helping hand.

The phone in the lab rang and Coop strode away to answer

it. Wesley looked to the computer screen where each pixel

of the image was being fil ed in. A picture began to

emerge. Wesley squinted. It looked like some kind of

ornate cross with extra graphics out to the sides…angel

wings maybe?

A message popped up on the screen to indicate that the

process was complete and asked, “Do you want to print

the image?”

He looked over his shoulder to see that Coop was stil on

the phone and flipping through records in a file cabinet.

Wes turned back and hit Y on the keyboard. A few seconds

later, a nearby laser printer hummed to life and churned

out a piece of paper with the design printed on it. Wesley

removed the paper, folded it and slipped it under his shirt.

Across the room, Coop dropped the receiver back to its

cradle. “Did the program finish?”

“I think so,” Wes said, then gestured to the door. “But I

gotta go, man.”

“Okay. You take care of yourself,” Coop said, giving him a

meaningful look.

Wes dipped his chin. “You, too.”

He walked out of the lab and exhaled. When it came to

puzzles, Coop was like a hound with a scent. He’d keep

digging until he found out who the guy was and dig even

deeper to find out what had happened to him. But if Wes

could identify the man first and call in an anonymous tip to

the police along with some story about how the guy had

died, it might be enough to convince the police and the

M.E. to drop the case…Or at least, it could send them on a

wild-goose chase that would drain their enthusiasm.

Under his T-shirt the piece of paper crackled, and on the

way to the parking lot, an idea came to him. Wes pul ed

out his cel phone and punched in a number.

“What do you want, shithead?” Hannah asked on the

second ring. “Are you in trouble again?”

“No,” Wes assured her. “Nothing like that. I was calling to

see if you were ready to have that tattoo on your back

finished. My buddy Chance is stil wil ing to pick up the

tab.”

“I told you I’d think about it.”

“Come on. My man is loaded and he wants to spend

money on you. What’s to think about?”

Hannah sighed. “Does doughboy stil want to watch?”

“Yeah. Is it okay if I come along, too?”

“On one condition,” Hannah said finally. “If you tel

Carlotta, I’ll tattoo your bal s, got it?”

Wes smiled into the phone. “My lips are sealed.”

18

Deception indicated.

It meant, Detective Marquez had explained, that Carlotta

couldn’t be cleared of involvement in The Charmed Kil er

case unless she wanted to retake the polygraph. If she

elected not to retake the test, she would be under

heightened scrutiny, even surveil ance. Which, after

Carlotta thought about it, wasn’t such a bad thing. She

knew she was innocent. And if Michael Lane decided to

come after her, she wanted as many eyes on her as

possible.

A horn sounded, jarring Carlotta back to the present. She

goosed the gas on the scooter and zoomed ahead.

Stil …Detective Marquez could’ve at least told her which

questions she’d failed.

Never mind. She’d get it out of Jack…assuming he could

get it out of Marquez.

That made her frown.

But if Jack had been spending most of his nights at the

police precinct, he hadn’t been spending them with Maria.

That made her smile.

She spotted a grocery ahead and put on her blinker. Thirty

minutes later her storage compartment was ful of cat

food, in case they couldn’t find the feline’s owner right

away. On a whim, she’d also picked up a couple of salmon

fil ets, thinking she’d prepare dinner for Peter.

Deception indicated.

When she pul ed up to the Martinique Estates security

gate a few minutes later, she had a brain blip and couldn’t

recall Peter’s access code. The harder she thought about

it, the more clearly she saw Tracey Lowenstein’s face

tel ing her that she was an embarrassment to Peter.

“I got it, miss,” the guard called from the shack. “I

recognize the scooter. Not many of those in this

neighborhood.”

She lifted her hand in a wave, but her face burned.

Obviously, no other ful -grown women in this

neighborhood rode around on a pink scooter.

As she wheeled toward Peter’s house, she glanced at the

expansive homes on either side of the street and

wondered if people were looking out their windows,

watching her, laughing at her…laughing at Peter.

A few minutes later, she pulled in to Peter’s garage,

disappointed that he wasn’t home yet, and a little nervous

about going into the house alone. The garage door

hummed down as she lowered the Vespa kickstand. She

loosened the chin strap on the helmet and climbed off the

scooter, then stood back to look at it objectively.

Maybe it was a little…youthful. And the color a

little…frivolous.

But God help her, she loved it.

Carlotta gave the gas tank a little pat, then removed the

bag of groceries and walked to the door leading into the

mudroom.

The cat had obviously heard her arrive and was meowing

frantically. Carlotta opened the door and the Persian was

instantly underfoot, making angry noises that sounded

almost human.

Carlotta turned off the security alarm, then shook her

finger at the cranky cat. “You’d better be good to me, I

brought you food.” She grimaced at the contents of the

cardboard box, but took it as a further sign that the cat

was house-trained.

The Persian fol owed her into the main part of the house,

the combination keeping room/kitchen/casual dining area.

Carlotta was conscious of the echo of her footsteps as she

walked into the spacious kitchen. The electrical whine of

the commercial-grade appliances vibrated in the air.

Everything felt very sterile, especially when she thought of

her and Wesley’s cluttered, homey kitchen.

She smiled as she stored the groceries. Was it possible she

was a little bit homesick? Carlotta closed the refrigerator

door and leaned into the counter, glancing around at the

cavernous space. She could see how being alone in a

house like this would be achingly lonely for Peter. And how

Angela would have resented Peter working late or going to

business dinners.

She glanced over to see that the cat had either climbed or

jumped onto the lowest bookshelf and was sniffing around

the items placed there.

“Get down,” Carlotta said, hurrying toward it. The last

thing she needed was for the cat to break something of

Peter’s. The Persian ignored her, rubbing her face on the

corners of the framed black-and-white photo of Angela.

The animal purred like a little engine, obviously happy to

have an itch scratched.

“You can’t be climbing on things,” Carlotta said, reaching

for her.

The cat’s ears slid back and it hissed at her.

She retreated, hands up. “Okay.” Trying another tactic, she

backtracked to the kitchen and noisily opened a can of the

expensive cat food, emptied it onto a saucer and set it on

the floor.

The ploy worked. The cat jumped down and ran to the

saucer. But instead of diving in, she sniffed the food, sat

on her haunches and looked up at her. Meow.

The cat sounded…disappointed. Carlotta frowned. “Okay,

so it’s not sardines. But it’s what you’re supposed to eat.”

Its whiskers twitched.

“Or not,” Carlotta said, throwing up her hands. “It’s up to

you, Miss Priss.”

Her cel phone rang and she reached for her purse. A

glance at the cal er-ID screen revealed that Peter was

calling. She smiled and connected the phone. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself. Are you home?”

Home. “Uh…yeah. I’m feeding the cat. And I bought us

salmon fil ets for dinner.”

“That sounds wonderful, but I’m afraid I’m going to be

working late.”

Carlotta frowned. Something in Peter’s tone sounded…off.

Was the GBI there again, asking about Randolph? Had her

failed polygraph triggered another round of questioning?

“I can wait for you,” she offered.

“No, go ahead and eat,” he said, his enthusiasm sounding

forced. “But I don’t like the idea of you being there alone. I

thought maybe you could call your friend Hannah to come

over.”

“Do you trust her to be in your house?”

“Where’s that coming from?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I’m not mad at you. Tracey Lowenstein

came to see me today at work. She had Hannah fired from

the catering company that services the country club.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Carly. Tracey is…wel , we both know what

she is. It’s not fair that your friend lost her job, but even if

Hannah had stayed on, Tracey and her cronies would have

made things difficult for her. She’s better off finding

another gig.”

“I suppose,” Carlotta muttered. “I think I wil call Hannah

and see if she’d like to come over for a swim.”

“Good idea. There are extra swimsuits in the guest-house.

Help yourself. Hannah can have my salmon. It might be

late when I get home, so keep the alarm on.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. How did the polygraph go?”

“Fine,” she lied…again.

“Good. See you later.”

She disconnected the call and looked down to see the cat

staring up at her with…recrimination?

Deception indicated.

“Oh, go lick yourself,” she said to the beast, then dialed

Hannah’s number. She was relieved when her friend

answered.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry that witch Tracey Lowenstein got you fired,” she

said without preamble.

“How did you know?”

“She came in to the store to tel me. And to let me know

that I’m not welcome back at the club.”

Hannah snorted. “Can she bar you from the club?”

“If she wants to.”

“Just because you and I are friends and she thinks I’m a

thief.”

“That’s not the only reason. This goes way back and much

deeper than anything you did or didn’t do.”

“Didn’t,” Hannah said.

Carlotta closed her eyes briefly. “I know you didn’t steal

those purses.”

“Plural?”

“Apparently another purse was stolen last night besides

Bebe Plank’s.”

“Damn. Someone’s got a good gig going.”

“And when another purse is stolen, they’l know it wasn’t

you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hannah said, but her voice sounded

strained. “There are lots of other catering companies to

work for.”

“Why don’t you come over,” Carlotta asked.

“To Peter’s?”

“Yeah. He’s working late, and we’d have the pool to

ourselves. I’l make dinner.” She waited a beat. “Or not,

whichever sounds more appealing.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment. “I don’t

think so,” Hannah said finally.

Carlotta could’ve played the “I don’t want to be alone”

card and her friend probably would’ve given in, but she

understood how Hannah must be feeling. Right now, she

hated Tracey Lowenstein and all the woman stood for. If

she were Hannah, the thought of coming to Peter’s

mansion would probably feel as if she were fraternizing

with the enemy. “Maybe some other time?”

“Sure,” Hannah said. “I gotta go.”

Carlotta said goodbye and disconnected the call, nursing a

pang of guilt. If it hadn’t been for Carlotta, Tracey probably

wouldn’t have pursued Hannah so vigorously. She liked to

think that people like Tracey would get theirs in the end,

but she knew that wasn’t always the case. Some people

just steamrol ed through life getting what they wanted,

and everyone else be damned.

Carlotta sighed at the cat. “Looks like it’s you and me,

kitty.”

The cat, utterly disinterested in the cat food and in her,

began exploring the room. Carlotta turned to the sliding

glass door and looked out to the aquamarine pool, but

conceded that swimming alone didn’t hold much appeal.

She’d only be thinking about Angela the entire time.

Besides, it read like the beginning of every horror movie

she’d ever seen—the heroine knows a madman is on the

loose, but decides to go skinny-dipping anyway.

No, thanks.

She unwrapped the coral-colored salmon fil ets and bit her