The phone rang and Carlotta dived for it. “Hello?”
“Yeah…is Wesley there?”
Carlotta pursed her mouth, recognizing the guttural voice of a person who’d lost more than a few brain cells. “He’s not here, Chance. Didn’t you get any of the messages I left for you, asking if you’d seen him?”
“No.”
She touched her forehead. “No, you didn’t get the messages, or no, you haven’t seen him?”
“I ain’t seen him since the day before yesterday.”
She exhaled. “Do you know where he could be?”
“Uh…no.”
“With his girlfriend maybe?”
“Girlfriend?”
“Come on, Chance, he’s been coming home smelling like women’s perfume. Unless you’ve suddenly started wearing Chanel No. 5, he’s been spending time with someone else.”
“I would not know anything about that,” Chance said woodenly.
Carlotta wanted to scream. “Chance, this is serious. He could be in trouble.”
“Don’t worry, my boy can take care of himself.”
She gritted her teeth at the implication that Wesley was part of Chance’s “posse.” “If you see him, will you tell him to call me as soon as possible?”
“Sure thing,” Chance said, then disconnected the call.
Carlotta sighed. “His friend Chance Hollander hasn’t seen him.”
“What’s this about a girlfriend?” Coop asked.
“I thought you might know.”
“I know he’s got a thing for his probation officer.”
“But she has a boyfriend—remember, we met him at the Elton John concert.”
Coop gave her an amused smile. “Some women have more than one guy on the line.”
A flush climbed her face. Coop and Wesley had walked in on her and Jack Terry kissing, and there had been no mistletoe—or even December—in sight. She didn’t know if Wesley had told Coop that Jack had spent at least one night in her bedroom, but Coop probably suspected as much. Coop had also met Peter and was aware of their history. All of which would have to be sorted out at another time…. At the moment she couldn’t think past Wesley being gone.
Luckily, Hannah arrived with three cups of coffee, and a box of sweet rolls left over from one of her catering gigs the previous day. Carlotta took the food gratefully, her stomach rumbling from hunger.
“Wesley has to come back,” Hannah said dryly. “Or you’ll starve.”
Carlotta stuck out her tongue, but she appreciated her friend’s attempt at humor. And it was true. Wesley did all the cooking, and had done so for years. He was pretty good, too, darn his infuriating, scrawny little ass. Her eyes watered.
“Hey,” Coop said quietly, putting his large hand over hers. “Wesley is a smart kid. If he’s in trouble, he’ll figure out something.”
Carlotta nodded and inhaled a cleansing breath. If their parents’ leaving had taught her anything, it was that tears didn’t solve a thing. Action did.
“What now?” she asked Coop.
“I know he has an appointment to see his probation officer at eleven. I’d say if he doesn’t show, then you should call the police. Considering that thug’s comment to you about Wesley having done something stupid, this might have to do with the loan sharks he owes.”
Her heart squeezed, but she had to consider worst-case scenarios. “You’re right. He wouldn’t miss his appointment with Eldora. Not voluntarily.”
“Meanwhile,” Coop said, pushing himself to his feet, “try to think of somewhere he might’ve gone, or someone who might know where he is. I’ll keep making inquiries.”
“Okay,” she said, following him to the door. “And Coop…” She squared her shoulders, but that only caused pain to shoot down her arm. “I hate to ask this, but have you checked the…morgue?”
His brown eyes filled with sympathy, and he nodded. “I did. He’s not there.”
Tears of relief filled her eyes. “Thank you for caring.”
He gave her a little smile. “I can’t seem to help myself.” Then he turned and walked to the bottom of the steps. “You have my cell phone number if you need me.”
“Yes,” she called after him, waving with her good hand until he drove away.
Carlotta looked to her left and saw their neighbor Mrs. Winningham working in her yard. They weren’t the best of friends, but the woman had called 911 a few days ago when two of The Carver’s thugs had tried to drag Carlotta into their van. So she went down the steps and crossed to the fence that separated the yards of their respective town houses. “Hi, Mrs. Winningham.”
“Hello,” the woman chirped. “And you’re welcome.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said you’re welcome for the get well card I sent to you through your brother. He said you managed to only break your arm.” The woman sniffed. “Although I must say you made a spectacle of yourself, dangling half-naked from the balcony of the Fox Theater.”
“Yes, I’m good at that,” Carlotta said cheerfully. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen Wesley yet to get your thoughtful card. May I ask when you gave it to him?”
The woman looked perturbed. “I gave it to him yesterday morning. He said he was going to meet you at the hospital and bring you home in a taxi. Then he rode off on his bike.”
“And did he seem okay to you?”
“‘Okay’ is a relative term where your family is concerned, but yes, reasonably so.”
“Thank you,” Carlotta said as pleasantly as she could manage. “I’ll let you know when I get your card, Mrs. Winningham.” Her stomach rolled as she went back to her house.
“What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.
Carlotta told her about her conversation with the neighbor. “So Wesley didn’t just get wrapped up in some marathon poker tournament and forget. He was planning to meet me at the hospital like he said. Something bad has happened, I know it now.”
“Shh, you don’t know that for sure,” Hannah said. “Wait to see if he shows up at his P.O.’s office. Do you have the phone number?”
“There’s a business card on the bulletin board in his room.”
“Want me to get it?”
“Would you?”
“Want me to feed Einstein while I’m in there?”
“Please,” she said. The last time the massive python had gone unfed for too long, it had found its way out of Wesley’s room and into Carlotta’s bed.
When she returned, Hannah tried to entertain Carlotta by coaxing her to the back deck to stick her feet in the kiddie pool Wesley had bought for her—to make up, he’d said, for the lavish life she’d given up with Peter in order to raise him. The cool water felt good between her toes, but it only made her miss Wesley more.
“I’m sorry I have to leave,” Hannah said later, standing with her hands on her hips, back in full goth garb and makeup, the barbell in her tongue clicking against her teeth. “But I can’t get anyone to cover me on this corporate luncheon.”
“Go,” Carlotta urged, shin-deep in the pool and clutching the phone. “You’ve done enough hand-holding for a lifetime.”
“Call me to let me know what you find out. I should be finished in a couple of hours or so.”
Carlotta waved her off, and attempted to relax, trying to find some solace in the beautiful sunny day and the fact that the neighborhood that she’d hated living in was looking quite pretty today. When the trees were leafed out, they hid the shabbiness of most of the homes, their’s included. The gay couple that lived on the other side of them, whom they’d only seen and not met, had made upgrades to their house. Now that she thought about it, she decided her neighbors probably didn’t extend themselves because the Wren place was, as Mrs. Winningham had so often reminded her, “a blight on our good street.”
Ironically, Carlotta had vowed to update their place and make some badly needed repairs just before she’d broken her arm. For extra money, she had even contemplated joining forces with Hannah to go on some bo
dy-moving jobs for Coop—much to Hannah’s great delight. But that, too, would have to wait until after Carlotta’s arm healed.
“Come home safe, Wesley,” she whispered. “I have plans for us. You can’t leave me, too.”
In that moment, her hatred for her parents was a palpable black mass in the air around her. She shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. What if something happened to Wesley? Life without her brother was just too impossible to comprehend. She realized with a start how he must have felt when he thought she’d taken a dive off that bridge, before they had learned it was someone pretending to be her.
Their parents’ abandonment had forced them into a closeness that probably wasn’t healthy. She wondered if they would forever be emotionally dependent on each other, or if either would someday make room in their life for someone special. Wesley was particularly resistant to change—he still refused to allow her to take down the aluminum Christmas tree in the living room that their mother had put up mere days before she’d skipped town with their father. So it sat there in the corner, a sagging, tarnished emblem of their family, complete with little gifts underneath that had never been opened.
Except by Jack Terry, when he’d stayed at their house doing “surveillance” in case her parents showed up for the fake funeral. He’d thought he might find clues in them as to their parents’ whereabouts. He’d rewrapped the gifts, but Carlotta had been furious when she discovered what he’d done. Had been hurt. Confused. Torn.
With Jack, everything was muddy.
Meanwhile, the hands on the clock seemed to crawl. The phone didn’t ring. Wesley didn’t materialize. When she called the number on his probation officer’s business card at five minutes after eleven, she was nauseous.
“Eldora Jones speaking.”
“Eldora, this is Carlotta Wren, Wesley’s sister. We met a couple of nights ago at the Elton John concert.”
“How could I forget? Are you out of the hospital?”
“Yes, thanks, and feeling much better. I’m calling about Wesley. Did he make his appointment today?”
“As a matter of fact, he didn’t.”
Carlotta’s heart sank to her ankles. “Did he call to say he wouldn’t be there?”
“No, he didn’t. May I ask what this is about?”
“I hope it’s nothing, but my brother seems to be missing.”
“Missing?”
“He hasn’t been home, no one’s heard from him since yesterday, and he isn’t answering his cell phone.”
The woman paused, then said thoughtfully, “I did receive a call from a Richard McCormick saying that Wesley had impressed him in his interview yesterday morning. He’s set to start his community service with the city computer-security department next Monday.”
“He was supposed to meet me at the hospital after the interview, but he didn’t show.”
“Have you called the police?” Eldora asked hesitantly. Carlotta thought she detected more than professional interest in her tone.
“That’s next on my list.”
“Will you have Wesley phone me as soon as you…see him? He’ll have to make up the missed meeting.”
Carlotta promised she would, then hung up and put her head between her knees to relieve the light-headedness that suddenly overcame her. Please, God. She reached for the phone again and dialed Detective Jack Terry’s number from memory.
Jack had arrested Wesley for hacking into the courthouse computer. He’d reopened their father’s case. He’d investigated a couple of little murders that Carlotta had gotten involved in accidentally. And in between, he’d given her one or three mind-boggling orgasms. Theirs was a lust-hate relationship. After the fiasco at the Fox Theatre, during which he’d broken her fall, she was hoping she wouldn’t have to call him anytime soon.
Here we go again.
“Jack Terry,” said the rough-hewn voice over the line.
It was so unexpectedly comforting, Carlotta’s throat choked with emotion.
“Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”
“Jack,” she cried.
“Carlotta? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Wesley,” she said, openly sobbing now.
“Are you at home?”
“Yes,” she blubbered.
“I’m on my way.”
3
S ix minutes later, Detective Jack Terry walked through her door. Carlotta had pulled herself together and had promised herself she’d behave professionally with Jack, just like anyone else would report a potential crime to any police officer.
Instead, she went into his arms and pressed her wet face against his ugly tie. He just held her and rubbed circles on her back.
“You have to give me something to go on here,” he finally said into her hair.
She sniffled and lifted her head. “Wesley’s missing.”
He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her for an awkward one-hand nose blow. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me what’s going on.”
They settled on the couch and she relayed what she knew, from how Wesley hadn’t shown up at the hospital the previous day to the fact that he’d missed the meeting with his probation officer.
Jack’s expression was serious, but not concerned. “So he’s been missing for less than twenty-four hours.”
“Yes, but something’s wrong, I know it.”
“Has he ever disappeared before?”
Carlotta hesitated. “This is different.”
Jack’s face relaxed. “Probably not. He could be with a buddy, hanging out, or maybe he found a card game.”
“His friend Chance Hollander called here. He doesn’t know where Wesley is.”
“That’s the guy who gave us the tip in the Angela Ashford murder, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I don’t trust him. I think he’s into something illegal.”
“His friend could’ve been covering for him. Maybe Wesley was right in front of him, stoned, or sleeping off a hangover. Doesn’t Wesley have more than one buddy?”
“Not really,” she said, then frowned. “Not that I know of. But there’s a woman.”
“A woman?”
“I don’t know who she is, but sometimes he comes home smelling of expensive perfume.”
“I think I caught a whiff of that myself the night of the drive-by shooting,” he said, nodding. “That could be where he is.” He winked and thumbed away a tear from her cheek. “See, nothing to worry about.”
“But remember what those guys you arrested here said about Wesley being in trouble with The Carver.”
“I remember. I also remember telling you that if Wesley has gotten himself in deep with these guys, he’s going to have to figure a way to get out of it.”
“But what if they hurt him?”
His mouth twitched downward. “He’s young. He’ll heal. And maybe a beating is what he needs to convince him that these aren’t people he wants to do business with.”
She gasped. “But what if they kill him?”
“That’s not likely. An intelligent young guy like Wesley is more valuable to them alive.”
That made her smile slightly. “You think he’s intelligent?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, he’s not very smart.”
“He’s only nineteen.”
“He’s not a kid, Carlotta. When I was nineteen, I’d traveled halfway around the world.”
“In the military?”
He nodded. “Don’t baby him. If you do, you’ll never have a life of your own.”
“So you’re telling me there’s nothing I can do?”
“Legally, not until he’s been missing for twenty-four hours. Off the record, though, I’ll do a little nosing around.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Jack.” She reached up to stroke the bruise around his eye. “I see your shiner is fading.”
“Yeah.” He caught her hand and folded it into his.
His eyes were the color of amber, bright and direct. Sexy.
“How’s yo
ur arm?” he murmured in a husky tone that implied he was asking how incapacitated she was.
“My arm…” She felt the pull of his body on hers, like a force field. But she remembered too well the negative fallout the last time she’d given in to that attraction. Besides, if the note from her fugitive father fell out of her bra, it would probably kill the mood. “My arm is itching, actually.” She made a face and wiggled her finger under the edge of the cast.
He smiled, and the surface tension dissipated. He pushed himself to his feet. “I should go. I’ll call you if I find anything. Meanwhile, if Wesley shows up, let me know.”
“Okay. I’m sorry for the drama,” she added sheepishly.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Wesley’s lucky to have someone who cares about him. I’m not sure he deserves it.”
“Do any of you male types deserve it?” she asked lightly.
“Touché.” He left, grinning.
Carlotta stood at the edge of the window and watched him drive away, wishing she could put her finger on her feelings for the man. Then she shook her head at the futility of such an exercise. The next time she and Jack crossed paths, they could be at each other’s throats.
But he had made her feel better…and empowered to do something more than wait to get a call from Wesley—or the morgue.
She called Hannah, who answered after the third ring. “Any news?”
“No. But I was wondering if you’d like to take a little field trip when you got off work. I need your muscle.”
“You got it. Pick you up in an hour.”
She was waiting outside, holding a fire extinguisher, when Hannah pulled up in her refrigerated catering van.
“Are we going to a fire?” Hannah asked, looking like the Goth Chef in her white smock.
Carlotta tossed the extinguisher on the floorboard, then climbed in awkwardly. “No, but it was the closest thing I had to a weapon. Chance Hollander is into all kinds of shady stuff. I just want to be prepared in case we have to fight our way out of there.”
“Gee, if it’s a weapon you need, I have an arsenal.”
Carlotta squinted at her. “I don’t think I want to know that.”
“Knives, I mean. I’ve got a bagful in the back—from paring to cleavers, straight edge, chisel ground, hollow edge, serrated.” She bounced in her seat with excitement. “Who are we going to hurt?”
3 Men and a Body Page 2
