Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

by Stephanie Bond

  At the next table sat his henchmen, but luckily they seemed equally marinated in booze and T & A.

  The three of them ordered drinks at the bar and stayed within sight of each other, but blended with the crowd. Wesley kept The Carver in his peripheral view. After about thirty minutes, the man made the move Wesley was hoping for—getting out of the booth and heading toward the men’s room. Sweat beaded on Wesley’s forehead as he watched the table of cronies. Although one looked up when The Carver stood, the guy apparently decided that licking a salted nipple and doing a shot of tequila was more fun than escorting his boss to the john.

  Wesley looked for Chance to give him the signal. To his consternation, Chance was mesmerized by the blonde dancing on stage, stuffing bills into the only clothes she wore—her schoolgirl knee socks. And Cherry had disappeared.

  He abandoned his drink and got Chance’s attention with a poke. “The Carver’s gone in—you have to find Cherry.”

  Chance nodded, slammed his drink and went off in the other direction.

  Wesley walked toward the men’s room, sweating profusely now. When he got to the bathroom, he removed an Out of Order sign from under his shirt and tacked it on the door, then slipped inside. As Chance had described, the men’s bathrooms were really like small changing rooms with toilets. He saw The Carver go into the one on the end, and all he could do at that point was pray that Chance and Cherry got there soon. Two men exited their booths and left without washing their hands. Wesley shook his head. Some men were such pigs.

  Finally the men’s room was empty except for The Carver. Just when Wesley had given up hope and was ready to abandon the plan, the door opened and in walked Cherry and Chance. Wesley pointed to the occupied booth and motioned for them to hurry.

  A slim-jim tool got them inside the booth before The Carver could react.

  “What the hell?” was all he had time to say before Wesley slapped a piece of duct tape on his mouth and Chance tied his wrists with a cable tie. The middle-aged man looked almost pathetic sitting on the john with his pants around his ankles. His eyes rolled wildly and he moaned against the tape. “Hmm hmm hmm?”

  “Who am I?” Wesley interpreted. “My name is Wesley Wren. I owe you money, which I intend to repay. But one of your guys took a couple of shots at my sister today and I need to make sure that never happens again.”

  He motioned to Cherry, who lifted his skirt—and pulled out a massive dick, which he laid against The Carver’s cheek. The older man tried to recoil, but had to maintain his balance on the toilet with his bound hands. Chance snapped a few pictures on his cell phone.

  “That’s good,” Wesley said. Then he got up in the man’s face. “If anything happens to Carlotta, these pictures hit the Internet, got it?”

  The man nodded. They left the booth, exited the bathroom and made their way to the entrance as quickly as they could without raising suspicion. Wesley spotted one of The Carver’s guys strolling toward the bathroom. Once they hit the parking lot, they broke into a sprint with Wesley half-dragging the high-heeled Cherry. They vaulted into the SUV.

  Cherry turned to look through the back window. “Here they come!”

  Sure enough, The Carver’s men were in a full run, scanning the parking lot, obviously determined to retrieve the phone with the pictures on it and then beat them all to a bloody pulp.

  “Hurry, man!” Wesley yelled.

  Chance churned the ignition and gunned the gas, breaking through the taped-up chain and jumping a curb to get onto the side street. After they’d gone a couple of blocks, he turned on his headlights and whooped. “That was awesome!”

  Wesley high-fived Chance, loving the feeling of having the upper hand for once in his life. Now that they’d escaped with the pictures, he held all the cards. He sat back in the seat and laughed at Chance’s retelling of every detail, even sweeter now because they’d pulled it off.

  A haughty smile crawled over his face. Maybe he wouldn’t even pay The Carver the rest of what he owed. The man had almost killed his sister; he was getting off light.

  Wesley folded his hands behind his head. He could get used to this power thing.

  He only wished his dad could see him now.

  41

  Two days after the shooting, Jack still called or stopped by every few hours to make sure Carlotta was okay. After spending the night platonically in each other’s arms, they seemed to have reached some sort of unspoken pact—a relationship between them was impossible.

  At least for now.

  Wesley had returned from his overnight stay with Chance in a suspiciously good mood and had been so attentive that she’d forgiven him for leaving the night of the shooting.

  Coop too, had called to check in, but had seemed a little distant, as if he were afraid of treading on claimed territory. The professional relationship between him and Jack that predated her was going to make things sticky between her and Coop, she suspected.

  Which made her thoughts swing to Peter. She’d kept the phone he’d given her in her purse, grateful for its comforting presence. And she knew it was unreasonably selfish of her, but she was a little irritated that she hadn’t heard from him all week. Carlotta realized that she wasn’t even sure when he would return and she wondered if that’s how life with him would be—leading parallel lives that ran side by side, but rarely intersected.

  When he did call later that day to say hello, he sounded so harried that she was instantly remorseful. She had to keep reminding herself that he’d been through the trauma of losing his wife and was probably struggling to regain footing and focus at work. Plus, he was giving her the space she had requested.

  “I miss you,” he said. “I wish I had brought you with me. We would’ve had fun in the city.”

  “Sounds like you haven’t had any down time.”

  “Not much,” Peter admitted. “But it’s been nice to get out of Atlanta for a few days, to be away from everything. Everything except you, of course.”

  “Sounds like a change of scenery is just what you needed.”

  “I was thinking that when I get back, maybe we could plan a weekend away somewhere, to get, you know…reacquainted.”

  “That sounds nice. I’ll think about it.”

  “Great,” he said, sounding relieved and happy. “Anything exciting going on there?”

  A positive ID on the bridge jumper, the suspicion that it was murder, a second murder linked to the first and a drive-by shooting that had her still picking grass from her teeth. “No, not a thing.”

  “Good. I’ll be back Monday afternoon and I’ll pick you up for the concert around six. I made reservations at Eno’s.”

  “Sounds wonderful. I can’t wait.”

  “Me, either. Bye, Carly.”

  When she hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. She jumped—loud noises seemed to make her do that now—and groaned when she saw Mrs. Winningham on the stoop, holding Toofers.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door. “Hello, Mrs. Winningham.”

  “So you’re not dead after all.” Toofers just snarled.

  “So they tell me.”

  “I came to get my casserole dish. I told Wesley that I needed it back.”

  “Right. Let me get it for you. Would you like to come in?”

  “Well, all right.”

  Carlotta stepped back and the woman walked inside, her nose crinkling. “I heard the shooting the other night and saw the police. I never thought I’d be living in an area where a body isn’t safe in her own front yard.”

  “Neither did I,” Carlotta lamented, walking into the kitchen and covering the waste can where the icky chicken casserole had ended up.

  “Your family has brought a bad element to this neighborhood,” the woman called after her.

  “I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Winningham.” No use denying it. She picked up the clean casserole dish and lid and returned to the living room.

  “When are you going to get your front window fixed? It’s an eyesore.”
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  “I know. Soon, I hope.”

  The woman took the casserole dish and frowned. “And that enormous broken TV at the curb—you’re only allowed to put out appliances for pickup on the third Tuesday of the month.”

  “I’ll tell Wesley,” Carlotta promised.

  Toofers spotted the silver Christmas tree and took advantage of Mrs. Winningham’s one-arm grip to wriggle loose and attack with the might of a rabid rat. Carlotta grabbed the tree, and Mrs. Winningham grabbed Toofers and a tug of war ensued. Ornaments and fur flew before the two were finally separated.

  “My tree,” Carlotta moaned, surveying the mass of bent and naked branches.

  “My baby!” Mrs. Winningham cried, sticking her fingers down the dog’s throat to retrieve bits of tinsel. She screwed up her face and gave Carlotta a poisonous glare. “If he has to go to the vet, you’re getting the bill!”

  Carlotta fumed. “What about my Christmas tree?”

  “It’s the middle of summer!” Mrs. Winningham shouted, retreating to the door. “You people are a bunch of freaks!” The door banged shut and Carlotta stuck her tongue out at it. Then she burst out laughing.

  Carlotta spent an hour straightening out the limbs of the misshapen tree and putting the small, faded ornaments back in place. She picked up one of the rewrapped gifts, and a fresh burst of anger toward Jack erupted in her stomach. She gently shook the package and tried to decipher the indistinct rattle inside. Since he hadn’t kept any of the presents or divulged their contents, they must not have contained any explosive information—or cash.

  Not that she wanted to know.

  The time to open the gifts, Wesley had said again and again, was when they were all reunited. And considering the fact that her father had at least called, it was the first time in years that Carlotta allowed herself to think that was a possibility.

  Would they ever be a family again?

  When the discarded chicken casserole began to smell up the house, Carlotta tied the trash and schlepped it outside to the garage where their Herbie Curbie resided. She lifted the lid and dumped the garbage inside, then wheeled the trash can to the curb where Wesley had carried the carcass of the once-glorious television.

  A delivery van driving along the road slowed—another shipment for the couple next door, she surmised. But the van stopped suddenly and two beefy men jumped out, heading for her. She tried to scream but no sound came out. She scrambled backward and fell on the concrete driveway, but one of the men yanked her up by her arm and her ponytail.

  “What do you want?” she cried.

  The other guy leaned into her face. “Tell that idiot brother of yours that The Carver wasn’t amused by his little stunt the other night.”

  “Wh-what stunt?”

  “Ask him. The little shit is in big trouble, bigger than he knows. He has no idea who he’s dealing with.”

  “I thought he was making his payments,” she said, wincing against the pain of having her hair yanked out of her scalp.

  “Not enough,” the man said. “And now that he’s pissed off The Carver, he can expect those payments—and the interest—to double.”

  The sound of a siren split the air and Carlotta’s captor dropped her like a bag of potatoes. The men sprinted for the van, but Jack swerved to block their escape. He was out of the car, his weapon drawn over the top of his open door, almost before the car came to a halt. “Stay down, Carlotta!” He aimed the gun at the men who were standing next to the van, hands up. “Gentlemen, down on the ground.”

  “We don’t want any trouble, officer.”

  He shot one of the van tires and the men jumped. “I said get your fat asses on the ground.”

  They did. More sirens screamed into earshot, then two squad cars pulled up, lights flashing. Jack motioned for the cops to cuff the men, then he holstered his weapon and went to Carlotta, who was pushing to her feet.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his face anxious.

  “I’m fine,” she said, rubbing her arms. “Just a little shaken up. They work for one of Wesley’s loan sharks.”

  “I figured as much. I didn’t want to say anything the other night, but from Wesley’s reaction to the shooting, I suspect that was his first thought too.”

  “So the shooting wasn’t connected to the murders?”

  “That’s not necessarily true. The loan sharks around here like the ones Wesley is tangled up with are into everything these days—including selling credit card numbers. It’s not out of the question that they’re behind the identity theft ring that we’ve been trying to crack.”

  Carlotta frowned. “Jack, I’m afraid for Wesley. Those guys said something about The Carver being pissed about some stunt he pulled the other night.”

  “Probably in retaliation for the shooting. Did they say what happened?”

  “No.”

  “And I’m sure he won’t be telling me,” Jack said. “I’ll help him if I can, but Wesley got himself into this mess with these guys. He’s going to have to figure a way to get himself out.”

  She bit into her lip and nodded, turning back to the house, then stopped. “Wait a minute. How did you know I was in trouble?”

  “A neighbor called 911. As soon as I heard the address, I beat it over here.”

  She looked up to see the curtains at Mrs. Winningham’s fall back into place and she mentally retracted every bad thing she’d thought about the woman.

  A sardonic smile lifted Jack’s mouth. “Your name is all over my reports lately. I’m afraid my chief is going to think something’s going on between us.”

  “Well, you can tell him that that’s not true,” she said lightly. “Besides, I’m going back to work Monday, so I’m going to be way too busy to get into any more trouble.”

  He scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

  Carlotta stopped at the base of the steps and turned. “Since I probably won’t see you before then, I hope your awards dinner is nice. I’ll be thinking about you receiving your distinguished duty award and looking so nice in your tux.”

  Regret flashed through his eyes, but was quickly replaced by resolve. “I’ll be thinking about you, too.”

  42

  “So,” Carlotta said to Michael as they retrieved items from their lockers and prepared to go home, “Detective Terry thinks that one of the loan sharks could be responsible for the identity-theft ring. And maybe killed the women because they thought they were going to turn state’s evidence.”

  Michael shook his head. “You’re always in the middle of something, Carlotta. You seriously need therapy. By the way, Dr. Delray said you stood him up.”

  “That was the day my car was stolen. And my cell phone was broken.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I can get you in now.”

  “That’s okay,” she said absently.

  “Your mind is a million miles away.”

  “It’s just that I can’t help but think that there’s more going on here, maybe right here in this mall. And it makes me furious that these thugs targeted me. My credit is ruined.”

  “Your credit was already ruined. Leave it alone, Carlotta.”

  “You know that I can’t, Michael. Besides, I’m in a position to find out more than the cops can, you know, because I don’t have to follow protocol.”

  He sighed. “You mean do something hare-brained.” He closed his locker door. “You need to be concentrating on your sales.”

  “I know,” she agreed. “And I had a great day today.”

  “It’s a good thing. I don’t believe Patricia was too happy about being booted back down to accessories.”

  Carlotta made a face. “I kind of hate her.”

  Michael laughed. “She’s not so bad. We’re going to the Elton John concert tonight.”

  “I’ll be there too, with Peter.”

  “We’ll be in the cheap seats in the rafters,” Michael said dryly.

  She closed her locker door. “I can’t believe I’m gone for two weeks and you’ve cozied up to my arch rival
.”

  He grinned. “The competition will be good for you.”

  Patricia walked into the break room, looking like a frazzled scarecrow. She gave Carlotta a glare of disdain.

  “Speak of the devil,” Michael whispered mischievously.

  “How was your day, Patricia?” Carlotta asked. “Are those little doggy swimsuits still selling like crazy?”

  “Yes, except now they’re two for the price of one,” Patricia said, “which cuts into my sales, which cuts into my commission.”

  Carlotta angled her head. “So that means you have to sell, what, twenty doggie swimsuits to equal one dress in my department? Wow, that sucks.”

  Patricia’s stiff bangs blew up with her exhale. “Yes, doesn’t it?”

  Carlotta swung her purse to her shoulder and something on the floor caught her eye. “There it is.” She crouched and scooped up the florist’s card that must have fallen out of her locker. “I’ll give this to Jack to see if he can find the man who sent the roses meant for the woman who was murdered. Maybe he’ll know something.”

  “When did it go from Detective Terry to Jack?” Michael teased. “And why aren’t you going to the concert with him instead of Peter?”

  “Jack has a big awards ceremony tonight,” Carlotta said, trying to keep the longing out of her voice. She would have fun tonight with Peter. She would.

  Peter rang the doorbell promptly and whistled appreciatively at her skinny black skirt, silver metallic T-shirt and zebra-print jacket.

  “You look dynamite,” he said, then pulled her close for a hot kiss. “Do you have your autograph book?”

  She nodded, a little surprised by his passionate kiss and the subtle change in him. He looked rested and more at peace. “Manhattan must agree with you.”

  “You know, Atlanta’s not the only place in the world to live,” he said as they descended the steps. “Have you ever considered living somewhere else?”

  “I guess it didn’t seem possible.”

  “Until now,” he said lightly, helping her into his car.