Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

by Stephanie Bond

  She nodded. “Did you find anything to explain why she killed herself?”

  “No.”

  “It appears that the woman just snapped,” Dr. Abrams said. “Maybe she was afraid she was about to be caught and couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “Or maybe she was murdered,” Jack said from the doorway.

  They all looked up.

  “What are you saying?” Carlotta asked, her heart tripping double-time.

  “We just got a tip from a woman who said she saw your car traveling toward the Seventeenth Street bridge and that another car was trying to get the driver to pull over.”

  Jack leveled his gaze on her. “The question is, was the car chasing her because she was Barbara Rook or because they thought she was you?”

  “But who would want to hurt me?”

  “How about anyone connected to the two previous murder cases you were involved with?” Jack asked dryly.

  “Did the witness ID the car that was chasing the Monte Carlo?” Coop asked.

  “No. She said it could’ve been a Mercedes.”

  “Maybe the person in pursuit wasn’t trying to hurt anyone,” Coop offered. “Maybe they thought they were following Carlotta and tried to get her attention. Maybe Barbara Rook freaked out and jumped out of the car.”

  Carlotta’s face grew cold as the blood drained out of it.

  Jack was looking at her. “What?”

  Her mind raced. How many people with Mercedes tastes would follow her and try to get her to pull over? Only one person came to mind.

  Jack came to stand in front of her. “You know something. What is it?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Yes you can.”

  Perspiration warmed her neck as they all stared at her. “All of you have to swear not to tell the D.A.”

  Jack sighed. “I can’t do that, Carlotta.”

  She turned toward the door.

  “Okay.”

  She turned back and he looked like an exasperated man. “I won’t tell the D.A.”

  “You swear?”

  He rolled his eyes, then nodded.

  She looked at Coop and Abrams. “Do you two swear?”

  “He won’t hear anything from me,” Coop promised.

  “The man’s an asshole,” Abrams said.

  Jack jammed his hand into his hair. “For God’s sake, Carlotta, what is it?”

  She wet her lips. “Well, it’s possible…not probable…but the timing…”

  “Spit. It. Out.”

  “It might have been my father trying to make contact with me.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “Your father? But that would’ve been before it was even announced that you had died. Why would you think it was him?”

  Didn’t she know it would somehow come down to the truth? “Because—he called me.”

  36

  “Wesley Wren to see E. Jones,” Wesley said to the old bat at the sign-in desk.

  “She’s running a little behind this morning,” the woman said, and seemed happy about it.

  “I’ll wait,” he said cheerfully, then took a seat in the room with a motley cast of characters. All of the men—and most of the women—were bigger than him, many sporting prison tattoos and none of them smelling particularly rosy.

  From his backpack he withdrew a book about the World Series of Poker and found his place. If he were going to be playing in the big game some day, he needed to know as much about it as possible.

  A few minutes later he vaguely registered that someone who reeked of cigar smoke had sat down next to him.

  “Brushing up on your game?” the guy asked in a voice that sounded familiar.

  Wesley turned his head to see one of the ugly meatheads who worked for The Carver, one of the two guys to whom he owed money, sitting there smoking a three-inch cigar—no doubt the same size as his dick. His intestines cramped. “What do you want?”

  “What do you think, pissant?”

  “I made a payment yesterday.”

  “A lousy four-hundred bucks? You got a ten-thousand-dollar TV sitting in your living room and all you got for The Carver is four hundred?” The man sucked his teeth. “That ain’t gonna fly. Are we gonna have to start makin’ house calls again?”

  Wesley swallowed. “No. I’ll bring more in a few days.”

  The guy winked. “Attaboy.”

  “Sir,” the old bat behind the glass shouted. “You can’t smoke in here.”

  “Sorry,” the guy said.

  Then he took the little cigar and brought it down on the back of Wesley’s hand.

  Wesley heard the skin sizzle before the pain lit up his entire arm. By the time the shock passed, the guy was gone, leaving him with an ugly raised burn. If anyone around him had seen anything, they didn’t react. Wesley grimaced and sucked on the puckered skin, wondering if he’d be able to win enough in tonight’s game to satisfy The Carver.

  The burn on the back of his hand would be a convenient reminder of what lay in store for him if he didn’t.

  “Wren,” the bat shouted. “You’re up!”

  Wesley walked to E.’s office and knocked on the door, speculating as to what kind of reception he’d get after lying to her about Carlotta being dead.

  It wasn’t his fault, but with women, one never knew.

  “Come in,” she called.

  He opened the door and walked in, but E. didn’t look up from her desk, just scribbled on a file. “Have a seat, Wesley.”

  He sat and studied her while waiting for her to stop ignoring him. She wore her great-smelling red hair in some sort of complicated braid, but a piece of it had fallen down along one ear. A pale blue shirt molded her full breasts—from their hug after the service, he knew they weren’t fake. She was wearing darker lipstick than normal, a nice berry color that made her teeth look even whiter when she bit down on her lip in concentration, like now.

  Did it make him a pervert that he thought of E. when he was with Liz? He wondered idly what E. tasted like and what made her feel good in bed and if she liked to smoke after sex.

  Probably not. But that was okay. He wasn’t supposed to be smoking anyway. He and Carlotta had a pact.

  At last, she closed the file and gave him a forced smile. “How are you?”

  “Okay.”

  She arched a thin eyebrow. “I was glad to hear that your sister is okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “Didn’t you hear the news reports?”

  “Yes.”

  Wesley lifted his hands, as if that was all the explanation she needed.

  E. leaned forward in a way that squeezed her breasts together. “Wesley, I don’t like the way that you and the D.A. seem to have some kind of feud going.”

  “Then you need to take it up with the D.A.”

  “I don’t the care about the D.A. I care about you.”

  His pulse jumped.

  “It’s my job to make sure that you take away something positive from this experience.”

  Chick talk. He shifted in his seat. “I called Mr. McCormick about the community service but he hasn’t called me back yet.”

  “He will. He’s eager to have someone with your apparent expertise helping them with security.” She looked over his file and made a couple of notes. “Is anything else going on that I should know about?”

  He was gambling regularly, one of his loan sharks was getting antsy, his fugitive dad had made contact with Carlotta, he was balling his attorney and he was finally making headway in understanding his dad’s case.

  “Nope.”

  E. pressed her berry lips together. She didn’t believe him. She put her glasses on in a dismissive motion. “Let me know when you hear from McCormick. Get out of here.”

  At the door he turned back. “No matter the circumstances, E., I appreciate you coming to the memorial service. That was really sweet of you.”

  She looked up and her expression softened. “So maybe
I can meet your sister sometime after all.”

  He nodded. “You’d like each other.”

  E. hesitated, then opened her top desk drawer. “Wesley, I was wondering if you had plans next Monday.”

  He took the tickets she extended. “Elton John? Yeah, he’s cool.” He grinned, his chest flooding with happiness. “We’ll have a great time.”

  Her eyebrows went up and there was an awkward pause. “Wesley, I can’t go with you to the concert. I was offering you both tickets. We sometimes get complimentary ones around the office.”

  His disappointment was acute. “Oh. You’re not going to use them?”

  “I already have tickets. I’m going with my boyfriend.”

  His gut clenched. She had a boyfriend. Damn, he should’ve seen that coming.

  “So do you want the tickets? Maybe you and a friend can go.”

  Wesley nodded. He’d like to get a look at this guy she was seeing. “Thanks.”

  She squinted at his hand. “Nasty burn you got there.”

  He flexed his fist. “Nah, it’s fine.”

  “See you next week.”

  He left the building feeling totally bummed and rode his bike to Chance’s condo building in Midtown. He locked his bike on a rack outside, then took the elevator to the top floor—nothing but the best for Chance.

  Luckily for him, since his buddy’s generosity often spilled over.

  But being friends with Chance had its drawbacks too, he conceded, when his door opened and a huge bodybuilder type came walking out with a gym bag—much like the bag that Chance had once asked him to deliver to some guy in a bad part of town. Everything about the guy screamed bad news, from his steroid-induced arms to his surly mouth to his cagey body language.

  Where did Chance meet these guys?

  Chance appeared in the doorway, beer in hand, and he spotted Wesley. “Wes, dude, meet Leonard. Leonard, this is my poker buddy, Wesley.”

  “Hi there,” Wesley offered.

  “Hey,” the big man said, but his demeanor couldn’t be mistaken for friendly. “I’ll be in touch,” he said to Chance, then strutted toward the stairwell, a beefy hand situated possessively on the top of the gym bag.

  Wesley followed Chance inside. “Man, I don’t even want to know what that was about.”

  “No, you don’t,” Chance agreed. “Ready for a game?”

  Wesley hid his burned hand behind his back. “Yeah. You got one lined up?”

  “Don’t I always?” From the top of the refrigerator, Chance retrieved his pistol and jammed it in his coat pocket.

  “Whoa dude, what’s up with the heat?”

  “My business is growing, man. I decided I needed to start being more careful is all.” He clapped Wesley on the shoulder. “So tell me about this lawyer chick you’re banging. And I want all the nasty details.”

  37

  “Jack hasn’t spoken to me in three days,” Carlotta said to Hannah. They were on the back deck, drinking margaritas, their feet stuck in a kiddie pool.

  “Fuck him,” Hannah said.

  Carlotta winced. “I did.”

  Hannah’s eyes rounded and she gaped. “When?”

  “When he had the house under surveillance. Wesley refused to stay here and we were alone.” She glared at her friend. “It’s your fault. You were the one who said I needed to have a night of hot sex to work out the mental kinks.”

  “Girl, you can’t do that with someone you have feelings for—that only works with strangers.”

  “Wait a minute. I don’t have feelings for Jack Terry.”

  “Uh-huh. Whatever. Doesn’t matter anyway if the jerk isn’t talking to you. What do you care? Just let him do his detecting crap to make sure that someone wasn’t trying to hurt you when they threw that poor woman off the bridge.”

  “He did look into people involved in the previous two murder cases to see if anyone has a vendetta against me.”

  Hannah gave her a pointed look. “For someone who sells clothes for a living, you’ve been involved in some pretty dangerous shit.”

  “Thankfully, the culprits in those cases are in custody.”

  “But they could have someone on the outside working for them. The detective must be concerned for your safety if he has a uniform cruising the house.” Hannah grinned. “See, he really does care, even if he’s giving you the silent treatment.”

  Disgruntled, Carlotta sipped from her icy drink. Okay, so Jack had a right to be angry with her for not telling him about her father’s phone call—and would be incensed if he knew about the call to Peter—but it wasn’t right for him to simply ignore her. She was involved in this case whether he liked it or not.

  Besides, after the way he’d behaved—using her for casual sex and opening her family’s Christmas gifts—she shouldn’t be speaking to him.

  The back door opened and Wesley poked his head out. “Coop’s here. I’m leaving.”

  Hannah was on her feet before Carlotta could blink. “Take us with you!”

  Wesley held up his hands. “You’re going to have to talk to Coop about that.”

  Hannah shoved her tattooed feet into flip flops and grabbed Carlotta’s hand. “Come on.”

  “Hannah—”

  “Hey, you owe me. I cried for you. Now get off your suspended ass and let’s go move a body.”

  Carlotta toed her wet feet into sandals and followed Wesley and Hannah through the house and out to the driveway where Coop sat behind the wheel of his big white van.

  “We want to go with you,” Hannah said without preamble.

  Coop looked at Wesley and Wesley shrugged. “Dude, don’t look at me.”

  Carlotta gave Coop an apologetic look.

  He must have seen the determination in Hannah’s face, because he jerked his thumb toward the backseat. “Get in, but you have to do what I say.”

  “I can be submissive,” Hannah purred. “Where are we going?”

  “House call,” Coop said. “Accidental death.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  Carlotta elbowed her as she climbed in. She made contact with Coop in the rearview mirror and mouthed “Sorry,” but he just winked.

  She’d taken Wesley to meet Coop a couple of times for body-moving jobs and had to admit that the first time had been gruesome because she’d known the victim. But by the second time, she had already steeled herself to look past the condition of the body. If a person was already gone, the best way to honor their death was to handle their body with care.

  Still, it wasn’t something she wanted to see every day.

  Then she pursed her mouth. Maybe she and Hannah could do it one day a week for some extra cash that could help her get her credit back on track. She glanced sideways at Hannah and decided to wait and see how her friend handled the situation before mentioning it.

  “So Coop, how do you find out that a body needs to be picked up?” Hannah asked from the backseat.

  “Someone from the morgue calls me. If it’s a residence or an accident scene and the police and an M.E. are there, I try to get there before they leave. If it’s a pickup from a morgue, such as a hospital, I can schedule those.”

  “Can anyone do this?”

  Coop grinned. “Not usually. The morgue contracts with funeral homes to pick up bodies when they can’t handle the volume. I’m actually contracted through my uncle’s funeral home, but I have the leeway to hire anyone I think is responsible and presentable enough to help me do the job.”

  “I’m very responsible,” Hannah said.

  The rest of them silently chimed in, “But you’re not presentable,” although Hannah seemed clueless, bouncing excitedly when Coop turned into a subdivision.

  “Murder in the suburbs.” Hannah rubbed her hands together.

  “Coop said it was an accidental death,” Carlotta reminded her.

  Hannah glared at her. “You’re determined to ruin this for me, aren’t you?”

  In the front seat, Coop shook his head, then double-checked street address
es. He pulled the van alongside the curb in front of a small house where a police car and a car from the M.E.’s office sat side by side. Before he could shut off the engine, Hannah was out of her seat belt.

  “Girls, stay put. We’ll be right back.”

  Hannah opened her mouth but Carlotta squeezed her knee. “Don’t blow this,” she whispered.

  That settled her down a bit. Coop and Wesley went to the door and were let inside.

  “They’re having all the fun,” Hannah complained.

  “If you don’t take it down a notch,” Carlotta said, “Coop will never hire us.”

  Hannah’s face lit up. “You mean you’ll do it?”

  “I’ll think about it. If you go easy on the caffeine.”

  After several long minutes, Coop and Wesley reappeared with the M.E., who shook Coop’s hand and headed toward his car. A uniformed police officer emerged and went to his car, apparently to use his radio. Coop and Wesley came back to the van and Coop leaned in the window. “They’re finished, so we can remove the body.” He pointed to a pile of pale blue clothing stacked in a corner. “You two, find some scrubs to throw on.”

  They were garbed in short order, and standing next to the gurney that Coop and Wesley had removed and elevated.

  “One more thing,” Coop said.

  “What?” Hannah asked excitedly.

  “Don’t touch anything and don’t talk.”

  She pouted, but nodded. They each took a gurney handle and moved into the house like a body-removal SWAT team.

  Hannah, who was in front, promptly tripped over the body lying at the foot of the stairs and went down with a thud. While Wesley picked her up, Carlotta sent another look of apology to Coop, who had pushed his tongue into his cheek and seemed to be calling on some source of inner strength.

  “Who is she?” Carlotta asked to distract him.

  He checked the clipboard on the gurney that held a picture of the woman’s driver’s license. “Jennifer Stevenson, forty-one.”

  Carlotta squinted. “I used to work with a Jennifer Stevenson, but this isn’t her.”

  “It says this lady lives alone. Her dog walker found her. Looks like a simple fall.”

  “What killed her?”

  “Broken neck, basically, like most falls of any consequence.”