“That was actually Barbara Rook, a woman who stole my identity. And she didn’t jump—she was murdered. The D.A. asked me to go along and plan my own funeral to draw out the murderer, who turned out to be Michael Lane, by the way.”
“It’s our understanding that you were asked to plan your own funeral to draw out your parents, not the murderer.”
She hardened her jaw. “Well…it didn’t work.” Only Wesley and Coop knew that Randolph had shown up in disguise. She hadn’t even known it until she found the note he’d slipped into her pocket.
“But wasn’t your father a suspect in the Barbara Rook case?” Wick asked.
“My father seems to be a convenient suspect when there’s no one else to pin things on.”
Wick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Looks to me as if trouble runs in the family. I understand you were also on the scenes when three of the victims of The Charmed Killer were discovered.”
“I was there, but after the fact. I was helping to remove the bodies from the scene.”
Wick leaned forward. “You’re a salesclerk at Neiman’s, but you moonlight as a body mover?”
Her hairline felt moist. “Yes?”
Wick squinted. “I’m sorry, is that a question?”
Carlotta swallowed hard. “I mean yes…I sort of got into body moving accidentally.”
“Let me guess—you just happened onto a crime scene one night and started folding and stacking body bags?”
She frowned. “No. My brother began working with Cooper Craft, who contracts with the morgue to haul bodies. I went along a few times to help.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but that seems like a pretty strange job for someone like you.”
“I don’t mind. Someone has to do it.”
Wick consulted another file. “So what can you tell us about the crime scene of the first presumed victim, Shawna Whitt?”
Carlotta thought back to the woman’s neat house, the hush of her bedroom, and how the young woman had been lying in her bed so peacefully. “When Coop and I arrived, the police had finished processing the scene. It appeared as if she’d died of natural causes. Coop was the one who noticed that she had a charm in her mouth.”
“Coop?”
“Dr. Craft. He used to be the medical examiner.”
“Yes. He’s coming in later today to talk with us. What happened next?”
“Jack asked Coop—”
“Jack?”
She swallowed. “Detective Terry. He was on the scene when we arrived.”
“Why was Detective Terry on the scene of a woman who had presumably died of natural causes?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“I’m asking you. Did he say?”
She searched her memory. “I believe he said he was in the area when the call came in, dropping off his partner.”
“Detective Marquez?”
“I assume so. She is his partner.”
“Do Detectives Terry and Marquez have a relationship?”
She frowned. “What? I wouldn’t know.” She glanced to the glass behind Wick and could almost feel Jack’s disapproval burning through it.
Wick made a noise in his throat. “Let’s continue. You were also on the scene of the second victim, Alicia Sills, to remove the body?”
“That’s correct. I was with my brother when Dr. Craft called him. We went on the call, along with a friend who sometimes helps out. The victim was lying on the kitchen floor. It looked as if she’d fallen off a step stool and suffered head trauma.”
“The report says that you found the charm in the victim’s mouth.”
“Not exactly. The charm fell out of her mouth when we attempted to move the body.”
Wick studied her, then angled his head. “Ms. Wren, did you place those charms in the mouths of the victims?”
“No,” she said evenly. “I did not.”
He nodded to the charm bracelet she wore. “You seem to be fixated on charms.”
The room suddenly seemed stifling. “I have a charm bracelet, like a lot of other women do, especially since Eva McCoy made them so popular. That’s not a fixation.”
“You purchased the bracelet you’re wearing?”
“Actually, a coworker gave it to me.”
“Michael Lane?”
“No. Patricia Alexander. She bought one for herself and one for me. The proceeds went to charity.”
“The foundation Olympian Eva McCoy set up to commemorate the charm bracelet she wore when she won the women’s marathon. It’s been all over the news. I understand that you were present when Ms. McCoy’s charm bracelet was stolen.”
“That’s right,” she said, wincing inwardly at the memory of being facedown in a birthday cake the thief had rolled into the event as a diversion to steal the bracelet. “But the bracelet was later recovered.”
“It says that you were involved in that, as well.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Good for you,” Wick chirped, then looked down at his file. “Back to Alicia Sills. Did you know that she worked in the same building as your father’s former investment firm? The one he embezzled from?”
“Allegedly embezzled from,” she said through gritted teeth. “And it’s a huge office building. Thousands of people have worked there in the past ten years.”
“Did you ever hear your father mention her name?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Did you ever see her with your father?”
She scoffed. “No. These are crazy questions.”
Agent Wick glared at her. “We’ll be the judge of that, Ms. Wren.” He snapped the papers he held to punctuate the fact that he was still in charge of the room. “Now to the third victim, Pam Witcomb. Apparently you knew her?”
Carlotta frowned, confused. “Pam Witcomb?”
“Says here that she was a prostitute.”
“Oh, you mean Pepper. I didn’t really know her. I’d only met her once.”
“Where?”
“On the corner of Third and West Peachtree. I was waiting for a ride and she…was also waiting for a ride. We had a conversation.”
“About what?”
She pressed her lips together and rolled her shoulders. Her blouse was stuck to her back.
“Ms. Wren, what did you and our murder victim talk about?”
“Um…chocolate cake and blow jobs.”
Green coughed and Wick’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“Hey, we were just passing time. My ride came a few minutes later, and that was it.”
“Where were you going?”
“Dr. Craft picked me up for a body-moving job that turned out to be Shawna Whitt.”
Wick frowned and sifted through the papers in front of him. “Is that in the file?”
Carlotta shrugged. “I don’t know why it would be. One had nothing to do with the other.”
He pulled on his chin and nodded. “Okay, on to the fourth victim then—A.D.A. Cheryl Meriwether.”
“I didn’t know her.”
“But your brother did.”
She frowned. “Have you talked to Wesley?”
“No. His name is on a list of defendants that Meriwether worked with over the last six months.” Wick crossed his arms. “The Wrens are connected in some way to every victim.”
She gave a strangled little laugh. “That’s…a coincidence.”
“Is it?” Wick asked, his voice light, but his eyes hard.
“Of course,” she said, but heat flooded her face.
From a bag he pulled the charm bracelet that her father had given her when she’d turned fourteen. From the bracelet dangled fanciful charms that represented the things she’d loved in her teens: handbags and shoes, animals, flowers, cheerleading pom-poms and a tiny convertible for the Miata he’d bought for her first car, among other things. A tiny locked book reminded her of the high-school diaries she’d taken to Peter’s so no one would read them.
“Your father was also fixa
ted on charms,” Wick ventured.
She shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. The bracelet was simply an age-appropriate gift for a teenager.”
“So you don’t think that your father is trying to communicate with you through these killings?”
Her mouth watered to say that her father had been communicating with her, and no one had died because of it. But of course she couldn’t without opening another can of worms. She felt Jack’s gaze on her, and wondered if she should come clean about Randolph’s impromptu appearances. She wavered. It really came down to whether she thought her father was capable of doing such heinous things.
“Ms. Wren,” Wick said in a steely tone, “do you think your father is trying to communicate with you through these killings?”
Agent Green was rapt and Agent Wick’s eyes glowed, as if he was on the verge of breaking the case. Carlotta fought to draw enough air into her lungs. “No, I don’t.”
“So for the record, you don’t know the identity of The Charmed Killer?”
Carlotta gripped the table and leaned forward. “No. Don’t you think if I did, I’d tell someone to end this killing spree?”
The agent’s dark eyes narrowed. “Maybe you like being in the middle of something so sensational.”
So Maria had shared the “profile” she’d come up with for Carlotta, as someone who liked to inject herself into investigations. Carlotta seethed. “I want this to be over as much as everyone else.”
“So you’d be willing to take a polygraph?”
“Yes. I already told the detectives that I’d do whatever was necessary to clear myself of any involvement. That’s why I’m here.”
Wick studied her until her skin prickled. Even Green shifted in his seat.
“I need to get to work,” she said, and stood abruptly. Her chair fell back and clattered against the floor.
“Okay,” Wick said, pushing to his feet. Green followed, although he was still scribbling in his notebook.
She made a move to right the chair.
“We’ll get that,” Wick assured her.
Carlotta strode to the door, in a hurry to get out of the warm room.
“Ms. Wren?”
She turned back.
Wick put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “Don’t leave town.”
Carlotta gave a wry little laugh. “No worry there. I don’t have transportation.”
When she walked out into the hallway, another door opened and Jack and Maria appeared.
“Are you okay?” Jack asked. Maria looked less concerned.
“Fine,” Carlotta said, marching ahead. “But I have to get to work.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“No, I’ll call a cab.” After she smoked a cigarette.
He grabbed her arm, then leaned in close. “Chocolate cake and blow jobs?”
She smiled and murmured, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“What about that polygraph?” Maria asked loudly.
Carlotta turned around. “Set it up for first thing tomorrow.” Then she looked at Jack. “Thanks for coming this morning when the alarm went off.”
He gave her a flat smile. “Just doing my job. Be careful out there.”
She turned and headed for the door, her mind spinning. It was obvious the GBI thought The Charmed Killer was someone connected to her. Forget the cigarette—she could use a stiff martini.
“Please let this day get better,” she whispered.
She walked through the lobby, then out into a hallway and pushed open a door to the outside. It was already hot and humid, the summer air as thick and moist as cake. She was rummaging in her purse for a cigarette when she heard a man’s voice, a little too close to her.
“Carlotta Wren?”
She froze and curled her fingers around the stun baton Jack had given her. She looked up to see a stout, unfamiliar dark-haired man standing in front of her. Her fight-or-flight instincts flared. He had thick, bushy eyebrows and big hands with grease under his fingernails. When he took a menacing step toward her, she whipped out the baton and zapped him in the shoulder. For two seconds, the air was rent with the buzz of a giant mosquito, then the perp dropped to the ground, his eyes rolled back in his head.
She turned and fled back into the precinct lobby, shouting at Brooklyn to get Jack. The woman picked up a phone and a few seconds later, he came barreling out with his weapon drawn. In between gasping breaths, she explained what happened as she retraced her steps outside. The big man was still lying there, his feet twitching.
“Stand back,” Jack warned, then bent over the guy and began to pat him down.
Carlotta’s heart pounded like a bongo, half in fright, half in anticipation. If this man was The Charmed Killer, it would be sweet to apprehend him while the GBI agents sat inside taking notes.
From inside her purse, her phone rang. She looked to see it was Peter calling. She answered, her hand at her throat. “Peter, can I call you back?”
“I couldn’t wait,” he said. “I had to see how you liked the gift.”
She frowned. “What gift?”
“I had a guy deliver a Vespa scooter to the police-station parking lot. I thought I’d surprise you. Do you like it?”
“A Vespa?” she said, then looked up to see a pink scooter with a huge bow on it sitting a few feet away. “For me?”
Jack followed her gaze, then gave her a wry smile and held up a Vespa key ring and key that he apparently found on the incapacitated man.
Carlotta winced. Minus ten.
8
Wesley removed his watch and dropped it in a bowl along with all the change from his pockets. Because he had to walk through a metal detector every day to clock in to his community service job at Atlanta Systems Services, he’d stopped wearing a belt. The strict security measures seemed to have taken its toll on everyone who worked in the government building on Pryor Street. Along with saggy, beltless pants, soft-soled shoes and minuscule purses were now the norm.
After an unexpected day off the previous day due to construction that had shut down the building, everyone seemed restless this morning, and short-tempered. But Wes had chomped an Oxy when he’d rolled out of bed and swallowed another after locking up his bicycle in the parking lot, so he was feeling nice and relaxed. The first chewed capsule had flooded his system with the drug, and the subsequent swallowed one would keep the buzz going as the time-release coating broke down.
The drug made the light streaming into the atrium-style lobby luminous, the scent of the live potted trees and plants crisp, the humming of the woman behind him harmonious. The Oxy amplified his senses and made all things rosy, a welcome reprieve from the nightmares of toothless heads that had plagued his sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the poor schmuck, wondering if the guy had a kid thinking it was his fault that his father hadn’t come home…
In front of him, someone set off the metal detector, eliciting groans all around. Like everyone else, he craned for a look, his pulse quickening when he saw it was his coworker Meg Vincent who had stopped the line. A female security guard waved her aside to be wanded. Wesley watched with amusement as the slim blonde stood with arms raised and legs wide as the guard ran a handheld metal detector over her eclectic outfit of flowered pants, striped T-shirt and short jacket. When the baton went off near her breasts, he smiled and nodded—she was wearing an underwire bra today. Nice.
Meg caught him staring and rolled her eyes. The line started moving again, and he shuffled through in time to catch up with her just as the elevator doors were closing.
“We’re full,” she said.
He stuck his foot in the gap to make the doors bounce open. “It’ll hold one more skinny dude,” he said, then slipped in next to her.
Meg stared straight ahead, ignoring him.
“Maybe you should stop wearing a bra,” he whispered.
Her mouth tightened.
He smiled, enjoying her discomfort. If anyone had the right to be irritated with anyone, it was
him—with her. Meg had done nothing but torture him since he’d started working at ASS, looking hot and being smart as hell to boot. He’d been so mesmerized by her that he’d agreed to join her and two coworkers at a damn chick flick in Piedmont Park. Aside from the fact that he’d had to leave early for a body-moving job, he’d thought things had gone pretty well.
Then she’d accused him of being an addict—which he’d flatly denied—and announced that he could only be her boyfriend if he’d “straighten up.”
Like a damn school kid.
And the cherry on top of that shit sundae was when he’d run into Meg later with a guy…on a date. And the preppie guy had looked as if he moved in the same circle as her parents—Meg’s dad was some hotshot geneticist. If he’d needed proof that Meg had been toying with him, he had it.
When the elevator door opened on subsequent floors, she moved aside woodenly to let people pass. After the fifth floor, they were alone. She turned her back to him and jabbed the Close Door button. “You’re stoned.”
“No, I’m not.”
Meg arched an eyebrow. “Lie much?”
“I might wonder how you’d know so much about it.”
Her expression changed in an instant—from cynical to something else. The elevator doors opened onto the seventh floor and she walked off, her back rigid.
“Hey.” He went after her, feeling contrite. “Don’t say anything to McCormick. I need this gig.”
She turned around. “It’s just a community service gig to you, but some of us are here because we want to be. I won’t say anything to McCormick, but I’m not covering for you, either. You’ve been dragging your ass on this encryption project because you think it’s beneath you. But I actually like doing a good job, even if the assignment isn’t a career builder. I’d appreciate it if you’d get yourself sober and kick it up a notch.”
So she’d noticed that he was trying to stretch out the database-encryption project, hoping that McCormick would switch Meg to another assignment before she realized he was trying to pull information about his father’s case from the courthouse databases under the guise of encrypting the data.
Meg leaned in and lowered her voice. “I’m not going to let someone like you pull me down.”
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