3 Men and a Body

by Stephanie Bond

  “But you’re sure it was him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say where he’s been, what he’s been doing?”

  She told him all the details she could remember, including what Randolph had said about gathering evidence to clear his name. “He said he was going to lie low for a while, but that I would hear from him again.”

  “But how did he know where you would be?”

  “I don’t know. He just said that he’s keeping tabs on us.”

  She left out the part about Randolph saying that Peter was in the best position at the firm to help him, and would do it because of her. “He says that our home phone is still tapped from when the police were doing surveillance, so if you call me at home, please don’t mention this.”

  “No one else knows you talked to him?”

  She shook her head. “Not even Wesley. Dad wants it that way, and I agree.”

  Peter smiled. “I’m happy you confided in me.”

  “I’m so sorry that Dad involved you by calling you at the office that one time. I know it put you in an awkward position. I don’t want you to lose your job.” Because my father needs you at the firm to help him clear his name.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Peter said. “I’m worried about you, about what this uncertainty with your father is doing to you…and to Wesley.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “Wesley showed me his arm. He told me what you did for him.”

  Peter looked panicked. “He did?”

  “Yes.” Humiliation washed over her, followed by gratitude. “Thank you for picking him up from that awful place and cleaning his wounds before bringing him home. He must have looked horrible.”

  Peter relaxed and nodded. “He did. And you’re welcome.”

  “He keeps getting into trouble with these loan shark characters. I’m worried half to death when he’s not at home.” She sighed. “I keep hoping he’ll grow up. But not having parents around has affected him more deeply than it’s affected me.”

  “I’m just glad Wesley felt he could turn to me for help.”

  Carlotta smiled. “Me, too.”

  The waitress brought their sushi, and while Carlotta ate, she studied Peter. He was the perfect specimen—handsome, wealthy, with a pedigree. He had certainly grown into the man she had envisioned he’d be. Even though he had married Angela, and their marriage had deteriorated before her untimely death, he had still followed the road that he and Carlotta had mapped out for themselves when they were engaged. It was her path that had been detoured.

  They said goodbye in front of the café. Peter kissed her on the mouth—a surprisingly nice kiss that made her stare after him as he walked away. They had once been electric together and she couldn’t have imagined her life without him. When he’d left, she’d trained her heart to stop thinking about him. But maybe with a little reconditioning…

  No. She had one man to get out of her system—her father—before she could let another man—any man—in.

  She took the long way back to the train station, enjoying the beautiful summer day. Unwittingly, her thoughts turned to Kiki Deerling and how she would never again enjoy the sun on her face.

  The return trip took her past the Buckhead branch of the public library. She hadn’t been to the library since Wesley was little, but her library card was one of the few cards in her wallet she hadn’t cut up.

  When Carlotta walked inside, a graying black woman, plump and pleasing, smiled at her from behind one of several occupied desks. The lanyard she wore read Lorraine. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m looking for books on strangulation and postmortem bruising.”

  Lorraine didn’t miss a beat. “Right this way.”

  22

  T he parking lot outside Motherwell Funeral Home was a three-ring circus, packed with television crews, fans with signs and mourners with candles—which necessitated a fire truck to be sitting nearby. The mound of fresh flower bouquets had grown into a small mountain, wilting under the scorching rays of the sun. Bursts of lyrics ranging from “Amazing Grace” to Kiki’s one and only hit, “Running Too Fast,” swelled and faded as different factions of the crowd maneuvered for visibility and control. There were countless look-alikes, including a group of drag queens, many with pugs on leashes. The pugs were not particularly friendly, which necessitated an ASPCA van to be sitting nearby. Motivated vendors (without permits) sold Kiki T-shirts, dolls and hairpieces spread out on blankets that could be quickly folded up and carried to another corner if the police came around.

  But the police had their hands full trying to enforce the temporary perimeter that had been installed. The waist-high railed sections provided little resistance to the boisterous mob.

  The “private” memorial service in the chapel of the funeral home had grown to include a few hundred of Kiki’s closest friends, and was being televised live on at least two cable entertainment channels. The crowded walkway leading into the funeral home looked like a Who’s Who in Hollywood under the Age of 25. The paparazzi were having a field day.

  Naomi Kane, Kiki’s closest gal-pal, arrived with her own entourage, looking tearful and fluttery. But since she stopped to give a comment in front of every camera, Carlotta wondered how much of the girl’s grief came from Kiki’s demise and how much came from the seemingly imminent demise of her own career without Kiki to front her.

  Kiki’s ex-boyfriend, Matt Pearson, arrived with members of his former boy band in tow and the crowd went berserk. Although Matt was dressed in black and seemed somber as he approached the entrance of the funeral home, most of the guests appeared positively perky and wore outfits that were more suitable for a rock concert than a funeral.

  Carlotta had opted for black slacks, a short-sleeved off-white jacket, and a turquoise Prada cross-body bag just large enough to hold her wallet, cell phone, a pair of binoculars and a protein bar, in case it turned into an all day affair. The humidity was high and the sun relentless. She fanned herself with a “Kiki Is With Jesus, And You Can Be Too” flyer that someone had given her. Behind big white sunglasses, she surveyed the pandemonium, awestruck at the spectacle and feeling more than a little sordid for participating.

  She’d always been in love with the celebrity lifestyle, adored watching glamorous people on TV wearing glamorous clothes and doing glamorous things. It was an escape from her own life, especially after her parents had left. But she had to admit that being this close to the action took some of the shine off the fantasy. The made-up actors and actresses parading on the walkway looked garish under the glare of the sun, their actions choreographed. Most of them were using Kiki Deerling’s death as an opportunity to boost their own personal profile, knowing that the clips and sound-bite interviews would be broadcast all over the world. The paparazzi, the TV shows, the Web sites, the celebrity guests—all of them would profit from the death of the young woman. Admittedly, Kiki herself shared some of the blame because she had so aggressively courted the press when she was alive. In fact, some might say that she’d be the first person who would want her funeral to be sensationalized. But it still didn’t seem appropriate.

  “I thought that was you.”

  Carlotta turned around to see Coop standing outside the mock fence, handsome in a slate-blue suit, white shirt and navy tie.

  Her heart lifted. She’d missed him in the three days since their road trip, but had tried not to think about him too much. “How did you spot me in this swarm?”

  “You’re hard to miss,” he said with a wink, then nodded toward a group of girls wearing pink T-shirts that spelled out “We lve you, Kiki.” (The O must have been detained in traffic.) “And you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of the crowd.”

  She felt sheepish. “It’s silly, I guess, but after everything that happened, I feel close to her somehow.”

  “I can understand that. Do you want to come inside? I can smuggle you in the back.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “There’s no r
oom in the chapel, but you can sit in our upstairs lounge. There’s a speaker if you’d like to listen to the service.”

  Carlotta smiled. “That sounds nice.”

  She elbowed her way through the crowd to the nearest opening in the fence. Coop showed his identification to a cop at the edge of the parking lot, and he let them pass.

  “Motherwell’s is going to be famous after this,” she said.

  “No offense, but I think my uncle would be happier if we didn’t have a funeral like this again anytime soon. The security alone has been a nightmare.”

  “Have there been more incidents?”

  “No, thank goodness.”

  “Were you the one who, um, took care of the body?” she asked nonchalantly.

  He pursed his mouth. “What are you getting at?”

  She shrugged. “I just wondered if you noticed anything…strange.”

  “For instance?”

  She shrugged again. “A fracture of the hyoid bone or thyroid cartilage, perhaps?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “A little nighttime reading on forensic pathology?”

  “I was curious, so I looked up a few things. I’m trying to expand my mind.”

  “Okay. Well, you’re right that a fracture of the hyoid is an indication that a person was strangled.”

  “So was Kiki’s fractured?”

  “What makes you think I checked?”

  “Because I saw your face when you looked at her at the morgue. You don’t agree with the M.E.’s findings.”

  “I don’t agree with his methods,” he corrected. “His findings might be completely accurate.”

  “Or not.”

  Coop sighed, then looked at her sideways. “I checked. There was no fracture.”

  Her shoulders fell.

  “You seem disappointed,” he said, sounding amused.

  “No, it’s not that. I just thought if her death wasn’t an accident, she deserves justice.”

  “I agree,” Coop said.

  “But it sounds as if her death was an accident, just as the M.E. ruled.”

  “Could be.” Coop pulled out a set of keys to unlock a back entrance. “On the other hand, a fractured hyoid is less common in children and young adults during strangulation because the bone hasn’t yet calcified.”

  She walked inside and waited until he’d locked the door behind them. “You’re saying that she still could’ve been strangled.”

  “There are a couple of dozen possible causes of death, including a severe asthma attack, just as the M.E. ruled.”

  “I saw you look at her eyes. Was there petechial conjunctive hemorrhaging?”

  He squinted. “Have you been watching CSI?”

  “You’re being evasive.”

  He pressed his lips together, then said, “Broken blood vessels in the eyes is an indication of asphyxia, which doesn’t necessarily mean the person was strangled.”

  “I know. She could have been smothered, or choked to death. But did you notice the circle imprint below her neck? As if she was wearing a necklace and it was pressed into her skin when someone wrapped their hands around her neck.”

  “Or the EMTs did it when they tried to resuscitate her. Or maybe the impression wasn’t a necklace at all, but the end of an instrument they were using to revive her.” Coop smiled. “Look, I think it’s admirable that you want to help this young woman, Carlotta, but unless we have proof that she was murdered, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Can’t you get Dr. Abrams to do an autopsy?”

  He shook his head. “She didn’t die in his jurisdiction and only the D.A. or the family can request an autopsy. Since her family objected in the first place, that’s not likely to happen. And since there’s no reason to suspect her death was anything other than an asthma attack, the D.A.’s office won’t get involved.”

  “What about the fact that someone—three different men, in fact—were trying to claim her body, not to mention the attempts to actually steal it?”

  Coop held up his hands. “Freaks, perverts, cults, paparazzi—take your pick.”

  She followed him into the lobby, where guests were still arriving in all their contrived finery. A door to a rear lounge opened and the family emerged. Carlotta recognized Kiki’s parents from TV and newspapers. The Deerlings had been well known in Atlanta even before their daughter had become a celebrity. They looked drawn and devastated. Carlotta’s heart twisted for them. Kiki’s older sister, Kayla, was by their side, looking just as distraught. Her boyfriend, Jamie Reardon, a local land developer, seemed to be supporting her weight.

  The lobby quieted as the family made their way into the chapel, and Coop leaned down. “I need to go. The stairs to the second-floor lounge are through that door. Help yourself to a beverage from the refrigerator. With transporting the body to the cemetery, I probably won’t see you afterward.”

  “I’ll let myself out. See you soon.”

  He smiled. “I hope.”

  Carlotta slipped through a door at the other end of the lobby and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Off the landing were three doors, marked Office, Storage, Lounge. She pushed open the door to the lounge to find a room with upholstered sofas and easy chairs, a small television, plus table and chairs and a kitchenette. A speaker was mounted on the wall and underneath was a sign that read Chapel, along with an on-off switch. Carlotta snapped it on. A hymn was being played on the piano. An older man’s voice sounded, announcing that the service would begin. Carlotta remembered hearing that the family’s minister would be conducting the service. He said a prayer, then introduced Matt Pearson to sing a song.

  A hush fell over the chapel. Carlotta found herself holding her breath, too.

  “I wrote this song for Kiki after I first met her,” he said, ending with a choking sob. He’d obviously lost his composure, and Carlotta hoped the young man was sincere. Sniffling noises sounded, then he gulped a deep breath and piano music began to play. She recognized the melody from the radio, a ballad that had been popular a few years ago. His voice was sweet and mellow as he sang of young love that would last for all time.

  A pang struck her chest at the poignancy of it. Young love could be so powerful, as she well remembered with Peter. But it could be so optimistic and misguided, too, to think that love was enough to get two people through anything.

  “Love isn’t enough,” she murmured aloud, “because life intervenes. Logistics get sticky, and people change.”

  Her arm was aching again. She hadn’t thought to bring her Percocet, but on the kitchenette counter were scattered packets of over-the-counter painkillers and smelling salts—necessities for a funeral home, she realized. She picked up a packet of ibuprofen and removed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. After swallowing the tablets, she wandered to the window that overlooked the parking lot.

  If possible, the crowd had swollen in size, a heaving mass of moving color, with countless satellite dishes and pole microphones jutting into the sky. Carlotta set down the water, withdrew the binoculars from her purse, and scanned the mob that represented the incredibly diverse appeal of Kiki Deerling. All shapes and sizes, all races, male and female, young and old.

  Redheaded.

  She stopped and focused on the figure standing separate from the people around him, arms crossed awkwardly. He was openly crying, his face twisted in anguish. Without the priest’s collar, he looked different, but she was sure it was the same man who’d approached her at the morgue, the same man in the crowd in the magazine pictures.

  Carlotta left the room at a trot. She descended the stairs as quietly as possible, conscious of how noise might travel in a silent building. At the double-door entrance stood two security guards.

  “I need to get some air,” she said, and they stepped aside, obviously less concerned about who left the building than who tried to get in.

  When the door opened, cameras clicked furiously until their owners realized she wasn’t a known entity.

  “Who are you?” photograp
hers shouted.

  “Did you know Kiki?”

  “Are you a member of the family?”

  “Who are you wearing? Dior? Versace?”

  She paused at that one, because she’d always dreamed of being asked who she was wearing. But out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the redheaded man—at the same time he spotted her. His jaw dropped, then he spun on his heel and sprinted in the opposite direction. Carlotta ran after him, but was slowed by the crowd, her stiff arm and the fact that her Marc Jacob platform sandals weren’t meant for aerobic exercise.

  At the edge of the property she stopped to catch her breath and look around, but the man was nowhere in sight.

  Minus ten points.

  23

  “Y ou made the payment on your court fine, Mr. McCormick is happy with your work and you’ve been staying out of trouble.” E. looked up from Wesley’s file and smiled. “Very good.”

  Wesley nodded. “Are we finished? I have somewhere I need to be.”

  She eyed him thoughtfully, then closed the folder. “Okay, yes, we’re finished.”

  He exhaled and stood.

  “Just fill this before you leave,” she said, handing him a cup with a paper lid. “See you next week.”

  He hesitated, then took the cup and left her office. Standing in the hall, he broke into a cold sweat, then made himself walk to the restroom, where an officer was standing guard. When the man saw the cup, he opened the door and followed Wesley inside. Wesley went to the urinal and unzipped his pants. The guard looked over Wesley’s shoulder long enough to see him pull out his johnson, then turned away.

  Wesley took his time whizzing in the cup. With some deft handwork, he managed to simultaneously empty the contents of both vials that Chance had given him into the container. He capped it with the paper lid and passed it off, then put everything back where it belonged, zipped and washed his shaking hands.

  He tried not to stare at the urine sample while he dried his hands on a paper towel—he was afraid it would turn blue right in front of their eyes. It didn’t, though, and the officer didn’t seem to suspect anything. So Wesley nodded, like always, swung his backpack to his shoulder, then strolled down the hall and out the building. He’d know soon enough if he failed the drug test.