6 Killer Bodies

by Stephanie Bond

  Wes sighed. He’d have to patch the walls and paint everything before he and Carlotta moved back in, but she’d been wanting to spruce up the place for a while now anyway. Wesley walked into the kitchen to stare up at the small black device lodged in the wall above the window over the sink that had been exposed during the installation.

  A listening device, Mouse had said—a good one. Professional grade. Configured into the wiring of the house for ongoing power. And, according to the manufacturer’s date stamped on the frame, it had been installed about ten years ago.

  About the time his father had left town.

  Wesley’s heart thudded at the implication. Had his father installed the device so he could listen to conversations between his children over the kitchen table? When Randolph Wren had approached Carlotta at a Florida rest stop a few weeks ago, he’d indicated that he’d been keeping tabs on them…was this how?

  Wes wasn’t schooled in listening devices, but he knew enough about basic electronics to understand that most bugs used a radio transmitter. Meaning the person listening in had to be within a certain proximity to pick up sound.

  Usually within a few blocks.

  Which meant their father could’ve parked nearby, listening to whatever conversation had been going on in the Wren kitchen. If that was the case, then Wesley conceded that Randolph would’ve likely overheard many arguments. Wes had been a pain in the ass to his older sister. Looking back, he was surprised she hadn’t given up on him and shipped him off to foster care. Hell, she’d been a kid herself when their parents had left town.

  A sudden headache exploded under his scalp. He needed a hit of Oxy. He groaned at the blinding pain, then felt around the couch until he located his backpack. From a pocket, he pulled out an Oxy tablet and considered swallowing it to allow for a long, slow bleed of sweetness. Instead he decided to chew it, breaking the time-release coating for a blast of euphoria and instant pain relief.

  He sat on the couch and leaned his head back, yielding to the floating sensation. His brain worked more slowly under the influence of Oxy, but without the headache, at least he could think.

  From Wes’s backpack his cell phone rang, drilling into his buzz. It was the ring of his regular phone, not Mouse calling him about a collections job. He considered letting it go, but after several rings, he pulled out the phone to check the caller ID screen.

  Atlanta Police Department.

  Crap. Suddenly, he thought of the piece of paper he’d mailed four days ago to the APD with three possible name variations for the identity of the headless body in the morgue. He’d sent the note anonymously, not wanting to be fingered as the guy who’d pulled the teeth out of the severed head (at Mouse’s direction). Was it possible they’d tracked the envelope or its contents back to him?

  Then he forced himself to relax. It was probably just Jack Terry calling to hassle him about the undercover work he was doing in The Carver’s organization as part of his plea agreement with the rat bastard D.A., Kelvin Lucas.

  He connected the call. “Yeah?”

  “Wes?”

  Wes frowned at the familiar voice. “Coop?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No.” Other than the fact that he was high as a kite. “What’s up, man?”

  “Uh, nothing good, I’m afraid. I need a favor.”

  Wes sat up. He didn’t think he and Coop would ever be friends again after Wes had stupidly agreed to aid in the theft of a celebutante’s body they’d been transporting. “Whatever you need, Coop.”

  “I’m in a bit of a jam. I’ve been arrested.”

  “For drinking?” He’d smelled alcohol on Coop once recently in the morgue lab, and the man’s voice sounded a little slurred now.

  “Uh, no. Actually, for murder.”

  Wes’s head went back. “What?”

  “They think I’m The Charmed Killer.”

  Wes gave a little laugh. “You’re punking me.”

  “Wish I were. They cuffed me in front of your sister a few minutes ago and hauled me away.”

  Wes’s breathing became shallow as he realized Coop was serious. He swallowed nervously. “So what am I, your one phone call?”

  “Something like that.” Coop sighed. “Looks like I’m going to need a good lawyer. I thought I might give your attorney a call.”

  Wes frowned. “Liz Fischer?”

  “She’s a criminal attorney, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she knows the D.A.?”

  “Yeah. He digs her, I think.” Liz was a looker with long legs and big knockers.

  “Can you give me her office number?”

  Wes grimaced, remembering Liz had left town. “Coop, man, she’s out of town for a few days.”

  “On vacation?”

  “I guess.” Actually, when she’d called Wesley, she’d been kind of vague, saying she needed to get away to think. And she hadn’t sounded well. “Let me give her a call on her cell and see what the deal is.”

  “Okay. If she’s interested in taking me on, have her call the jail.”

  Wes wet his lips. “Uh, Coop?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You didn’t…you’re not…I mean…did you…do it?”

  “What do you think?” Coop asked with a laugh, his words running together. “Tell your sister I’m sorry I embarrassed her at work.”

  Wes frowned. Coop was wild for Carlotta, just like Peter Ashford, and Jack Terry were—poor saps. “I will.” When a dial tone sounded in his ear, Wesley slowly disconnected the call. He shook his head to clear it, trying to process what Coop had just told him. The police suspected Coop of killing all those women? Wesley tried the idea on for size, his mind wandering back over all the crime scenes on which he’d been a body mover. No, he couldn’t believe it. Coop would never do something so gruesome. He’d never hurt anybody, much less a woman.

  So why would the police arrest Coop if they didn’t have evidence of his guilt?

  He turned on the broken television and tuned into CNN Headline News. Sure enough, a “Breaking News” banner scrolled across the screen that a suspect in The Charmed Killer case had been taken into custody. He watched, incredulous, at the footage of a handcuffed Coop being led to a police car. His head was down and the one time he looked at the camera, Coop looked unfocused and disheveled.

  Wes punched in Liz’s number and paced in an attempt to walk off some of his buzz, just to cut through the Oxy fog. After a few rings, Liz answered.

  “Hello?”

  Like Pavlov’s dog, his dick jumped. Liz was a great lay. “Liz, it’s Wes.”

  “Hi,” she said, sounding surprised. “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

  “Are you back in town?”

  “I’m driving back now. I’d like to see you.”

  Inexplicably, the face of Meg Vincent popped into his mind, probably because he’d inadvertently shouted his cock-tease coworker’s name the last time he’d balled Liz…not that Liz had minded. “Uh, sure. Actually, though, I’m calling for a friend of mine.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you remember Cooper Craft?”

  “The body mover who used to be Coroner?”

  “Yeah. He was just arrested and he needs an attorney. He called me and asked about you.”

  “I don’t handle DUI’s, Wes.”

  “Do you handle murder?”

  “Murder?”

  “This is nuts, but apparently, they think Coop’s The Charmed Killer.”

  Liz was silent for two heartbeats. “When did this happen?”

  “Within the hour, I think.”

  “Bye, Wes. I’ll be in touch.”

  He ended the call and continued watching the news, losing count of the number of times Coop’s name was mentioned. Poor Coop. And Carlotta must be going out of her mind. He picked up the phone and pulled up her number, wondering if he should hold off telling her about the bug he’d found.

  As he listened to her phone ri
ng, Wes wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. It would be nice if the Wrens could winnow things down to just one crisis at a time.

  3

  “I always had a bad feeling about Craft,” Peter said.

  Carlotta looked up at her first love and former fiancé in dismay. When fugitive Michael Lane had broken into their townhouse and had been living in their parents’ room unbeknownst to her and Wesley, Carlotta had gratefully accepted Peter’s invitation to stay in one of his spare bedrooms while the police processed the town home as a crime scene and Wesley installed a security system. But after only a week and a half, she was starting to rethink her living arrangements. Peter would be happy, she realized, if she gave up her friends, and forgot all about the life and the relationships she’d built after he’d dumped her.

  “Peter, Coop isn’t The Charmed Killer. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Not if he was in his right mind,” Peter said gently. “But people change under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Even nice people can do terrible things. The police must have evidence or they wouldn’t have arrested him.”

  “They arrested you for Angela’s murder, and you were innocent,” she reminded him.

  “The police had a reason to arrest me—I confessed, remember?”

  She bit her lip and softened toward him. “Yes.” He’d confessed to a murder he didn’t commit to prevent his wife’s dirty secrets from being discovered and her reputation tarnished. It was noble of him.

  Peter reached for her hand and pulled her against him. “I’m sorry this happened, Carly. I know you were close to Cooper. But I’m glad it’s over.”

  “But it’s not over,” she protested.

  “You realize, don’t you, that Coop’s arrest gets your dad off the hook?”

  Carlotta balked. She’d held off telling Jack or the GBI that Peter had remembered a romantic liaison between her father and one of the victims. Maybe she should’ve come forward.

  And sacrificed her father for Coop?

  She shook her head. “Coop is innocent, I tell you.”

  “Let the police do their job,” he chided against her hair. “Meanwhile, have you given any thought as to when we can take that Vegas vacation I won at the club auction?”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “I haven’t. But Jack said the GBI would be wanting to talk to me again. And I’d have to ask my boss about taking time off.”

  “With all you’ve been through lately, I don’t think your boss would mind.”

  She nodded. “I’m off tomorrow, but I’ll talk to Lindy when I go in Saturday.”

  “Good,” he said with a smile. “I think we could both use a break.”

  She manufactured a smile in return. “You’re probably right.” Actually, she suspected that Peter was hoping that a change of venue would allow them to consummate their relationship. They had tried on two occasions and both times, Peter had come up a little too quick on the draw. They both agreed they were putting too much pressure on themselves, but Carlotta was admittedly worried that the one aspect of their previous relationship that had been rock solid—the sex—was now such an awkward challenge. Something so natural shouldn’t be so difficult…should it?

  From her purse her cell phone rang. Thankful for the distraction, Carlotta pulled away and reached for her bag, half relieved, half panicked to see Wesley’s name appear on the caller ID screen. “It’s Wes. I’ll take this upstairs, then change into something more comfortable.”

  Peter nodded. “I’ll get dinner started.”

  God help her, she was beginning to hate those words. Carlotta turned toward the stairs and connected the call as she climbed toward the second floor. “Wes?”

  “Hi, Sis.”

  “I guess you heard about Coop?”

  “Yeah, he called me.”

  Carlotta gripped the phone. “Is he okay?”

  “As good as can be expected, I guess. He wanted to get in touch with Liz Fischer.”

  Carlotta frowned. “Liz?”

  “He needs an attorney, duh.”

  “Yes, well, Liz is certainly all that.” And more, considering Liz had been their father’s mistress, was a booty-call for Jack Terry, and had also bedded Wesley, who was at least twenty years her junior.

  “Coop said he was with you when he was arrested?”

  Carlotta walked into the spacious suite where she was staying and sat down on the bed. “Uh…yeah. He came to the store to say hello. Jack had told me that Coop had been M.I.A. for a day, so I made the mistake of calling him to let him know Coop was okay. The next thing I knew, the police were everywhere. They handcuffed Coop right in front of me.”

  “So Jack gave him up? Asshole.”

  Her phone beeped and she glanced at the screen. “Hold on—that’s Hannah on the other line.”

  “Okay.”

  She clicked over. “Hannah?”

  “Jesus Christ, I’m watching the news. Tell me it isn’t true.”

  Carlotta sighed. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’m heartsick.”

  “But Coop isn’t a serial killer! That’s crazy.”

  “I agree.” Carlotta hardened her jaw. “So what are we going to do about it?”

  “Break him out?”

  Carlotta gave a little laugh. “Hang on a minute, will you? Wes is on the other line.”

  “Okay.”

  Carlotta clicked over. “Wes? Hannah is as upset as we are.”

  “I forgot to tell you that Coop said he’s sorry he embarrassed you at work.”

  Coop was in jail, but he was worried that he’d embarrassed her. Carlotta blinked back sudden tears, then took a deep breath. “I think we need to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Prove Coop innocent.”

  “I’m in,” Wes said.

  “Can we get together tomorrow?”

  “I could do one o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “How about the townhouse? I’ll show you the new security system.”

  “Great. Hang on. Let me talk to Hannah.”

  “Okay.”

  Carlotta clicked over. “Hannah? Wes and I are going to prove Coop’s innocence. Do you want in?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  “Pow-wow at the townhouse tomorrow at one o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there. Can I bring Chance?”

  Carlotta rolled her eyes. Chance Hollander was Wes’s partying, trust-fund, pornographic, drug-dealing, slob of a friend. And apparently Hannah had grown a soft spot for him and his gigantic shlong. “Only if you keep him on a leash.”

  “See you then.”

  Carlotta ended the call, then clicked back to Wesley. “We’re all meeting there tomorrow.”

  “Okay, see ya. Night, Sis.”

  “Good night.” She disconnected the call, and exhaled. She’d confront Wesley with the results of the drug test another time.

  Carlotta sighed. It would be nice if the Wrens could taper things down to one crisis at a time.

  4

  The next morning, Wesley approached the metal detector in the government building where he worked for Atlanta Systems Services—ASS for short—his body screaming for a hit of Oxy. A war raged in his head, his hands shook as if he had palsy, and his nerve-endings fired at will. It had taken him twice as long to ride to work because he’d had to concentrate to keep from swerving his bicycle into traffic. He was hoping the worst of the pain would be over before he clocked in, but it seemed to be escalating. He used his sleeve to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.

  Yesterday his coworker Meg Vincent had nailed him for using his community service job as a cover for tapping the city’s legal databases to gather information on his dad’s case. When he’d left at noon, she hadn’t decided whether or not to turn him in. Considering that he’d left her high and dry at a hoity-toity reception with her parents earlier in the week, he wouldn’t blame her if she did. Meg’s father, a renowned geneticist, had hired a P.I. to tail Wesley, presumably to u
ncover enough dirt on him to keep Wes away from his precious daughter. According to Dr. Vincent, the only reason Meg had invited Wesley to the reception was to make her father crazy. Too late, Wesley realized Dr. Vincent had probably just been taunting him, hoping he’d react exactly the way he had. When he’d tried to apologize to Meg for leaving the reception, she’d cut him off with her revelation that she knew what he was doing at ASS. So, after pissing her off, his balls were now in her hands.

  Wesley thought it would be better not to be high in case the police were waiting for him at the ASS office to toss him in the clink for abusing his community service job and violating probation. But with a vise tightening around his temples, he was rethinking that thought.

  “You okay?” a security guard asked as he walked up to the detector.

  “Hungover,” Wes said, trying to look sheepish instead of like a domestic terrorist.

  The guard grinned. “Been there. Eat a banana, man—always helps me.”

  Wesley nodded his thanks, then stepped through the detector and retrieved his backpack from the scanner belt.

  To delay his arrival as long as possible, he took the elevator to the top of the building, then rode back down to the seventh floor. When the doors opened, he looked out expectantly. When he didn’t see any police uniforms or his boss Richard McCormick standing there ready to call him on the carpet, he stepped off and strolled toward his assigned work area.

  Meg Vincent was already sitting at the four-plex workstation they shared with Ravi Chopra and Jeff Spooner, but she didn’t even glance Wes’s way when he dropped into his chair. He sat there for a few minutes, listening to himself breathe, waiting like a peasant for Her Highness to acknowledge him.

  His head was a metal bucket full of rocks. It hurt to blink. Through the haze of pain, though, he perceived that she was wearing snug black pants and a pale green blouse that was done up one button too high for him to appreciate it. A flowered headband held her dark blond hair away from her face. The purple smudges under her eyes made them look even greener, but he was relatively sure whatever sleep she’d lost hadn’t been over him.