Body Movers

by Stephanie Bond

  She bristled. “Someone had to. If you’d believed me, I wouldn’t have had to take matters into my own hands.”

  “You compromised evidence. There were probably fingerprints on the cigar.”

  She swallowed. “I didn’t open the bag it was in.”

  “No, instead you lost it.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean to!”

  He glared at her like a disapproving teacher, then shook his finger. “Find that cigar. And when you do, call me.”

  Carlotta frowned. “Do you want the names of the people who bought the cigar or don’t you?”

  From the confounded look on his face she couldn’t tell if he wanted to strangle her or shake her hand. His mouth tightened and she thought she heard a muttered curse as he reached for his notebook. “Okay, but this is where your pretend investigation ends, got it?”

  24

  A s her shift wore on, Carlotta stewed over the crack that Jack Terry had made about her “pretend investigation” in tracking down the origin of the cigar—jerk. She’d saved him hours of legwork. June Moody might not have been so willing to share the names of her customers with a behemoth detective. Carlotta nibbled on her thumbnail, feeling miffed.

  It was her persistence that had led to Angela’s case being reopened. Now she was supposed to just step back and put Peter’s fate into the hands of the police? Detective Terry was already convinced that Peter had done it. How diligent would he be at following every little lead?

  Besides, she might be in a better position to get some answers.

  Pulling out the piece of paper on which Michael had written the name of the plastic surgery clinic, she picked up the phone at the register and dialed information, then the clinic.

  “Buckhead Expressions,” a honey-voiced woman answered.

  The name made the place sound more like an art gallery than a cosmetic surgery center. “Hello. Does Dr. Joseph Suarez work for your clinic?”

  “Yes, would you like to make an appointment for a consultation?”

  Her pulse ratcheted higher that the man was connected to Angela, if only indirectly. Since her next day off was Tuesday, she asked about availability that day.

  “There’s an opening at ten o’clock Tuesday morning.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said, then listened as the woman explained that they didn’t accept insurance cards unless a procedure was deemed a medical necessity, so Carlotta should come prepared to pay the three-hundred-dollar consultation fee.

  She could think of a thousand other things to spend three hundred dollars on, but at least she didn’t have to worry about having money next week for that gangster, Tick. Wesley had gotten his first paycheck from Coop and promised her he’d be able to cover his payment to that Father Thom creep.

  Thank God Wesley was finally starting to behave responsibly.

  On her lunch break, she stopped by the administrative office and looked around for a deserted cubicle where she could snitch a few minutes on the Internet. M. Smith’s cubicle in a nice secluded corner looked adequately abandoned and M. had even left a cryptic note on the monitor that read: “Be back at 1:30.” Nice of him. Or her.

  She had twenty minutes.

  Hoping the machine was minus a keyboard password, she rolled the mouse and was rewarded with the monitor coming to life, the desktop studded with little icons, most of which were alien to her. But Wesley had insisted that she learn some basics about browsers, so she was able to locate one fairly quickly. From there she moved to a search engine and typed in “Dennis Lagerfeld Atlanta.” Big mistake, she realized as over a half million hits were returned. She narrowed her search by using tricks Wesley had taught her, but was at a loss as to how she could connect the man to Angela. Then on a hunch, she entered “Dennis Lagerfeld” and “Martinique Estates” and got a hit on a lifestyle article in the Atlanta Journal–Constitution:

  “…Martinique Estates, tucked away in a lush Buckhead basin, has become home to many local celebrities, including supermodel Danielle Finnie, former Falcon Dennis Lagerfeld…”

  Her heart sped up. Dennis Lagerfeld, one of the people who happened to buy the same type of expensive cigar she’d found in the jacket that Angela had returned, lived in the same neighborhood as Peter and Angela. And if the man was a former professional football player, he was probably a big man—big enough to fit the jacket. She clicked on the images filter and looked for photos of Dennis Lagerfeld. There were many of him in the black-and-red uniform, but she finally found one publicity shot.

  He was handsome, with dark hair and caramel-colored skin, large, exotic features and piercing pale-colored eyes. But there was a slight curl to his mouth that made her think that Lagerfeld was a jock who wasn’t above exploiting his celebrity status.

  She glanced at her watch and rushed to do a local search on Susan Harroway. Lots of hits were returned, but most of them were mentions of her husband, Davidson, with Susan at his side. She scanned images of the couple, then clicked to enlarge a photo of them walking into a benefit. Davidson Harroway was puffing on a long cigar, with Susan’s hand tucked under his arm.

  So, chances were, the Cohiba that Susan had purchased was for hubby. Carlotta moved the mouse to close the browser just as a man’s face appeared over the top of the cubicle.

  She started, then manufactured a smile for Akin Frasier, security officer extraordinaire. “Hello, Mr. Frasier.” She was never sure how to take the intense little man with the big attitude. He was either a little off in the head, or the most dedicated security officer she’d ever encountered in retail.

  “Hi, Ms. Wren. Just making my rounds. I was told that no one is supposed to be in here except the people whose names are on the cubes.”

  She hurriedly closed the browser window and stood, replacing the owner’s sticky note and scooting the chair in close. She gave a dismissive wave. “Smithy told me I could check my e-mail, but I’m all finished.”

  She sashayed by.

  “Ms. Wren?”

  She winced and turned back. “Yes, Mr. Frasier?”

  “I ran into that Detective Terry this morning and told him all about that awful Ashford woman attacking you last Friday. I thought he should know, even if the woman is dead. He seemed appreciative—even asked for the surveillance film.”

  She managed to maintain a watery smile. “Thank you.”

  He tipped an imaginary hat. “You’re welcome, ma’am. We had a report of a purse snatcher in the area. If you need an escort when you walk to your car, just let me know.”

  “I will, Mr. Frasier.”

  She returned to her department, her nerves frayed. Because of her, Peter was being investigated for the murder of his wife, and even though she believed he was innocent, somehow she managed to keep giving the police more and more motive for him to have done it. Now they had footage of his wife attacking his presumed girlfriend the day she was murdered.

  She felt numb the rest of the afternoon as she waited on customers, worried sick over Peter’s fate and mulling over the information she’d learned. She was going to be fired if she continued to obssess over the case.

  She clocked out a few minutes early, then found a quiet corner in the employee break room and made a call on her cell phone that she didn’t want to make. After the third ring, she was hoping to be able to leave a message, but after a click a voice came on the line. “Liz Fischer speaking.”

  Carlotta’s throat tightened. “Um, hi…Liz. This is Carlotta Wren.”

  “Hello, Carlotta,” Liz said, although her voice was laced with concern. “Is everything all right? Is Wesley okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. In fact, Wesley’s little run-in with the police has helped him to grow up. Probation seems to agree with him.” She wet her lips. “I didn’t thank you, Liz, for helping him. I know I didn’t act like it at the time, but I do appreciate it.”

  “It was no problem,” Liz said, her voice now suspicious. “But surely you didn’t call me on a Friday evening just to thank me for helping your br
other out of a jam.”

  “No,” Carlotta admitted. “Actually, I know I don’t have the right to ask, but I need another favor.”

  “Okay,” Liz said warily.

  “Do you know an attorney named Bryan D’Angelo?”

  “Sure. But he’s not an attorney now. He was just appointed to fill a vacant bench on the circuit court.”

  “He’s a judge?”

  “Yes. Why are you asking questions about D’Angelo?”

  “A friend of mine died,” Carlotta said slowly. “Actually, she was killed. And I found a cigar in her possession that I’m trying to trace back to an owner. Bryan D’Angelo’s name came up as a possibility and I thought you might be able to tell me what kind of person he is.”

  Liz made a thoughtful noise. “I’ve only worked with him a couple of times on cases, but my experience with him wasn’t pleasant. He’s a big, arrogant son of a bitch. On the other hand, I can’t see him killing someone.”

  “But he’s a big man?” Carlotta asked, thinking of the jacket size.

  “Not fat, but tall and kind of bulky. Listen, Carlotta, I’m sorry about your friend, but this sounds serious. You should turn over whatever information you have to the police and let them handle it.”

  “I have, but I’m afraid the investigating officer has already set his sights on another suspect, who is also a friend of mine.” She thought it best not to mention that she herself had given them plenty of reason to scrutinize her “friend.”

  “Who was the woman who was killed?”

  “Angela Ashford.”

  “Yeah…she belonged to my club. I thought it was an accidental drowning.”

  “Her death has been reclassified,” Carlotta murmured, wondering if she was giving away too much. On the other hand, it would be public knowledge all too soon.

  “Who is your friend that the police have fingered?”

  “Um, her husband, Peter Ashford.”

  “Oh,” Liz said mildly. “You’re friends with the vic’s husband?”

  “Just friends,” Carlotta said, closing her eyes. Liar, liar, Prada pants on fire.

  “Who’s the investigating officer?” Liz asked. “I can call and have a word with him, if you like. Tell him to keep an open mind.”

  Carlotta pursed her mouth, annoyed at the idea of having Liz call up her old boyfriend on Carlotta’s behalf.

  “Carlotta?”

  “Uh, actually, it’s Detective Jack Terry.”

  “Oh. I know Jack,” Liz said, her voice turning wistful. “I wouldn’t mind giving him a call.”

  Carlotta had a vision of the woman on the other end licking her pencil. “No, I don’t want you to go to any trouble—”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Liz said, practically purring. “I’ve been meaning to give Jack a call and see what he’s up to. Don’t worry, your name won’t even come up.”

  “Thanks,” Carlotta said with a sour frown. “But back to D’Angelo—can you tell me anything else about him? Is he married? Does he have a reputation as a womanizer?”

  “I don’t know, but I can put out some feelers and get back to you.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Goodbye.” Carlotta disconnected the call and sighed. She’d just guaranteed that Jack Terry was going to get laid soon—probably tonight. But hey, as long as it meant he’d be more cooperative and she didn’t have to sleep with him.

  Not that she’d sleep with him under any circumstances.

  Unbidden, an image of the two of them together entered her head, of his powerful body covering hers. She frowned and pushed herself to her feet. The lack of food was making her hallucinate.

  As she walked out to her car, dread accumulated in her stomach. She wasn’t looking forward to going home to an empty house. Maybe she should’ve taken Hannah up on her offer to sneak her into a party at the High Museum tonight. At the time the prospect had seemed dull, but now she knew she would only go home and spend the night thinking about Peter and sifting through mementos. How pathetic was that?

  “Carlotta.”

  At the sound of her name, she looked up to see Peter standing next to her parked car in the dim lighting of the parking garage. For a split second, she thought she had conjured him up from a memory. His tousled blond hair, long-sleeve polo jersey and loose jeans sent her back in time, to when the two of them were all that mattered and every minute of her day hinged on his touches and phone calls. It was easy to imagine that he had just stopped by to pick her up for the movies.

  She inhaled to clear her head and bring herself back to the present as she walked closer. She stopped about five feet away, her breathing compromised. “Peter…what are you doing here?”

  “I had to talk to you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t answer my calls.”

  “I…I didn’t think it was a good idea. And I wanted to give you space to grieve for Angela.”

  “I am grieving,” he said, his eyes clouding. “The police came back this morning, to question me. Now they’re saying that Angela was murdered, and they think I did it.”

  “If that were true,” she said carefully, “and they had evidence, they would have arrested you.”

  “The detective said that it was you who told them that Angela had been murdered.” His eyes were heavy with hurt and he shook his head. “How could you think that?”

  Her heart cracked a little to see him in pain and to know that she had caused it. At the same time, a chill inched up her back as she realized they were alone. Was Peter angry? Had he been drinking? “I—I don’t think you killed Angela, Peter. I was suspicious of how she might have died, but I never said you did it. In fact, I told the detective just the opposite.” She lifted her hands. “Don’t you see? The police are trying to pit us against each other. Detective Terry even insinuated that we were in on it together.”

  He frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s what I said, but that’s why I haven’t returned your calls. I didn’t want to give them more ammunition.”

  He exhaled and dropped his head. When he looked up, she was relieved to see a small smile and a glimmer of the old Peter. “I knew it couldn’t be true. I knew you of all people couldn’t think that I was a murderer. You still know me better than anyone, Carly, even after all these years.”

  Her chest warmed and she walked forward, extending her hand. He clasped it between his two hands, his eyes shining with—hope? His touch still made her tingle, she realized, still made her feel as if they shared something special, a bond that neither time nor tragedy could break.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asked.

  She bit her lip, so tempted to leave with him. But they were both so vulnerable right now, it would only lead to more complications. “We can sit in my car,” she suggested.

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  With her heart tripping faster, she unlocked the doors with her keyless remote and slid into the driver’s seat. Peter lowered himself into the passenger side, then adjusted the seat to accommodate his long legs. They closed their doors and Carlotta was immediately assailed with the intimacy of the small space. The late hour had cast the parking garage in shadows; it was darker still in the car, but she welcomed the obscurity. Having Peter so near was unsettling enough, inhaling his earthy cologne and feeling the warm energy of his body across the short distance. If she had to look at him she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to form words for a coherent conversation.

  For a few seconds, only their breathing sounded in the car, and she suspected he, too, was struggling for words.

  “Peter—”

  “Carlotta—”

  They both stopped and laughed, easing the tension a bit.

  “Me first,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry that you’ve been pulled into this mess, but I’m so glad to have you on my side.”

  Guilt stabbed at her. Was she on his side?

  “I feel so guilty,” he said, and suddenly picked up her hand.

  Alarm bells s
ounded in her head. “Why?”

  “Because I can’t help but think if I had been more of a man, that I would have married you instead of Angela. She was a great girl. Deserved someone who loved her more than I did.”

  Something inside her softened to hear the sincerity in his voice—he had cared for Angela. She weighed her words. “Do you think she…found someone?”

  “You mean, was she having an affair? No. Besides, I suggested divorce several times, but she wouldn’t hear of it. If she’d wanted out of the marriage to be with someone else, she knew I would’ve given her her freedom.”

  Carlotta recalled Angela’s shopping sprees, her drinking. How awful to want to cling to a loveless marriage.

  “I don’t know why she wanted to stay married to me,” Peter said. “I was never mean to her, but she knew that she’d never have my heart, not entirely.” His voice grew strained and he slid his palm over hers, sending little shivers over her arms. “I left a piece of it with you.”

  Her own heart expanded in response. “You took a piece of me, too,” she murmured, entwining her fingers with his. “At the time I thought I was going to die.”

  “Me, too,” he said, his voice thick. “I was so worried about you, but too ashamed to call and check on you. I kept telling myself that your parents would return soon, that you would be okay.” He made a choking noise. “Oh, God, Carly, I’m so sorry. I screwed up everything, including Angela’s life. And now, this.”

  Tears gathered behind her eyes for the random events in life that threw people together and pulled them apart. Angela had been caught in the middle. The woman must have hated her, Carlotta realized sadly.

  “What do you think happened to her, Peter? Who would have wanted to kill her?”

  “I can’t think of anyone,” he said solemnly, his voice tinged with anger. “A stranger? I don’t know. It’s just such a waste.” He squeezed her fingers. “The only good thing to come from all this horror is that it’s brought you back into my life.”

  “Peter,” she said, swallowing her tears, “the detective said you had a picture of me in your wallet.”