Wesley shrugged. “Dude, you’re asking the wrong person. I bought a new TV for the living room and instead of being happy about it, she yelled at me.”
One corner of Coop’s mouth went up. “How big?”
“Sixty inch, high-def ready, plasma monitor.”
“Sweet. That must have set you back a load of cash.”
Wesley shifted in his seat. “I sold my motorcycle.”
“Still.”
He decided to keep quiet.
“You playing cards again?”
Anger sparked in his belly. “What if I am?”
“Then you’re being stupid,” Coop said casually. “Probation is another word for second chance. Don’t give your sister something else to worry about, capisce?”
“Yeah,” Wesley mumbled. “Hey, Carlotta said that you hired Hannah to help you move bodies?”
Coop snorted. “Hired? More like surrendered. The woman is a steamroller. I told her I would call her if I needed her, but I warned her that wasn’t likely to happen.”
“According to Carlotta, Hannah didn’t hear the last part and is pissed that you haven’t called.”
“Christ, is she going to cast a spell on me?”
“Don’t push it, man—with Hannah you never know. Besides, I’m supposed to start my community service soon, so unless you have someone else to fill in, you might have to bite the bullet and call her.”
“Maybe she can give me some insight into your sister.”
Wesley shook his head. “Good luck with that. I’ve lived with Carlotta for nineteen years and haven’t figured her out.”
Coop laughed. “That’s the fun part about being with a woman, when she keeps you on your toes.”
Wesley glanced sideways at his boss who seemed downright…giddy. He knew because it was the way he felt when he thought about E. Jones.
A couple of under-employed body movers lusting after beautiful, independent women. They were both way out of their league.
“Something bold.” Cooper thought out loud.
“And fast,” Wesley said, thinking of Peter Ashford, Detective Jack Terry, and Carlotta’s current state of mind. “Before she does something that we’ll both regret.”
10
Wednesday afternoon on her break, Carlotta headed toward the general manager’s office with a stone of dread in her stomach. The sight of Patricia Alexander coming out of Lindy’s office further soured her mood.
“Hello, Carlotta,” the blonde said primly.
“Hi, Patricia.”
The woman reached forward and patted Carlotta’s arm. “I hope you know that we’re all pulling for you in your time of crisis.”
“Excuse me?”
Patricia lowered her voice. “I know your family history—my mother was in the Junior League with your mother. And then you were caught up in all that scandal with the Angela Ashford murder.” She shuddered. “All that stress was bound to catch up with you sooner or later. I’m sure that’s why your sales have fallen off a cliff.” Her waxy lips drew back in a false self-deprecating smile. “I was just lucky enough to be working here when it happened.”
Carlotta returned an equally disingenuous smile. Her hands practically shook from wanting to slug the obnoxious woman, but instead of saying all the vile things that burned her tongue, she simply sidestepped Patricia as if she were a piece of furniture in her path and proceeded to Lindy’s office. After a few calming breaths, she knocked on the door.
Lindy looked up from a paper-strewn desk and removed her glasses. “Come in, Carlotta. Sit down.”
Carlotta took a seat opposite her boss, her gaze riveted to her cell phone lying on the desk. Her fingers itched to snatch it up to see if her father had called again.
Lindy scrutinized her for a few seconds, then sighed. “I don’t quite know what to do with you, Carlotta. In the space of a few weeks you’ve gone from being the associate with the highest sales to being the associate with the highest maintenance.”
“I’ve been dealing with some things in my personal life,” Carlotta murmured, feeling moist around her hairline.
“I know,” Lindy said, nodding. “Angela Ashford’s death was a terrible tragedy. I’m sorry you were implicated and I’m relieved that the murderer was apprehended. I feel bad for you, Carlotta, but it’s caused a lot of upheaval around here too. And it doesn’t give you license to break the rules. You know that having a cell phone on the sales floor is strictly prohibited—and one of my pet peeves.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Lindy’s mouth flattened into a line. “I’m afraid I also have to mention the overdue balance on your store account. This isn’t something that I normally concern myself with, but the amount is excessive.”
A flush started at her collarbone and worked its way up. “I’m a little behind on my bills.”
“Unfortunately, your company credit card has been suspended until you can reduce the outstanding balance.”
Carlotta could only nod in mortification. She hadn’t bought anything on her employee discount in a long time—okay, a week or so—but she’d really been cutting back. She hadn’t bought those new Chip & Pepper jeans that she’d wanted so badly, nor the Diane von Furstenberg satin wrap dress that would be the singularly perfect dress for an awards dinner and ceremony—if she ever needed it. But apparently the finance charges on her account were compounding faster than the speed of light.
Lindy clasped her hands together. “And I understand that a detective has been coming to see you here? The detective who apprehended the shoplifter?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t here on business. He was shopping for a suit.”
“So you don’t have any outstanding issues with the police department?”
“Um…well…there are a couple of things—”
Lindy’s mouth tightened and she lifted her hand. “I don’t need or want to know any particulars. But I’ve decided to suspend you for two weeks so you can get these personal issues worked out.”
Carlotta blinked. “Suspend?”
“Without pay.”
She felt faint. “Without pay?”
“I thought you would prefer it to being fired.”
Panic blipped in Carlotta’s chest, and she back pedaled. “Yes…a suspension would give me time to…regroup. But won’t it leave the department short-handed?” she asked, hoping to appeal to the woman’s business sense.
“Patricia Alexander is going to fill in for you while you’re gone.”
Carlotta’s intestines cramped.
“And when you return, I expect you to be back to one-hundred percent.”
“A-absolutely.”
Lindy pushed the cell phone forward. “You can go ahead and clock out.”
Carlotta nodded like a bobble-head doll, telling herself that she should be grateful that Lindy hadn’t fired her outright. But missing a paycheck was likely to send her already precarious mountain of bills toppling. She curled her fingers around the phone, glad to hold on to something solid, then turned and left the office before Lindy could change her mind.
She waited until she was in the break room to examine her phone. As she feared, the display was shot and even with a fully juiced battery, none of the functions worked. She groaned. On top of everything else, she’d have to spring for a new phone. Fighting back tears of frustration, she gathered her things and walked to her service provider’s kiosk in the mall.
“Can I help you?” asked a sulky-faced young woman.
Carlotta held up her phone. “It’s broken. I need a new one.”
The girl grunted. “We’re having a special on our camera phone.” She handed a display model to Carlotta.
Her first instinct was to say she didn’t need the camera feature, but what if her father showed up? A picture might come in handy to prove he’d been there. “How much?”
“Three hundred fifty-nine, plus a deposit. You want the same service plan as before?”
“Sure, that’s fine.
”
“And the same number?”
“Yes.”
“I need your name and cell phone number.”
Carlotta gave it to her and tapped her foot, impatient to hear any messages that might have accumulated for her. Had her father called back? Left a number where she could reach them? Told her their whereabouts?
“Uh, there’s a problem,” the girl said, squinting at the computer screen.
“What kind of problem?”
“Your account is, like, way overdue.”
Carlotta straightened. “Maybe a little—”
“And your balance is like huge.”
“It can’t be that big.”
“Try sixteen-hundred dollars, lady.”
Carlotta’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”
“Says here you got another phone just last week—our top of the line model. And you’ve been using it to make international calls?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t buy a new phone and I don’t make international calls.”
“Maybe you forgot.”
Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “No, I didn’t forget.”
The girl shrugged. “Sorry, I have to go by what it says on the screen and it says you can’t buy any more equipment until you’ve paid off your balance.”
“But I don’t have sixteen-hundred dollars!”
“Wow, it sucks being you.” The girl reached forward and plucked the camera phone from Carlotta’s hand.
Carlotta wanted to scream, but in the back of her mind, she thought of the stack of unopened bills at home—how long had it been since she’d looked at her statement? She just sent in a check for fifty bucks every once in a while and as long as the phone kept working, it seemed like an adequate payment strategy. But maybe the company charged late fees, interest.
“I at least need to access my voice-mail messages,” she said weakly.
“No can do. You have to go through customer service, but they’ll expect a payment first.”
She bit her tongue, trying not to think about the crippled phone that might contain a message from her father. Steeped in a frustrated fog, she headed for the mall entrance nearest the Lenox Marta station. At least she’d be able to pick up her car and not have to depend on the train during her involuntary vacation.
She boarded to ride south, giving in to the sway of the train as her unoccupied mind raced in circles. The events of the last several days descended on her and she could feel a prick of panic on the periphery of her consciousness, threatening to unravel the tightly woven facade she tried to maintain.
Scenes replayed in Carlotta’s mind—Wesley’s arrest, the reopening of her father’s case, Angela Ashford’s murder, Peter’s arrest, the subsequent attempt on her own life, her father’s phone call, Wesley’s irresponsible antics, her suspension. And ever-present was the guilt over just wanting her life back, fighting the temptation to run away like her parents had. To wipe the slate clean and simply start over someplace new, maybe in a tropical setting. She could sell souvenirs on a beach somewhere, meet a guy who’d never heard of Randolph Wren, who had a regular job that had nothing to do with her father’s old firm or law enforcement or moving bodies—
When the train lurched to a halt, her head snapped up and she realized she’d missed the east-west connection station of Little Five Points by three stops. Then a rogue memory slid into her mind and she gasped. She’d completely forgotten her appointment with Michael’s therapist, Dr. Delray.
A frantic glance at her watch told her she had been expected forty-five minutes north five minutes ago. She lumbered off the train and sat in a miserable lump on a bench waiting for another train to take her back in the opposite direction. This was shaping up to be one of the worst days ever.
Over an hour later, Carlotta alighted from the westbound train to walk the two blocks to the service station. She felt herself zone out to the point that she seemed disembodied. She could see herself walking, shoulders hunched, moving at a snail’s pace. When she finally reached the grubby, deserted lobby of the repair shop, she couldn’t remember exactly how she’d gotten there and had the bizarre feeling that she’d blacked out, that she’d lost a block of time.
She shook herself and glanced around the smelly shop with trepidation. Since Chance Hollander had recommended this place, chances were good that something shady was going on in the back room. She just hoped that Wesley wasn’t somehow involved. She rang a bell on the counter, ready to do battle if her car wasn’t ready.
An ass-scratching guy appeared. His shirt patch read Ted and he wore a slightly bewildered expression.
“Hi,” Carlotta said cheerfully. “I’m Carlotta Wren and I’m here to pick up the Monte Carlo.”
“Very funny.”
“Excuse me?”
Ted gave a little laugh, then crossed his arms. “That’s a good one, you almost got me.”
She squinted. “Is my car ready?”
He scratched his jowly cheek. “It ain’t here.”
“Where is it?”
He lifted his hands. “You already picked it up, lady.”
Her eyes went wide. “Uh, apparently not, since I’m standing right here.”
He leaned into the counter and spoke to her as if she were addled. “I saw you with my own eyes.” He shoved a piece of paper in her direction. “There you go.”
At the top of the paper was the imprint of her credit card and at the bottom was her signature, dated an hour earlier. Carlotta’s vision blurred and she pressed her hand against her throbbing temple. Was she losing her mind? Had she picked up her car and simply forgotten?
She was suddenly overcome with the most pervasive sense of utter exhaustion. Minor aches and pains—her pinched feet, her pressurized temples, her strained shoulders—seemed to converge and amplify, sending waves of stinging awareness cascading over her body. She leaned against the counter for support, breathing deeply. Her job, her parents, Wesley, their debt, Peter. The mountain of stress had depleted her energy and was messing with her mind. In that desperate moment, Carlotta understood why people turned to drugs and booze for temporary relief. Right now she’d give anything for a reprieve from reality.
After all that she’d been through, she had fooled herself into thinking that she could deal with anything on her own. But it had become too overwhelming…she had obviously reached her emotional limit, she thought as she gazed wildly at the hairy man behind the counter. This wasn’t the life she was supposed to have.
“Lady, are you okay?”
She crumpled the paper in her hand and murmured, “Yes. Thank you.” Then she stumbled out into the deserted parking lot and turned in a full circle, fighting the panic that clawed at her. Bright spots of light flashed behind her eyelids and her hands began to shake. Her mother, Valerie, had once been checked into a hospital for exhaustion, the elitist code for a nervous breakdown. Along with the gap between her front teeth, had she inherited her mother’s “crazy” gene?
Carlotta bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. Great. On top of everything else, she was going insane. Minus ten points.
11
“Popular day to die,” Wesley remarked wryly, closing the van door on their last scheduled pickup.
“Some days are more preferred than others,” Coop agreed as they wheeled the gurney toward the morgue delivery entrance.
“Do you ever get used to the smell?” Wesley asked with a grimace.
“I’m a mouth breather. And yeah, you get used to it.”
Coop stopped at an intercom to identify himself and their cargo, and they were buzzed in. Coop moved through the cold, harshly lit hallways of the morgue with ease and familiarity, even whistling under his breath.
His old stomping grounds, Wesley had learned, although he didn’t know the full details of why Coop no longer worked at the morgue. And although almost everyone treated Coop with respect, the chief medical examiner had made his presence known more than once, and it had always resulted in wor
ds between the two men. But just as they had several times that day, they handed off the body to a crypt orderly and retraced their steps to the exit with no incident. Coop continued to whistle, but his shoulders seemed tense, as if he expected a confrontation.
“Craft,” Wesley heard behind them.
They turned to see Dr. Abrams, the coroner, moving toward them. He wore stained scrubs, but unlike previous encounters, the man’s body language seemed conciliatory.
“Yeah, Bruce. What’s up?” Coop asked.
Abrams looked grim. “Got a jumper on the Seventeenth Street bridge—a woman and it’s bad. I sent a couple of M.E.s to the scene, but I need someone experienced to help recover the body.”
Wesley swallowed hard, remembering how he’d tossed his cookies after helping Coop peel a teenager off Interstate 75.
“I can do it,” Coop said.
“I’d appreciate it,” Abrams said with a curt nod, then walked away.
“You up for this?” Coop asked him as they returned to the van.
“Sure,” Wesley said, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. At least he hadn’t scarfed down a burrito beforehand like last time.
Dusk was falling and traffic was thick. With the aid of a magnetic flashing light that Coop put on top of the van, they made the drive in about ten minutes. The scene was impossible to miss with flashing lights both on the bridge and below on the interstate. Traffic was backed up to the horizon. Wesley’s chest swelled with importance when Coop flashed ID that allowed them to proceed through the emergency vehicles. But as they approached the corded-off area, Wesley braced himself for the sight of the body. Considering that he could see at least three sheeted locations, this was shaping up to be a bad scene.
Suddenly a man appeared in front of the van and held up his arm. Wesley recognized Detective Jack Terry. Coop stopped and waited as Terry strode to the driver side window and looked in.
“Wesley,” he said, “I need for you to get out and stay with me.”
Wesley frowned. “What? Why? I can handle this.”
“Just do it,” the detective said, his voice strangely gentle. The detective exchanged a glance with Coop and gave him an almost imperceptible shake of his head, as if to say not to question him.
Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1 Page 7
