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
B y 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 déjà 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.”
Body Movers Page 5
