Body Movers

by Stephanie Bond

  “No, he’s not with me,” Coop said. “Is it anything I can help you with?”

  The snake lifted its head and moved toward her a few inches. She inhaled sharply. “Um…how do you feel about snakes?”

  “Snakes?”

  “Wesley’s python got loose and it’s in my bedroom.”

  “I see,” he said, sounding amused. “And where are you?”

  “A-also in my bedroom…standing on the dresser.”

  He laughed. “I’d be glad to come over and return it to its container.”

  She went weak with relief. “Would you? No, wait—the front door is locked. How would you get in?”

  “I’ll get in,” he said. “I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

  The snake inched closer to the dresser. “Hurry,” she squeaked, then disconnected the call.

  She looked down at her pale blue stretch lace chemise and matching thong and realized in mortification that Coop was going to get an eyeful of more skin than even her doctor normally did. What had possessed her to forgo her regular pj’s last night in favor of this sexy little number? All that talk yesterday about lingerie?

  But there was nothing to be done—her faithful house-coat was draped over a chair across the room. Besides, the man was a doctor and he dealt with corpses, for heaven’s sake. To him, the human body was no big deal.

  The snake slithered closer, its head up. She pressed her back to the corner and looked for a weapon among the clutter on her dresser to use if she had to. A ThighMaster, a white bra, an empty water bottle, a curling iron, a pair of Gucci sunglasses and two purses—one in snakeskin, which might give the creature pause.

  One by one, she threw the items in its path, but the result was never more than a momentary hesitation. It was definitely seeking her out. She used the bra like a slingshot, which merely made the snake flinch. Too late she realized she should have put on the bra instead of flinging it—at least that much of her would have been fully covered when Coop got there.

  Where was he?

  When the snake stopped in front of the dresser and reared its head, she started to whimper—this wasn’t a good way to go. She threw back her head and started screaming, “Help me! Anybody! Mrs. Winningham, can you hear me? Help!”

  “Whoa,” a voice said from the doorway.

  She looked up and her knees nearly buckled in relief to see Coop. “Thank God you’re here.” She pointed at the snake. “Kill it.”

  He stared up at her for a moment, then turned his attention back to the snake and wiped his hand over his mouth. “I don’t think that’s necessary. He’s not going to eat you.”

  “Then why did he crawl into bed with me?”

  Coop grinned. “He’s male, isn’t he?”

  Her face warmed and she was reminded of her state of near undress. And Coop definitely wasn’t looking at her with the detached disinterest of a doctor.

  “Are you going to leave me up here forever?” she asked.

  He crossed his arms, unabashedly skimming her from head to toe. “Can’t I at least enjoy the view for a minute or two?”

  Under his appreciative gaze, her nipples budded and she felt an unexpected tug of desire in her stomach. She inhaled shakily to clear her head, then narrowed her eyes at him. “No.”

  He grinned, unfazed as he pulled a pair of heavy leather work gloves from his jeans pockets and yanked them on. Then he knelt and gently picked up the snake by its neck and thick body, his arm muscles contracting under the weight. “Where does it go?”

  “Wesley’s room across the hall,” she said, pointing. “There’s an aquarium.”

  He left the room, carrying the snake, and she sagged in relief. After climbing down from the dresser, she felt a little silly in the aftermath. She pulled on her robe and tied the belt, then walked out into the hall. Coop was closing the door to Wesley’s room. “He’s back in the aquarium, and I, um, fed him.”

  “Wesley said he’s been fasting, whatever that means.”

  “Reptiles go through phases,” Coop said. “He must have suddenly gotten hungry to have gotten out.”

  “I don’t know how it happened,” Carlotta said, shoving her hand into her messy hair. “Wesley always keeps his door closed—that’s our deal.”

  Coop pushed on the door and it opened without even turning the knob. “The strike plate is off center.” He frowned. “Looks like someone has taken a screwdriver to this lock. Have you had a break-in recently?”

  “No,” she said, then sighed. “The police must have done it when they confiscated his computer equipment.” Something else she could thank Detective Terry for.

  “Ah. Well, I put the pin back in the top of the enclosure, and he’s full now, so I doubt you’ll have this problem again anytime soon.”

  She smiled in gratitude. “Thanks for coming, Coop. I’m sorry for interrupting your morning.”

  His warm eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “Anytime you’re in trouble, don’t hesitate to call.” He grinned. “Especially if you’re wearing skimpy lingerie.”

  A flush climbed her face as she relived the moment of electricity between them. Understandable, she decided, in the heat of the moment. “I assumed Wesley was with you this morning.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m picking him up later today.”

  She bit into her lip. “Not another body pickup at Martinique Estates, I hope?”

  “No.” He shifted from foot to foot, and she knew he was thinking of her connection to Peter. “The memorial service for Lisa Bolton is this afternoon at my uncle’s funeral home.”

  Wondering if anyone of interest might show, she murmured, “I’ll try to make it.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then.”

  Carlotta shoved her hands in the pockets of her robe. “Um, Coop, you saw both bodies…do you have any theories about whether the same person might have committed both crimes?”

  He adjusted his glasses. “I’m just a body hauler. I’m not supposed to be offering theories on the crimes.”

  Which was what he’d probably been reminded when he’d pushed for the autopsy on Angela Ashford on her behalf, she realized. “But did you see any connections?” She pressed her lips together, then murmured, “I need to know, Coop.”

  He hesitated, looking as if something was causing him physical pain. Then he exhaled noisily. “Okay, after viewing both bodies, it would be my very unofficial opinion that, yes, the bruises around the women’s necks were made by the same person.”

  Carlotta’s hand went to her own neck. A few days ago, that would have been good news because a serial killer would have exonerated Peter. But now…now she was starting to wonder just how far Peter would go to wipe his slate clean and start over.

  With her.

  35

  W esley went over the answers he’d written on Chance’s exam four times because he didn’t want to be the first one to hand it in and draw attention to himself. After a dozen people had turned theirs in and left, he walked up to the professor’s desk and dropped the exam on the stack without making eye contact. He strolled out of the classroom and down the hall, soaking up the atmosphere of hurrying bodies and snatches of lectures leaking out of various rooms.

  His pulse ratcheted higher and he experienced a pang of regret for not applying to college. At the time it seemed like a big time-waster, but now he was having second thoughts. Maybe he could apply for the fall, although he wasn’t sure how that would work with his probation. And he’d have to apply for school loans, which he couldn’t even consider until he paid off Father Thom and The Carver.

  One of the best things about being on campus was that it was close to a blood center. He went in to donate plasma and came out an hour later with his belly full of juice and cookies and forty-five bucks in his pocket, enough to get his cellphone service reinstated at a customer service center—also handily located on campus.

  He took the Marta train to within a couple of blocks of Chance’s condo, then rode the elevator up and rang the doorbe
ll to report in. When Chance didn’t answer, he rang it again. He’d started to turn away when the door opened and a busty blonde dressed—barely—in a miniskirt, halter top and five-inch heels came teetering out. She smirked and walked by him with the stink of sex, pot and booze still clinging to her. Wesley looked back to the door to find Chance standing there in a black robe, smoking a joint, his expression glazed. “Come on in, man.” He turned and walked back into the condo.

  Wesley followed and closed the door behind him.

  “How’d the exam go?”

  “You’ll get a B.”

  “Cool. Hey, finals are just around the corner if you want to work off the rest of what you owe me.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Wesley said. “Man, isn’t it kind of early to get high?”

  Chance laughed. “Haven’t been to bed yet. Cecilia kept me up all night, if you know what I mean.”

  “What are you doing, man? That girl looked like hell—you’re going to catch something nasty one of these days.”

  “A pharmaceutical sales rep friend keeps me supplied with antibiotics. Besides, normally I go a little higher class, but my regular girl drowned, of all goddamn things.”

  Wesley raised his eyebrows. “Drowned?”

  “Yeah. She told me her name was Kay, but I saw her picture in the paper and turns out she was a fucking debutante—can you believe it?”

  Wesley’s heart sped up. “What was her real name?”

  Chance took a drag on the joint, held his breath until his face turned red and exhaled. “I don’t remember.”

  “Dude, it’s important.”

  Gesturing vaguely, Chance said, “Angel or Angie or something.”

  “Angela? Angela Ashford?”

  Chance pointed. “That’s it, man. God, she was hot. Gorgeous ass.”

  Wesley’s heart was beating so fast, his hands started to shake. “Let me get this straight. You paid the woman whose picture was in the paper, Angela Ashford, to have sex with you?”

  “Dude, which one of us is stoned here? Bitch charged five hundred a pop to do me in her pool house.” He took another drag on the joint, held it, then exhaled slowly. “But she was worth it.”

  “Gotta go,” Wesley said, then jogged toward the door. Outside the condo, he punched 411 into his cell phone for directory assistance and asked for the Atlanta Police Department.

  “Connecting,” the operator said.

  “Atlanta PD.”

  “Detective Jack Terry, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Wesley Wren. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  36

  C arlotta hurried toward the entrance of Motherwell Funeral Home, checking her watch. The memorial service for Lisa Bolton was already under way, but she was planning to sneak in the back, if possible, and stay as long as she could on the remainder of her lunch hour. She fanned herself with her hand—as always, Atlanta had made the leap from spring to summer in the span of a couple of days. It was easily ninety degrees.

  She opened the door and walked into the entryway. An older suited man greeted her and from the family resemblance, Carlotta identified him as Coop’s uncle.

  “Are you here for the Bolton family?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The service has started, but there are seats in the back if you’d like to slip in.”

  She nodded and allowed the man to open one of the heavy double doors just wide enough for her to slide through. An organist was playing a beautiful hymn, and the mood was melancholy. The pews were nearly full, but she stole into a padded folding chair in the back. From the other side of the room where he stood against the wall, Coop caught her eye and nodded briefly. Her face warmed when she recalled this morning’s encounter. The man was attracted to her—and she was surprisingly intrigued by him. But she had way too much on her plate now to deal with a flirtation.

  Not when the man she had loved for most of her life was suspected of murdering his wife and the woman lying in the mauve-colored casket in the front of the room.

  White lilies covered the closed casket, and mounds of flowers flanked either side. Unexpected tears scalded Carlotta’s eyes at the mundane routine of marking the end of a person’s life: a pretty box, flowers, a set number of songs and a few nice words. She hadn’t known Lisa Bolton, but she’d envied people like her and Angela. People living a seemingly luxurious existence, with the world at their feet. Had some deranged person targeted them for that very reason?

  As discreetly as possible, she scanned the room for familiar faces, not entirely surprised to see some of the same people who had attended Angela’s funeral service: Walt and Tracey Tully, along with Tracey’s socialite buds. She didn’t see Peter, and wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but her heart raced to see Dennis Lagerfeld a few rows ahead of her, with his arm draped loosely around the shoulders of a gorgeous blonde. Since he was wearing his wedding ring again, she assumed the woman was his wife. He glanced back and when he caught Carlotta’s eye, panic darted across his face. Then he jerked his attention back to the front of the room where the minister was giving a eulogy. Carlotta smirked, thinking she’d probably seen her last commission from the big man on campus.

  But was Dennis Lagerfeld there out of compassion for a slain neighbor, or out of a compulsion to revisit his crime?

  Carlotta listened to Lisa Bolton’s life story while continuing to scan the audience. Her gaze stopped on a familiar profile—Dr. Suarez.

  How many doctors felt close enough to their Botox patients to take time out of a busy schedule to attend their memorial service?

  A few rows away, another familiar face stopped her—D.A. Kelvin Lucas. Carlotta’s eyes narrowed. Was he there for professional reasons, or personal?

  The warmth and weight of a person settling in next to her distracted her. She turned her head to see Detective Terry wiping his forehead with a handkerchief—it made her think of the one that he’d loaned to her on the day of Wesley’s arraignment and to wonder digressively how many men these days carried a handkerchief. He ignored her while he, too, methodically scanned the attendees, his rocky profile grim. After a couple of minutes, he shifted his weight closer.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Can’t it wait?” she whispered.

  “No.” He jerked his thumb toward the door and stood up. Her stomach churned at his urgency, but she followed him out into the entryway where it was quiet. Coop’s uncle was gone, presumably outside to welcome other latecomers.

  “What’s so important that you had to drag me out of a funeral?” she asked.

  “Some new information about the case has come to light—actually, from your brother.”

  Alarm seized her heart. “What does Wesley have to do with this?”

  The detective looked over his shoulder as if to ensure they were alone. “He called me a few minutes ago, said that a friend of his identified Angela Ashford from a picture in the paper as a hooker he knew as Kay.”

  Horror and disbelief washed over her. “Hooker?”

  He nodded curtly. “Which would explain why Peter Ashford would destroy his wife’s things.”

  Incredulous, she touched her hand to her head. “You mean you think that Peter found out and that’s why he might have…hurt Angela?”

  The detective shrugged. “Or he might have known and gone along with it.”

  She shook her head. “Never.”

  His mouth became a thin line. “It’s possible that Lisa Bolton was also prostituting herself.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Carlotta said. “Why would two wealthy women with everything going for them become prostitutes?”

  “Like I said before, who knows why people do the things they do? I came here looking for Peter Ashford. His DNA has been subpoenaed to check against the fetus that Lisa Bolton was carrying. Do you know where he is?”

  She was still trying to absorb the awful allegations that the detective had made, thinking Wesley’s whoremonger friend was no doub
t that loathsome Chance Hollander. “No. Why would I know where Peter is?”

  “Because he seems to have disappeared. He hasn’t been to work, and he’s not at his home or in any hotel in the city.”

  Bile rose to the back of her throat. Why would Peter disappear if he had nothing to hide? “Well, I have no idea where he is.”

  The detective crossed his arms. “Just like you haven’t heard from your parents lately?”

  She gritted her teeth. “I don’t know where Peter is, but both Dr. Suarez and Dennis Lagerfeld are sitting in there,” she said, pointing toward the room where the memorial service was being held. “Don’t you find that odd?”

  “Yes, but thanks to you, we have their DNA, and they’ve already been ruled out as the father of the child.” He smiled. “You keep leading us to Peter Ashford. If he calls you, promise me you’ll let me know.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Peter didn’t do this.”

  The detective’s mouth tightened and he made a derisive noise in his throat. “I’d like to know how this man has such a hold over you that you can’t see what’s right in front of you, how he can invoke so much loyalty from a woman like you, who’s ten times his worth.” Then he shook his head and straightened. “Then again, maybe I don’t want to know.”

  His cell phone rang and he yanked it out of its holder, then turned his back to answer it.

  Shell-shocked by his words, Carlotta stood there feeling the way she’d felt when she’d realized that her parents had abandoned her and Wesley. Everything she’d known for a certainty had been obliterated, replaced by a gaping hole of chaos.

  If Peter had killed those women, she’d never again trust her feelings for another human being.

  The detective closed his phone, then turned, his expression one of bewilderment. “That was Ashford’s lawyer. Peter just confessed to killing Angela.”

  Carlotta shouted the word no but no sound came out of her mouth. Her last thought was that Detective Terry’s black shoes were very, very shiny as they rose to meet her.