3 Men and a Body

by Stephanie Bond

  “As you know firsthand,” McCormick said, “hackers are becoming more and more sophisticated. We can’t expect to secure the databases one hundred percent.”

  “But you should at least encrypt the data,” Wesley replied.

  “I can see we’re on the same page. It’s something we’ve needed to do for a while, but we never seem to have the time or the funding. Since you were able to breach our security, you’re an ideal candidate to help us out in this area.” The man cleared his throat. “But since we haven’t been able to determine exactly what data you changed, I was hoping that first you’d, um, share that with me.”

  Wesley swallowed a smile. The man was asking him to confess to things they hadn’t been able to detect? Right. No one needed to know that he’d removed all references to three speeding tickets for Chance—at five hundred bucks a pop. And he’d left himself a nice easy trail back into the file, kind of like dropping breadcrumbs, so he could sell his services again sometime. That asshole cop Jack Terry had arrested him and confiscated his equipment, but the man didn’t know that Wesley had stored his best computer stuff at Chance’s condo and was just laying low until he was off probation.

  “I didn’t change anything,” he said solemnly. “I just wanted to prove that I could get in. I was hanging out with a few other hackers and we got points for breaking into different systems. It wasn’t about messing with the data.”

  McCormick looked relieved. “That’s very good news.” He passed a manual across the desk. “Okay, this should get you up to speed on encryption techniques and two different encoders that we have access to. Take a couple of days to read it, then we’ll sit down and come up with some general guidelines on how to proceed.”

  “Okay,” Wesley said, a little perplexed that the man would be putting such an important job in his hands. It made him feel oddly…responsible.

  “See you in the morning, Wes.”

  Wesley stood there for a few seconds, then attributed the giddy feeling to the OxyContin. “See you in the morning.”

  He left the building and noticed what a nice day it was—everything seemed better on the little white pills. He was more in tune to his surroundings; his senses were more keen. He rode his bike to the courthouse and forked over the last of his cash as a payment on his fine—the other part of his sentence. Then he pedaled to Chance’s condo.

  His friend was high as a kite, in a great mood. “Come on in, man.”

  The room was smoggy with pot smoke. A half-naked woman lay curled up asleep on the living room rug.

  “You want something to eat? I just had a pizza delivered.”

  Wesley scooped up a slice. “I was hoping to practice a few hands of poker.”

  “Yeah, sure, just step over her.”

  Wesley peered at the woman as he maneuvered around her. “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s just stoned.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My economics teacher. I’m not going to need for you to take that exam for me, after all.”

  “Dude, at least cover her up.”

  “She doesn’t know the difference. Hey, you still banging your attorney?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Sweet. How’s your arm?”

  “Better.”

  “Need some more OC?”

  Wesley hesitated. “I’d better not. My probation officer sometimes takes a urine sample for drug testing.”

  Chance laughed. “So what? Man, I can fix you up with a blocker. You just pour it in your sample and it’s clean, like that.” He tried to snap his fingers but missed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, man, I’m sure. I sell to lots of truck drivers, and those guys have to get their whiz tested all the time.”

  “I don’t have any cash.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Chance pulled out a key ring and unlocked a cabinet drawer, then pulled out a small bag of white pills. “Are you chewing?”

  “Yeah. You were right—it’s good.”

  Chance handed him the bag. “Don’t chew with alcohol, got it?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where did you disappear to all weekend?”

  “I had a body run to Boca Raton.”

  “Why Boca?”

  “It was to pick up that celebrity chick, Kiki Deerling.”

  Chance’s jaw dropped. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Did you get a look at her body?”

  “Briefly.”

  “Were her tits real?”

  “I don’t know, man. All I saw was her face, and it was bad.”

  “Bummer. She looked like a nice piece of ass. Speaking of nice, why don’t you put in a good word for me with that chain-gang woman your sister hangs out with?”

  “Hannah?”

  “Yeah, I really dig her.”

  “She’ll dig you, too—a grave. Steer clear, man.”

  “Get me a date with her and you can have another bag of OC.”

  Wesley hesitated, but the inducement of having yet another bag of white pills at his disposal was disturbingly appealing. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  21

  “H annah, this is Carlotta. Did I ever tell you that when Detective Jack Terry was here, he told me that he gets a manicure regularly? I know your hands are always dry from washing them so often with your catering job, so I got the name of the cuticle cream he uses. Call me on my cell if you want to chat.”

  Carlotta put the cordless phone back into its cradle and chuckled, wondering how long it would take for the bits of made-up personal info to trickle down to Jack. Maybe it was petty, but it was the only diversion she had at the moment.

  “Breaking news in the death of celebrity Kiki Deerling,” the television announcer said.

  Carlotta moved closer and turned up the volume.

  “The medical examiner in the Boca Raton district has issued his findings. Dr. Shore’s statement read that, quote, ‘After consulting with the attending physician at the hospital where Ms. Deerling was treated, and after performing a visual examination of the body, my conclusion is that the cause of death is due to complications from an asthmatic incident,’ unquote. There was no mention of illegal substances. From the M.E.’s report, we are left to believe that Kiki’s Deerling’s death was simply an unforeseeable tragedy.”

  “I guess that’s that,” Carlotta murmured, chiding herself for wanting there to be more drama associated with the starlet’s demise. The ex-boyfriend was officially off the hook, although she suspected that rumors would always connect him to the scandal, that some people would accuse the family of a cover-up to hide Kiki’s drug use and say that Matt Pearson had benefited from the conspiracy.

  Footage rolled of the squeaky-clean decoy van leaving the morgue entrance, the pink bow on the antenna fluttering in the wind. The caption read “Deerling’s body leaves Boca Raton morgue.”

  She smiled. At least most of the people had been fooled.

  “Meanwhile, we’ve learned that a memorial service for Kiki will take place in Atlanta Wednesday afternoon at the Motherwell Funeral Home in Buckhead. The service is private—only for the family and close friends of Kiki—but the public is welcome to gather outside in a parking lot. There’s a rumor that Kiki Deerling’s ex-boyfriend Matt Pearson will sing a song at the service, but his publicist, who was also Kiki’s publicist, has not yet confirmed it. Afterward, the body will be interred at the Deerling family cemetery plot in Atlanta.”

  Carlotta wondered what Kiki’s sister thought of Matt Pearson performing at her sister’s funeral. Maybe Kiki’s publicist had convinced the sister it was in everyone’s best interests to play nice.

  And what a blow to the publicist, to lose a cash cow like Kiki Deerling. Hollywood movers and shakers were probably already convening all over town to establish the next “it” girl who would assume Kiki’s role as partyer extraordinaire and arm candy to the rich and dangerous. Chances were good that the spoils would go to Kiki’s on-again, off-a
gain BFF, Naomi Kane. Naomi didn’t have sparkle, but maybe it just looked that way because she was always in Kiki’s shadow. Carlotta remembered that the girl had gotten good reviews for her performance in an independent film, but her acting career had never taken off. She and Kiki were supposedly always squabbling about something trivial, but Carlotta suspected most of it was simply fodder for the publicity mill. And for that matter, their friendship itself might have been one of those choreographed partnerships dreamed up on an agent’s dry-eraser board.

  Carlotta clicked off the TV. “You have enough drama of your own,” she reminded herself aloud.

  She showered and dressed carefully, dreading her errand and allowing her mind to wander. She hoped Wesley did well at his community service job—deep down she wished it would make him start thinking about a career. He was so damn smart. It was a shame he had so little ambition.

  She sighed. Of course, in his mind, he had all kinds of ambition—to win the World Series of Poker, for example.

  She surveyed her outfit of swingy white skirt and royal-blue Kay Unger long-sleeved tunic to help mask her arm cast. The pair of Tory Burch silver ballerina flats that she coveted would be a perfect complement, but she had resisted the urge to splurge.

  Not that she’d had much of a choice, with her Neiman’s card maxed out. And after Wesley had dared her to cut up all of her credit cards a couple of weeks ago, she was left with one paltry Visa and one measly Mastercard, neither of which could withstand the force of a shopping trip to Target, much less the mall.

  The Fendi patent leather rainbow flats would have to suffice.

  She left her hair loose, then chose a beige Valentino straw-and-leather bag to add polish to her summery outfit. It was last year’s bag, but Peter probably wouldn’t notice—although the women he worked with would.

  She walked to the Lindbergh MARTA station and rode the train one stop north to the financial district in Buckhead. From there it was a short walk to Mashburn & Tully Investments, formerly Mashburn, Tully & Wren. Their offices were housed in the Pinnacle Building, an iconic structure with an awning of curved glass sloping over the topmost floors, two of which housed Mashburn & Tully.

  As she rode up the elevator, Carlotta questioned once again whether she should’ve called Peter first. But she’d been afraid that when she said she needed to talk to him, he would ask her out for a romantic dinner, or worse, invite her to come to his house. And she wasn’t ready for that yet, not with the engagement ring he’d had customized for her hanging over her head.

  She wished for the thousandth time that she could separate her relationship with Peter from her father’s impossible situation. But the two threads kept crossing and doubling back on each other.

  She stepped off the elevator and noted the subtle changes since she’d last been here. When she was a teenager and her father had serviced accounts of celebrity athletes and other prominent people, he would sometimes allow Carlotta to bring her autograph book and politely ask for signatures. Her father had been an important man in his own right, successful and gifted when it came to making investments, well-liked and respected. Everyone the media had interviewed—coworkers and clients—had seemed incredulous when he was accused of fraud.

  Aside from her father’s name having been removed from the glass doors, the corporate color scheme had changed from browns to blues. A receptionist just inside pressed an intercom button and asked if he could help her.

  “Carlotta Wren to see Peter Ashford.”

  “Is Mr. Ashford expecting you?”

  “No.”

  “Just a moment, please.” The man picked up the phone, and after a few seconds a clicking noise sounded. “Come in, Ms. Wren.”

  She pushed open the heavy glass door and walked inside. The place reeked of money, giving the impression that a machine in the back room churned out hundred-dollar bills.

  “Mr. Ashford is coming out to get you himself.” The receptionist’s tone was part curious, part impressed. “Nice bag,” he added.

  “Thank you,” she said self-consciously, until she realized he was being sincere. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  He smiled, revealing teeth so perfect that they made her aware of the gap between her own front teeth. “I’m Quentin Gallagher. And I couldn’t help noticing that your last name is Wren. Are you related to Randolph Wren?”

  “He was—is—my father,” she said, steeling herself for a rebuke.

  Quentin leaned forward and snapped his fingers. “I knew you looked familiar—you’re the woman who fell from the balcony of the Fox, aren’t you?”

  She tapped her cast. “The one and only. But for the record, I was thrown.”

  “Fascinating.”

  At the sound of footsteps, she turned. Peter’s smile was so wide, she instantly felt guilty for not wanting to come. He looked striking and crisp in a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt and yellow tie—the best that money could buy. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said, picking up her hand. “What a wonderful surprise.”

  “I was in the area and was hoping you were free for lunch.”

  He grinned. “I can move some things around. Give me five minutes?”

  She nodded and watched him stride away.

  Quentin made a noise in his throat. “I haven’t seen that man so happy in…never.”

  “Peter’s been through a lot. I knew his wife.”

  “Yes, such a shame.” Then his eyes twinkled. “But you seem to put a spring in his step.”

  “He and I are old friends,” she murmured. She moved aside as employees began to leave in clumps for their lunch break, then turned her head at a familiar voice.

  Walt Tully, her father’s former partner and her godfather, and Brody Jones, chief legal counsel for the firm, were walking toward the door. Walt saw her and did a double take.

  “Hello, Walt.”

  He seemed flustered. “Carlotta, dear. What brings you here?”

  “Peter and I are having lunch.”

  A little frown appeared between his eyes. “Brody, this is Randolph’s daughter, Carlotta.”

  The other man seemed dubious. “Well, this is a little awkward. I attended your memorial service, young lady.”

  “A big misunderstanding, thank goodness.” She smiled. “Still, it was good of you to come.”

  “We were all very happy to hear that you were okay,” Walt said, although surely even he could hear the note of insincerity in his voice?

  Not that she thought Walt wanted her dead. He merely wanted her out of his line of vision. Every time he saw her, he was probably thinking the same thing she was thinking—that after her father had walked out, Walt hadn’t done right by his godchildren, hadn’t cared enough to send them twenty bucks or even call to check on them.

  “How’s Tracey?” she asked.

  Tracey Tully Lowenstein. Walt’s daughter, who had gone to private school with her, had had made sure Carlotta was ostracized after Randolph had been fired from Mashburn, Tully & Wren.

  “She’s fine. She married a doctor, you know.”

  “Oh, yes. Tracey reminds me every time she sees me.”

  “Yes…well, we’d better be going. It was nice to see you again.”

  Brody Jones nodded, and she returned their friendly gestures. After they walked through the door, though, Quentin shuddered. “Brrr, it just got chilly in here.”

  “Old wounds,” she said, then brightened when Peter reappeared. “Excuse me. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Best part of my day so far,” Quentin said with a salute. “Come back sometime.”

  “I’m yours for a full hour,” Peter said, then lowered his mouth to her ear. “And for as long as you want me.”

  She laughed, catching his good mood. “Where shall we eat?”

  “There’s a nice place just around the corner—great sushi.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  They chatted about the weather and his trip to Manhattan until they were seated at a table
for two inside.

  “You got some sun,” Peter said, opening his menu. “It suits you.”

  “Thanks. Although when I get this cast removed, I’m going to have one white arm and one brown one.” She opened her menu with a clammy hand. She was antsy to unburden herself.

  “See something you like?”

  She closed her menu and wiped her palms on her napkin. “Whatever you like, I’m sure I will, too. But maybe we could go ahead and order?”

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He flagged the waitress and asked for drinks and a couple of rolls of sushi, then turned back to Carlotta with a small smile. “I had a feeling this wasn’t just a social call.”

  “No, it is,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand. “I just wanted to tell you that…I saw my father.”

  His eyes widened. “You saw Randolph? Where? When?”

  “While I was in Florida. I went with Coop and Wesley on a job, but what I couldn’t tell you on the phone was that my father’s fingerprints were found at the scene of a hotel robbery in Daytona. I went down so I could see for myself if he was there, maybe working at the hotel.”

  “What did you find?”

  “No sign of him or my mother.”

  “Do the police think he committed the robbery?”

  “They don’t know. Jack is still investigating.”

  His jaw hardened. “Jack Terry?”

  “Yes. The D.A. assigned him to my father’s case. I don’t like it, either, but at least he’s keeping me in the loop.”

  “So when did you see your father?”

  “On the way back, we stopped at a rest area. I was getting coffee out of a vending machine, and my father just walked up and started talking to me.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t recognize him. He was wearing sunglasses and had a beard. He said he’d been following us and waiting for an opportunity to talk to me alone.”