His expression hardened. “And you’re just now remembering this?”
She held her breath and nodded.
“Thanks for the information,” he said calmly. “And from now on, Ms. Wren, rather than putting yourself in potentially dangerous situations, why don’t you let me do my job?”
She bristled. “So you’ve questioned Dennis Lagerfeld and Dr. Suarez?”
“I can’t pin down Lagerfeld. I’m at a disadvantage because the man doesn’t want to sleep with me,” he said dryly. “But I interviewed Suarez over the phone yesterday. He couldn’t seem to recall who Angela Ashford was. And honestly, the guy just doesn’t fit the profile.”
“What profile?”
“Most women are murdered by someone they know, usually a spouse or someone they’re romantically involved with. Dr. Suarez swore that wasn’t the case with Angela Ashford. He even offered to take a polygraph test. His strange behavior was probably a result of you asking questions after I did.” He frowned harder. “Which is why you need to stick to selling overpriced clothes and leave the police work to me.”
Anger spiked in her chest, and she briefly considered throwing him out then and there. Ungrateful brute. But Angela and Lisa deserved justice, no matter what it cost her. “There’s one more thing. It has to do with Peter.”
Now he seemed interested.
In a halting voice, she told him about the piece of lingerie linking back to Peter’s credit card.
He leaned forward. “Are you sure it was the same lingerie?”
She pulled out a piece of paper. “I’m almost positive, but here’s the information on the garment we carry to compare to what Lisa Bolton was wearing.”
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly.
Carlotta moistened her lips. “I understand that the Bolton woman was pregnant?”
He looked surprised, then nodded. “DNA was taken from the fetus to help determine who the father is.” He angled his head at her. “I don’t suppose you have any DNA from your boyfriend you could share?”
She shook her head, thinking that Monday night she had come close to letting him deposit a sample.
“I questioned Ashford about the Bolton murder,” he continued. “He said he barely knew the woman, but he seemed mighty reluctant to talk about his whereabouts Monday evening.”
Carlotta stood abruptly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d take that accident report now.”
He hesitated, then pushed to his feet. “Ms. Wren, I can’t figure you out. I go back and forth between thinking that you believe Peter Ashford is innocent, to thinking that you could have committed this murder yourself and are sending me on a wild-goose chase with these so-called clues that you’ve conveniently uncovered.” His eyes narrowed. “It even occurred to me that you might be so bitter over Peter Ashford ending your engagement all those years ago that you could be setting him up. Get rid of the wife and him, all in one blow.”
She scoffed. “That’s utterly ridiculous. And why would I kill Lisa Bolton?”
“Maybe because she was Ashford’s girlfriend.” He shrugged. “Or maybe the murders aren’t even connected. Besides, who knows why people do what they do?”
She set her jaw. “My only goal is to help you get to the truth, Detective. Now—my accident report?”
He studied her for a moment, then said, “I’ll need your license and registration.”
She leaned over to pull her wallet from her purse and a card floated to their feet. When she realized it was the postcard from her parents that she’d been carrying around, she practically pounced on it. Unfortunately, his hand was there first.
She straightened slowly, her heart galloping in her chest as he held up the card, studying it.
“Well, well. A postcard from your long-lost folks. Interesting. Recent postmark, too.”
Carlotta shrank under his scathing glare. “Wh-what happens now?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m still all choked up about your speech on how your only goal is to help me get to the truth.”
Carlotta closed her eyes, wondering if handcuffs were in this season.
33
W esley took a deep breath and banged on the door to Chance’s condo, pulling at his sweat-soaked shirt. Man, what a day.
Chance flung open the door, his round face beet-red. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been going nuts wondering if you got your skinny ass killed or something. Hobbs said you didn’t show.”
“Sorry, dude, something came up, and my cell phone died.” Cut off, actually, because he hadn’t paid his bill.
“Where the hell is the stash?”
Wesley lifted the bag and thrust it into Chance’s hands. “Untouched.”
“What the fuck happened?”
Wesley dragged his hand across his forehead. “My probation officer happened. She followed me to the drop.”
“Your probation officer is a chick? And she followed you? Ain’t that illegal or something?”
Wesley stared at Chance, incredulous. “Dude, what we were doing was illegal.”
“No money changed hands.”
Wesley looked up and down the hallway to make sure no one was in earshot, then leaned in. “Possession is a crime, dude. I could’ve gone to prison!”
“Still, her following you don’t seem right. What did she do?”
“She drove up in her car and told me she’d revoke my probation unless I gave her the bag.”
Chance’s eyes rounded. “So you just gave it to her?”
“Yeah.” Wesley squirmed. “And then she…gave it back. Said she wouldn’t look inside or report it if I brought it back to you.”
“She knows where you got it?”
“She only knows the building. I didn’t mention your name.”
Chance frowned. “It’s a good goddamn thing.”
Wesley lifted his hands. “I’m sorry. I know you were counting on me, dude.” He waited for a beat, holding his breath. Chance and his moods could be unpredictable.
Chance sighed, then slapped Wesley on the shoulder. “It’s okay, not your fault.”
Wesley let the air out of his lungs. “I feel bad owing you so much money.”
His buddy chewed on his lip, then snapped his fingers. “Take my statistics exam in the morning, and I’ll knock off five hundred.”
Wesley weighed his options. “Okay. Tell me when and where.”
Chance pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and scribbled the info.
“Nobody will question that I’m you?”
“Are you kidding? I’m never in that class—it’s at fucking eight o’clock in the morning. I need a B on the exam. I know you could ace it, but if I get an A, someone will start asking questions, got it?”
“Got it.”
“You need a textbook or something?”
“No, I’m cool,” Wesley said.
Chance shook his head. “Man, if you’re so damn smart, why are you hanging around with me?”
Wesley frowned and jerked his thumb toward the stairwell. “Gotta go, man. She’s waiting for me.”
“Is she hot?”
Wesley hesitated, thinking of E.’s long, willowy shape and her take-no-prisoners attitude. “Yeah.”
Chance chortled. “Enjoy.” E. Jones was waiting patiently in her car when Wesley got back to his motorcycle. “Any problems?” she asked.
He shook his head, afraid to say anything, still sure that this was some kind of setup, that a cop was waiting for him around the corner.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll follow you home.”
Wesley climbed on his bike with acid churning in his stomach. Carlotta would be home by now and mad as hell that he was out on his motorcycle. If he arrived home escorted by his probation officer, she’d want an explanation, and E. Jones was likely to give it to her. He didn’t want Carlotta to think he was messed up in drugs, and besides, she’d be happy to name Chance as the source of the transaction. He drove carefully on t
he way home, conscious of the woman in the red car behind him. At the town house, he eased into the driveway and waited for her to pull up beside him.
She zoomed down the passenger-side window. “Is this it?”
He nodded.
“Okay, I’ll see you Wednesday.”
Her nonchalance caught him by surprise. The window was halfway up when he said, “Hey, E., why didn’t you look in the bag?”
She leaned down until she could see him. “Because if I’d seen the contents, I would’ve had to report it.”
“So why did you ask me to give it to you?”
She gave him a little smile. “To see if you would trust me. See you later.”
He nodded and watched her drive away, dazed and a little confused. She could’ve had his ass thrown in jail and been rid of him, not to mention scored points with the D.A.
He would never understand women in a thousand years.
Wesley pushed his motorcycle into the garage, frowning when he saw the damage to the Monte Carlo’s bumper and side. Had Carlotta been in an accident? He jogged to the house in the waning daylight, breathing easier when he saw lights and heard movement in the kitchen. Carlotta stood at the stove wearing her fuzzy yellow bathrobe, stirring a pot. A box of macaroni and cheese stood open on the counter. She had to have heard him, but she didn’t turn around.
“Hey,” he ventured.
“Hey,” she said, her voice low and tired.
“I saw your car. What happened?”
“Some jerk sideswiped me on the way home this evening.”
His heart jumped in his chest. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“What kind of car was it? Did you see the other person?”
She sighed. “I already gave my statement to the police. I don’t know who it was.” Then she turned. “Why? Do you know something that I don’t know?”
He shook his head, but they were both probably thinking the same thing—it could have been one of his creditors leaving a message.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It was probably a run-of-the-mill asshole Atlanta driver.” She put a lid on the pot, then crossed her arms. “I was looking forward to those lamb chops.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll make them tomorrow.”
“Where have you been and why are you driving? You know you’re not supposed to.”
“I know. But I had to meet with my probation officer today and run some other errands. I swear it won’t happen again.”
She leveled her gaze on him. “I’m going to have that engraved on your tombstone.”
His throat convulsed, glad that she didn’t know just how close he’d come to disaster today.
“Want some macaroni and cheese?” she asked.
He relaxed, relieved that she had let the matter go. “Sure. I’ll make us a salad.” He walked to the refrigerator and began removing ingredients. “And you know, you can dress up the boxed mac and cheese by adding real cheddar cheese, sour cream, brown mustard and a dash of Worcestershire sauce.”
She sat at the table, happy to let him take over the meal, and he was happy to do it. “Is that why yours always tastes better?”
“Yup.”
But as the small talk continued, Wesley had a feeling from the pinched look around Carlotta’s dark eyes that she was getting ready to drop a bombshell.
He was right. After her first bite of salad, she announced, “I found the postcard from Mom and Dad that you were hiding.”
The tennis-ball can in the garage—he’d tipped his hand to that particular hiding place when she’d visited him in jail. “I didn’t think you’d want to know,” he said carefully.
“Detective Terry has it now.”
Anger sparked in his stomach. “You gave it to him? Why?”
“I didn’t mean to. It fell out of my purse while he was here.”
“What was he doing at the house?”
She sighed. “I had some information regarding the deaths of Angela Ashford and Lisa Bolton. Unfortunately, I may have also implicated myself.”
He gaped. “How? Because you have history with that Ashford jerk?”
“Yes. And as you’ll recall, that ‘Ashford jerk’saved me from one of your thugs the other night, plus used his own money to get you off the hook.”
Wesley looked down at his plate. “I know, but Jesus, sis, he’s dragging you into a murder investigation.”
“I’ll be okay,” she insisted. “They’re only leaning on me to put pressure on Peter.”
“Are you still in love with this guy, after all he did to you?”
She took her time answering. “Wesley, our breakup wasn’t entirely Peter’s fault. He was young, and he wasn’t ready to deal with everything that Mom and Dad heaped onto me when they left.”
“Meaning me,” he said.
She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “That was part of it. But it was mostly the scandal that Dad created. Peter’s family didn’t want him to be associated with the headlines…and I don’t blame them. Did you know that Peter is working for the firm where Dad used to be a partner?”
“No.”
“That would never have happened if he’d married me. Breaking our engagement was the smart thing for him to do.”
“If you ask me, it was the easy thing for him to do. He left you high and dry.”
“No,” she said through clenched teeth, “Mom and Dad left me high and dry. And you too.”
He sighed—they could talk in circles all evening. “You still didn’t answer my question—are you in love with him?”
“I don’t know,” she said, toying with her food. “The whole situation is so confusing.”
“Do you think he killed his wife or that other woman?”
“No. The man I know couldn’t have done it.”
“But people change.”
She nodded and went back to eating.
“Do you ever think about what your life would have been like if you’d married Peter?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes. I guess I got a glimpse the other night when we were at their house. A mansion, a pool.” She gestured to the dated, cramped kitchen and laughed. “Compared to this, that life seems pretty glamorous.”
“And dangerous,” he added quietly.
Carlotta squirmed in her seat. “So—the postcard. Is it the only contact you’ve had with Mom and Dad?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry I kept it from you, but I was afraid you’d destroy it.”
“Fair enough. But from now on, I want to know, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you on call this evening?”
He lifted his eyebrows at the note of interest in her voice. “Yeah. And I have to be somewhere at eight o’clock in the morning, so I’ll be leaving early.”
She gave him a stern look. “As long as you don’t drive your motorcycle.”
“I won’t.”
He resumed eating, casting worried glances at Carlotta when she wasn’t looking. In love with a murderer and possibly implicated in his crimes.
Between the two of them, man, they had trouble to spare.
34
C arlotta knew it was a dream, but she willed it to go on. He stroked her skin exposed by the pale blue see-through chemise, caressing her foot, ankle, knee. But his touch was unexpectedly cool, and she shrank from it, confused. Was it a sign, she wondered in her half-conscious state, that she had misjudged him, expecting him to be one thing, when he was something else altogether?
The coldness slid against her thigh and her eyes popped open in panic as she realized that something was very, very wrong. Someone was in bed with her.
No, not someone…something.
She froze, but the thing kept moving…sliding against her. Then the large black-and-white-spotted head of Wesley’s snake emerged from the covers.
Pure terror seized her, paralyzing her for a few blood-curdling seconds. Then she let loose a paint-peeling scream and levitated out of the bed, barely touch
ing the floor as she flung herself across the room to climb on top of her dresser. There she scrambled to her feet and stood with her back to the corner, gasping for breath as all six feet of the massive snake slid from her bed to the floor.
And stayed there.
“Omigod, omigod, omigod,” she murmured, running her hands up and down her arms. “Ew, ew, ew.” How long had that thing been in bed with her? A full body shiver overtook her and she stared at the python, its exotically spotted body ridiculously out of place against her plain beige carpet. “Wesley!” she screamed. “Wesley, your damn snake is loose!”
No response.
“Wesley! Come and get your snake before I make a pair of shoes out of it!”
Nothing.
She glanced at the clock—seven thirty. He’d said he had to be somewhere at eight and was leaving early. Oh, God, she was here alone with a snake that could swallow her whole. And she’d taken Wesley to the emergency room more than once when he’d first gotten the thing to get stitches for bite marks to his hands and face.
He’s just getting used to me, Wesley had said. Besides, his bites aren’t poisonous.
But the bites bled, and they maimed. And were very likely meant to distract while the snake snapped itself around its prey and contracted like a giant spring.
“Shoo,” she yelled at it. “Get out of here!” She threw a tissue box at it, but the mammoth reptile didn’t budge, apparently liking where it had landed, between her and her bedroom door. Only his head moved back and forth, his tongue slithering in and out. Her skin crawled and she had decided that a crying jag was the best way to go, when she spotted her cell phone lying on the dresser near her feet.
“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, and bent over to get it. She tried Wesley’s cell-phone number, but he didn’t answer and it didn’t roll over to voice mail. She cursed and tried twice more before giving up. Thinking he was probably on a job with Coop, she called Coop’s number and prayed while it rang.
“This is Coop,” he answered on the third ring.
“Coop!” she yelped. “This is Carlotta.”
“Hi, there. Are you okay? You don’t sound so good.”
“Is Wesley with you?” she asked. “I’m having a bit of an emergency at home.”
Body Movers Page 29
