Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

by Stephanie Bond

  And was that why she too, avoided relationships that became too personal? Because she wasn’t willing to be so tied down, so obligated?

  They both seemed to turn inward as the afternoon wore on. Occasionally, Jack asked her for a piece of personal information to gather more background on her financial records. By the time this investigation was over, she thought ruefully, she would have no secrets from him.

  And hadn’t that been her original perception of him—that if she spent a lot of time in his company, she would feel compelled to share more about her life than was healthy?

  She waited all day for her friend Michael Lane to call and at least ask about a memorial service in her honor; she was closer to him than anyone else at work. Instead, Patricia Alexander called and left a high-pitched message that “all of Carlotta’s coworkers at Neiman Marcus were just devastated by the news of her death” and would like to be informed if the family was planning a memorial service. Carlotta snorted. She was sure that Patricia was torn up about her competition being out of the picture. The stick woman was probably doing cartwheels now that she thought Carlotta’s job would be hers permanently. Lindy probably wouldn’t say anything to Patricia about the ruse, but her boss might have let Michael in on the secret, which would explain why he hadn’t called.

  She bit into her lip. But then again, maybe people just really didn’t care that she was gone. It wasn’t as if she’d made a difference in anyone’s life. Other than Hannah, she didn’t have many truly close friends. Jolie Goodman had been a good friend to her, despite the fact that she and Hannah had pulled Jolie into party-crashing and had gotten all of them in trouble way over their heads. But Jolie had met the man of her dreams and moved to Costa Rica. Her parting gift to Carlotta had been a new autograph book—since her original had been ruined in one of their escapades—and enough cash to get the loan sharks off her back, sparing the life of Carlotta’s precious little white Miata which remained crippled in the garage, but intact. She would always be grateful to Jolie.

  Most of her former friends—girls who had once been her social peers—would probably find her death more interesting than her life. Over an expensive lunch at the club, they would shake their heads and say it was such a shame that Carlotta Wren’s situation had degraded to the point that she had taken her own life…no doubt, Peter Ashford had rejected her again…and just like Carlotta to go out on a headline…she always had been so greedy for attention….

  Just as dusk was descending, the phone rang again and Carlotta braced for another bill collector to tell her what a bad person she was. Instead, Wesley’s voice came on the line. “Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know that I’m staying at Chance’s until this is over. Later.”

  Carlotta froze in the ensuing silence, afraid to make eye contact with Jack, wondering if he, too, had been jolted by the news that the two of them would be spending the night in the house alone.

  “Since it’s going to be just the two of us,” Jack said, removing his suit jacket and loosening his bad tie, “why don’t we order a pizza?”

  “Fine with me,” she managed.

  “Fellini’s is the best,” they said in unison, then laughed.

  “At least we agree on pizza.” He reached for the phone. “How do you feel about the Braves?”

  “Baseball is okay,” she said. “I have a lot of the players’ autographs.”

  “Good girl.”

  His intended compliment unnerved her, as well as the thought that this was shaping up to be a rather cozy night in. Especially since they were keeping the lights low to minimize the chance that someone would see her silhouette.

  “Do you want a beer?” Carlotta offered.

  “I’d love one,” Jack said, “but I can’t drink on the job. Soda or water is fine.”

  By the time the pizza had arrived, Jack had moved the surveillance equipment to the living room where he kept one eye on the monitor and one eye on the Braves game. “This is some television,” he said with a certain amount of awe in his voice as he set the pizza box on the coffee table in front of the couch.

  “The players’ heads are bigger than mine,” Carlotta observed. “A television is too big when you have to move your head to see the entire screen.”

  He laughed. “It’s a guy thing.”

  “So I gathered. Jack…what do you think a TV like this would cost?”

  “Around ten thousand.”

  She nearly choked on her soda.

  “Let me guess. Wesley’s motorcycle wasn’t worth that?”

  “No.”

  “So where do you think he got the money?”

  “I’d rather not say.” The last thing she needed was for Jack to report something that might extend Wesley’s probation. And while there were flashes of moments where she trusted Jack, this wasn’t one of those moments.

  “I understand,” Jack said. “But if he’s doing something shady, Carlotta, you know that in the long run, it’s going to catch up to him.”

  Instead of responding, she bit into a slice of pizza.

  Over the course of nine innings, they devoured the pizza and a two-liter bottle of soda. The game was close and had them shouting on more than one occasion, but she noticed that Jack often checked the camera monitor. Near the end of the game, something on the monitor caught his attention.

  Carlotta’s pulse blipped. “Do you see something?”

  “Someone in the back yard,” he murmured.

  Carlotta leaned in to look closer at the image moving in the dark and when she saw the watering can, she relaxed. “It’s just one of my neighbors watering their flowers.”

  “The nosy one?”

  “No, one of the gay guys.”

  “What do they do for a living?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve never really had a conversation. I think they must run some kind of Internet business because they’re always having packages delivered and picked up.”

  He nodded, then watched until the guy reentered his house via the solarium that Mrs. Winningham so resented because it blocked her view of the rest of the neighbors in their backyards.

  When they turned back to the game and sank into the cushions on the couch, she realized that somehow the distance between them on the couch had closed and their bodies sprawled toward each other. The evening had taken on the feel of a comfortable, friendly get-together, as if she and Jack had been dating for a while.

  Except for this intense physical attraction, there was nothing comfortable or friendly about it, at least not on her end. His long, muscular arms extended from rolled-up sleeves and the hint of his undershirt showed through the unbuttoned vee in his dress shirt.

  An undershirt—that was classic. Carlotta knew he must be uncomfortable in his slacks and dress shoes, but she didn’t dare suggest that he do anything to lose more clothing.

  He was aware of her too, she could tell. The way his peripheral vision took her in while he sipped from his glass, the way his movements had slowed, as if he were restraining himself. Suddenly he sat forward. “I need to make some phone calls, check in with the precinct.”

  “Of course,” she said. “And I’m getting tired, so I think I’ll go ahead and turn in. I’ll get you some linens for the couch.”

  “Thanks.”

  They both stood and walked quickly away from each other. From a hall closet she retrieved sheets, a lightweight throw and a pillow, which she left on the couch. She looked toward the kitchen and heard Jack’s voice as he responded to phone messages and handled various problems that had popped up in his absence. It would be like that for anyone involved with Jack, Carlotta realized. He would be on the job 24/7. The only reason he’d spent so much time with her lately was because she was a case.

  She had to keep reminding herself of that.

  And she had so many other things to be concerned about right now—like the possibility that her father or mother could walk up to the door at any moment.

  Or that they wouldn’t.

  And who wa
s the woman who had masqueraded as her? And why had she ended her life?

  Yet even with her head full of seemingly unfixable problems, when she lay down on her bed, one more thought wormed its way inside: the kiss she’d shared with Jack Terry. What would’ve happened if Wesley and Coop hadn’t interrupted them? Would they have had sex? And just how good would it have been?

  She hadn’t had sex in a long while. She and Peter had come close a couple of times after his wife had died, but the timing had been wrong and in the end either she or he had stopped before things had gone too far. She assumed that his lovemaking would be as gentle as it had been when they were teenagers.

  Conversely, she kept thinking about Jack’s teasing comment that he was no gentleman in bed. She had visions of slick skin and tangled limbs and utter exhaustion. Her body felt moist just thinking about being with him.

  Carlotta put a pillow over her face and moaned into it. She hoped her long-lost parents showed up soon. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could be alone with Jack Terry and not do something stupid.

  23

  Jack was already dressed in a dark suit and tacky green tie and watching the monitor at the breakfast bar when Carlotta emerged from her bedroom the next morning. The sight of him was a sensual jolt to her system and she realized that some time between first meeting him at the police precinct and this morning, Jack Terry had grown on her.

  He was a damned good-looking man.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I showered in Wesley’s bathroom.”

  “I don’t mind.” She poured cup of coffee. “Hope the couch wasn’t too lumpy.”

  “It was fine. I’m used to sleeping wherever.”

  She raised an eyebrow and he cleared his throat. “On the job, I mean.”

  Liz Fischer probably had grown-up bedroom furniture, Carlotta mused. And a maid. From the fridge, Carlotta grabbed a bagel and a jar of strawberry preserves. “Any news?”

  He picked up a sheaf of papers sitting near his laptop and portable printer. “I have your credit report. It isn’t pretty. I need you to take a look at it and tell me if anything looks suspicious.”

  In the midst of swallowing a bite of bagel, she suddenly lost her appetite. She took the report, her stomach churning. After a quick scan of the pages, she started over, feeling more and more sick. She should’ve filed for bankruptcy long ago, like Michael Lane had urged her to do. “There are at least five credit cards here I’ve never heard of. And two overdrawn accounts at a bank that I’ve never done business with.” She put her hand to her forehead. “How will I fix this? I can’t lose this house—it’s all we have.”

  “Relax,” Jack said. “You’re not going to lose your house. It’ll take a while to straighten out, but I’ll help you.”

  Her chest expanded with appreciation. The man had his faults, but he had a way of making a person feel safe. “What should I do?”

  “You’ll need to sit down with Wesley and go through your statements and the credit reports carefully and compare them to your purchases. Once you’ve identified the transactions and cards you didn’t approve, then we’ll send an affidavit of identity theft to those creditors.”

  “But Wesley’s name isn’t on any of my credit cards.”

  Jack took a sip from his coffee mug and seemed to weigh his words. “Can you be sure that he or one of his friends hasn’t used your cards or opened an account using your information?”

  She opened her mouth to deny that Wesley would do something like that, then snapped it shut. Her brother wasn’t exactly the poster boy for honesty. Only a few days ago he’d lied to her about the money for the television, and she wouldn’t put anything past that friend of his, Chance Hollander. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Meanwhile, I checked with your bank, and there was an ATM cash withdrawal against your bank credit card Sunday morning around ten. I’m thinking that’s when I saw the person I thought was you. Are you sure you didn’t make a withdrawal Sunday?”

  “I told you I didn’t,” she said, and it came out sounding just as she felt—testy.

  He pursed his lips. “Look, I’m just double-checking because when I saw you Sunday at the mall you seemed a little…out of it.”

  Because her father had just called.

  “And when you came in the other night, you admitted you thought it was possible that you had picked up your car and forgotten about it.”

  Carlotta stuffed another bite of bagel in her mouth and nodded.

  “I’m just giving you a chance to change your story before I ask the bank to go through their video to get a picture of the person who made the withdrawal.”

  “I’m not changing my story,” she mumbled.

  “Good. Then I need for you to take another look at the florists to see if you can remember who sent those flowers. I’m going to try to track down the mysterious Mr. Mason.”

  “Jack, the woman stole my car—can’t you get her prints from the steering wheel or something?”

  “The car was dusted, but the shop had cleaned it inside and out and the woman was wearing thin gloves.”

  “In the middle of summer?”

  “She obviously didn’t want to leave behind traceable prints.”

  “So that must mean she’s in the system. Hasn’t the coroner been able to take her prints and run them?”

  “No. Apparently, she put her hands out to break her fall and…there are no prints.”

  She winced. “When do you think I’ll get my car back?”

  “In a few days. But it’s a little banged up.”

  “Huh? I just had it fixed!”

  “Apparently the lady drove into the side of the bridge before getting out to jump.”

  “Oh, that’s just great. Now I have to get it fixed again. I hate that car!”

  “Look on the bright side. With the reward money, you’ll be able to buy a new ride.”

  Carlotta blinked. Was he judging her? Or was he mocking her because he suspected her parents wouldn’t show?

  Jack’s cell phone rang. He picked it up and glanced at the screen. She caught the downward twitch of his mouth before he answered. “Detective Terry…no, Lucas, no news.”

  She tensed and could only imagine the tension on the phone line.

  “No, they haven’t…no…no, he isn’t here…yes, she is, but not the brother…he doesn’t like the arrangement…yes, his cell phone has been tapped.” Jack turned away from her slightly. “Who knows? Maybe they haven’t heard, or have to make travel arrangements.”

  Her face felt hot—he was making excuses as to why her parents hadn’t shown, but was too polite to say, “Maybe they don’t give a crap that their daughter took a dive off a bridge.”

  His shoulders went rigid. “I know how to do my job, Lucas…yes, we can do that. I’ll give him a call.” He disconnected the call and heaved a sigh.

  “What, Lucas is irritated that my father hasn’t fallen into the tiger pit that you two set for him?”

  “Hey, this wasn’t my idea. I’m just—”

  “Doing your job, I know. So what does he want us to do?”

  “Uh, plan your funeral. I’m supposed to give Coop a call.”

  She pursed her mouth. “I don’t suppose you could let my creditors know that I’m dead?”

  He laughed and picked up the phone to make another call. After a few seconds, he said, “Coop, this is Jack…no, no sign of them yet. Just in case they don’t show today, we need to put together a phony funeral for tomorrow, courtesy of the D.A.’s office. Can you handle it? Yeah, we’ll be here. Can you drive something with the name of the funeral home on it to park in the driveway? Thanks.” He put down the phone. “Coop is on his way over.”

  She frowned. “Does it make you feel weird that he walked in on us the other day?”

  “No. Do you and Coop have something going?”

  She bristled. “Of course not. But you work with him occasionally and I wouldn’t want what happened to get you in trouble.”

 
He scoffed. “It was a kiss, it’s not like we were having sex on the floor.”

  Both of them averted their gaze to the floor, then back.

  “Besides,” Jack said wryly, “Cooper Craft is the last person to be throwing stones.”

  “What exactly got him fired from the M.E.’s office?”

  Jack hesitated. “I don’t know the entire story, but the word was that Coop was off-duty, came up on an accident scene and pronounced a woman dead. But she wasn’t.”

  Carlotta gasped. “Did she die?”

  “No, but she was left in pretty bad shape. Coop was drunk and blamed himself for not getting help sooner. And so did everyone else.”

  “But he’s sober now.”

  “As far as I know, yeah. He and the new coroner butt heads sometimes, but the fact that Dr. Abrams contracted with Coop to haul bodies for the morgue tells me that he wants to keep him close in case he needs him. And I know for a fact that he calls on Coop for VIP body retrievals and for the more difficult cases.”

  “Like the bridge jumper?”

  “Right.”

  She hugged herself, shaking her head. “I’m not sure this is the right line of work for Wesley. It’s so…gruesome.”

  “It’s reality,” Jack said. “And not a bad thing for him to see considering some of the choices he’s made.”

  She set her jaw. “Is that an indictment of my parenting skills?”

  “It has nothing to do with you. Wesley is old enough to take responsibility for his own choices. I think spending time with Coop will be good for him.”

  His phone rang again and while he talked business to a colleague, she finished her bagel and tackled the florists again. Peachtree was in at least half the business names in Atlanta, with Buckhead and Midtown being close runners-up. Letter combinations were popular names for florists, but after a while, the L&Ps, B&Gs, and K&Ds started running together. Michael Lane might remember the name on the card, but she couldn’t call him without revealing the fact that voilá she was alive after all.

  The ringing of the doorbell was a welcome distraction considering the task at hand. On the monitor, Carlotta noticed that Coop had parked a conspicuous Motherwell Funeral Home SUV in the driveway.