Halfway through the game he was losing money and concentration, so he chewed another hit of Oxy. But instead of returning his pleasant, happy high and laser focus, the dose slowed him down. Everything seemed gluey and distorted. The cards felt thick and unwieldy in his hands. He had problems keeping up with the bets, and couldn’t recall if a flush beat a straight. Because he misread tells—body language from other players that hinted at the strength of their hand—he wound up bluffing when he shouldn’t, and holding when he should’ve folded. He played like a rube.
And in under two hours, he lost it all.
When Wesley saw the last of The Carver’s money being raked away by some schmuck named Baron wearing a Rolex, he panicked. He’d just lost ten thousand dollars that belonged to a man who’d earned a reputation by cutting people into pieces. He pushed to his feet and stumbled out of the house where he threw up in the bushes.
He sat down on the ground in the shadows of the house and tried to breathe. His mind chugged, desperately searching for a way out. Then he brightened—he could borrow the money from Chance. He dug out his main cell phone while staring at the screen of the dedicated phone that Mouse had given him. Damn, the big man had called three times.
Wes clumsily punched in Chance’s number and prayed while the phone rang. “Come on…come on,” he pleaded, but Chance didn’t answer. Probably banging Hannah.
Wes cursed and held his heavy head in his hands, trying to think. The red phone vibrated, the screen flashing insistently. Wesley groaned and started to press “decline.” Then he stopped. Something was working hard to push through the fog in his brain. Finally the thought slid into place.
Mouse didn’t know he’d collected the money. Jett was on his way out of town. All he had to do was pretend he hadn’t found the guy. The Carver would be upset, but that was better than admitting he’d lost the man’s money in a damn card game.
With his mind made up, he connected the call. “Yeah, Mouse?”
“Where you been?”
“Looking for Logan, man. He’s Mr. Invisible. I’ve been all over this campus. He’s nowhere. I found a couple of people who know him and they said he’s already skipped town.”
Mouse uttered a curse questioning Logan’s relationship with his mother. “Okay, if he’s gone, he’s gone.”
“I’ll keep looking,” Wes offered magnanimously.
“Good. Are you okay? You sound high.”
“High?” Wes scoffed. “No, man, I’m just tired. From looking for Logan,” he added for good measure.
“Okay, let me know if you find the fucker. Otherwise, we’ll sort things out Monday.”
“Okay,” Wes murmured, weak with relief. He ended the call, congratulating himself for talking his way out of a serious jam.
Suddenly fatigue overwhelmed him. His limbs felt like lead. His head was an anvil. His bicycle might as well have been a mile away. Even if he made his way to the bike rack and managed to get it unlocked, he’d never be able to ride it except maybe into a tree. Wes considered the cool ground underneath him, the soft, overgrown grass. He gauged the distance between the foundation of the house and the bushes. There was enough room for a skinny dude to grab a nap. He crawled into the space and pulled a few dry leaves over him to ward off the damp chill.
Damn women trying to convince him he needed to do something with his life. His life was fine, just the way it was. He had everything under control.
14
Sunday morning in the suburbs was depressing, Carlotta decided. In Lindbergh, she was accustomed to hearing neighborhood noise and church bells, something to remind her that people were nearby. Here in Peter’s subdivision, there was just this pervasive, profound silence. It was maddening.
She stood on the veranda outside her bedroom, smoking a cigarette. Yesterday’s marathon of digging into details surrounding The Charmed Killer case had left her confused and afraid. Every turn had led back to Coop. The tumor of anxiety in her stomach when she thought of him locked away in the city detention center was rivaled only by the sympathy she felt for the victims. To have one’s death so horribly showcased—it was abominable.
And it was just the kind of media spectacle that Michael would revel in. But if he was The Charmed Killer, why hadn’t he struck again? Had he suspended his killing spree to make Coop look more guilty? Would Michael vanish into thin air, satisfied with getting away with one of the most hideous series of murders the city had ever seen? Or would he wait until Coop was convicted, then kill again to show everyone that he still had the upper hand?
She shivered in the warm morning air, then took another drag on the cigarette. Her hand shook and she felt antsy all over. She needed to do something. All this waiting was eating at her.
At a noise below, she walked to the edge of the veranda and looked down. Peter was unrolling a hose, preparing to spray down the stone and concrete surfaces around the pool and the pool house. He wore only swim trunks. He was tall and lean, built like an elegant athlete. The muscles in his tanned chest and back bunched as he moved. His blond hair shone in the morning sun. Her chest expanded with feminine appreciation—he was gorgeous. And he’d been so good to her since he’d come back into her life. But it worried her that they couldn’t seem to get back in sync, not the way they’d been when they were younger.
He glanced up and saw her, then grinned and waved. She dropped the hand holding the cigarette behind her and waved with the other. When he looked back to his task, she sneaked another drag, then snubbed out the butt. If Peter was going to be busy for a while, she could use the computer to do more research before she left for work. He’d told her she could help herself to it whenever she wanted, but she knew he’d object to her delving into The Charmed Killer case. Last night over dinner in a nearby restaurant the subject hadn’t even come up. Of course, Peter had thought she’d been working all day instead of driving all over town playing Sherlock.
She ducked back inside the house and closed the door, then grabbed the notebook holding all the details on the case and jogged downstairs. Her footsteps echoed through the big, empty house.
Peter’s office featured a state-of-the-art desktop computer system with a large hi-res monitor, plus a scanner, a black-and-white printer, a color printer, and video equipment. Nearby was another station where Peter used his laptop. A bookcase full of technical and business reference books lined one side of the room.
A wry smile curved her mouth—Wesley would love it here. He’d always been such a techno geek. In fact, he’d made enough money working on other people’s home computers to cobble together a system for himself. But all of his equipment had been confiscated when he’d been arrested for hacking into the courthouse records, and terms of his probation prohibited him from working around computers except as part of his community service.
She shook her head. He’d risked jail to try to get information on Randolph’s case. It was more than their father would do for either one of them.
“Where are you, Dad?” she whispered as she sat down in front of the monitor. While the machine booted up, she scanned her notes. Where to start?
She decided to search for recent articles on The Charmed Killer case, to see if any new details had come to light. The number of media hits was astronomical, and after several minutes of tedious skimming, she hadn’t discovered anything new. What she needed was underground info. Wes had once given her tips on using search engines, advising using more formal language when searching for sources with legitimacy, and informal language for more unofficial sources. She reframed her searches to include words such as “rumor,” “gossip” and “leak,” and found more interesting fare.
One was a blog maintained by someone who called himself Ear To The Ground. He claimed that a source in the Georgia State crime lab reported that latex gloves with fingerprints, hairs, and other personal objects on The Charmed Killer crime scenes were matched to the suspect in custody.
Carlotta murmured a cry of dismay.
“What’s wrong?�
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She looked up to see Peter standing in the doorway. He had donned a T-shirt, and his cheeks were pink from sun and exertion.
“Nothing,” she said, trying to switch the screen to something innocuous, but fumbling over the keyboard.
His gaze fell on the notebook at her elbow. He’d found it once before and chastised her for playing detective. Peter frowned and walked over to the printer, then flipped through the news items she’d printed. He held them up, his expression pinched. “I thought we talked about this, about you not getting involved.”
“We did,” she murmured. “I’m just…uh, surfing to see if my dad’s name has been brought up again in connection with the case.”
“Really? Then where were you yesterday?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I dropped by the store, and you weren’t there. Your boss told me you weren’t scheduled to work.”
Anger spiked through her chest. “You were checking up on me?”
“No.” He looked sheepish. “I brought you lunch.”
She looked down, contrite. “Why didn’t you say anything last night at dinner?”
“I hoped you were doing something with friends, enjoying yourself. But you weren’t, were you?”
She pursed her mouth. “I did have lunch with a friend.”
“Hannah?”
“No.” She wet her lips. “Rainie Stephens.”
His mouth tightened. “The AJC journalist who happens to be the lead reporter on The Charmed Killer story?”
“Uh…right. And I did go to the mall.”
“To shop?”
“Not exactly. I…was hoping to find where the killer might have bought the charms.”
He wiped his hand over his mouth. “Carly, why are you doing this? The Charmed Killer is in custody.”
“Because I don’t believe Coop did it. He told me—” She stopped and her cheeks warmed.
“He told you what?”
“Coop told me he was glad I was here with you, glad that I was safe. He wouldn’t have told me that unless he knew The Charmed Killer was still out there.”
Peter crossed his arms. “When did he tell you this?”
She hesitated. “When I went to see him in jail.”
Peter’s head went back, as if he’d been hit. “The authorities just let you in to chat with a serial killer?”
“I…might’ve fudged a little about my and Coop’s…relationship.”
He clenched his jaw. “I assume you didn’t tell them you were his sister?”
“Uh, no. But it was for a good reason, Peter. I had to talk to him. I had to look in his eyes and see for myself.”
“And what did you see?”
“He’s wrestling with demons, there’s no doubt about it. But I don’t believe he did these things, not Coop.”
“You trusted Michael Lane, too,” he reminded her quietly.
“This is different.” She stood and turned off the computer, then took the papers from his hands and shoved them in the notebook. “I’m sorry, Peter, but I have to see this through.” She glanced at her watch. “And I have to get to work.”
He looked dubious.
“Really,” she said. “I have to go to work.” She brushed by him, her chest tight with frustration—at him, and at herself. And at the general disarray of her life.
A few minutes later, as she backed the Honda rental out of the garage, she stopped to stare at the remains of the beautiful concrete fountain that had once sent sheets of water cascading down, a lovely centerpiece for the circular driveway. Now it was a broken mass of rock because she’d sideswiped it with Peter’s Porsche, which had toppled the entire structure—into his car. In one fell swoop she’d demolished both the fountain and his beloved sports car.
And still he put up with her.
Carlotta drove toward the Lenox Square Mall, racked with guilt. Was she subconsciously testing Peter to see how far he was willing to go to make up for abandoning her when they were younger? He knew she was up to her gapped front teeth in debt. He didn’t approve of her body-moving activities. He hated her smoking. She’d asked him to conceal a phone call from her fugitive father from the APD. She’d convinced Peter and herself they had a future in order to keep him from taking a job in New York because she didn’t want to risk losing the flimsy connection to her father in case he tried to contact Peter again. And now she’d asked Peter to conceal evidence from the GBI about Randolph’s involvement with one of the recent murder victims. And all of this was under the strain of their unsuccessful attempts at lovemaking.
By the time she parked the Civic in the parking garage at the mall, she’d decided to ask Wesley how soon they could move back to the townhouse. Sure the place was in shambles, but the security system worked, so she would feel safe. And with Hannah spending more time at Chance’s place, Wes would probably be amenable to coming home and the two of them could work on repairs in their spare time.
On the way into Neiman’s, her cell phone rang—it was Hannah.
She connected the call. “Hey, Hannah, what’s up?”
“Okay, I feel like a total narc, but I thought you should know.”
Carlotta’s pulse spiked. “Should know what?”
“Your brother just rolled in looking like he spent the night in a ditch. He’s also stoned.”
“Oh, no.” Carlotta stopped just outside the store entrance and choked back sudden tears. “What should I do?”
“Nothing for now. He’s getting ready to make some body runs with that goober Kendall Abrams. Chance has cut off his supply, even if Wes has the money.”
“Oh, God, that’s a relief.”
“But if he has a stash somewhere, it might take a while for him to run out.”
“I was just thinking we should both move back to the townhouse soon. I can keep a better eye on him there.”
“I’ll let you have that conversation with your brother. By the way, Chance and I have a list of those, um, chemical outlets you asked for…and Chance did some drive-by research last night along Ponce de Leon Avenue.”
Where a buffet of prostitutes could be found any night of the week. Hopefully one of them had known Pepper.
“I have some information to share, too,” Carlotta murmured. Maybe between the four of them, they could think of reasons to explain away the coincidences that incriminated Coop. “I have to talk to the GBI again in the morning. Can we meet at the townhouse at one to discuss what we found?”
“Yeah. I’ll make sure Wes knows.”
She sighed. “Okay. Thanks, Hannah, for the heads up.”
“Ah, well, the shithead’s like a brother to me. I don’t want him to screw up his sorry life. Later.”
“Bye,” she said, then ended the call. Carlotta pressed the little phone to her mouth to stem the tide of panic that rose in her throat. If Wesley didn’t kick this habit, it would eventually consume him. The information describing OxyContin addiction she’d found online was harrowing. Wesley could die.
“Carlotta, are you okay?”
She turned to see Patricia Alexander walking toward her, wearing a pink Chanel skirt suit and white pumps. Carlotta straightened and dropped the phone into her purse, unwilling to reveal too much about her personal life to Patricia. “I’m fine, thanks. Just getting ready to go inside. Are you on today?”
“Yes, until closing.”
“Me, too.” Carlotta held open the door for her coworker and followed her inside Neiman’s. “Patricia, you should know that Michael Lane was sighted at a cigar bar in town last weekend, and his hair is now blond.”
Patricia’s eyes widened. “Blond? I’ll bet he looks hideous.”
Carlotta smiled wryly at the woman’s back. “Maybe that’ll make him easier to spot.”
They walked through the store to the employee break room. “Looks busy today,” Patricia remarked, but she seemed distracted.
“Good. That always makes the day go by more quickly.”
“And the bills
,” Patricia said softly as she swiped her employee ID through a card reader to unlock the door to the break room.
Carlotta gave her coworker a sideways glance. Patricia had descended from old, big money, the kind that came with cobwebs and professional oversight. Carlotta had always assumed Patricia only worked because she wanted to, which enabled her to maintain her status in social circles. Employment in a nonprofessional capacity, especially for women, was looked down upon only if one had to do it. What kind of bills could someone like Patricia have?
Taped to the front of their lockers was a memo. Patricia groaned. “Inventory starts next Tuesday. I assume you’re going to take vacation like most of the old-timers so you can get out of it.”
Carlotta frowned. “It’s called seniority.” Then she grinned. “And yes.”
When they stored their purses, Carlotta noticed that Patricia’s expression was tight and she seemed nervous.
“I didn’t mean to worry you when I told you about Michael,” Carlotta offered.
“That’s not what’s bothering me,” the young woman said, then closed her locker with a sigh. “I’m…concerned about Leo.”
“Your boyfriend, Leo? What’s wrong?”
Patricia fingered the lion charm on her bracelet, which she believed meant she’d been destined to meet Leo. Carlotta didn’t put as much faith in the charms as Patricia, but it was hard to argue, especially since the woman’s bracelet also featured a tiny baseball mitt and Leo Tennyson played for the Atlanta Braves farm team.
“It’s…nothing I can put my finger on.” Patricia lifted her gaze. “He just seems…dark. Moody. Maybe a little…I don’t know—compulsive.”
Unease bubbled in Carlotta’s stomach. She’d met Leo Tennyson once, the night of the club auction. Patricia had gushed that they were late because his practice with the Gwinnett Braves had run long. Carlotta’s encounter with the man had been brief, but he’d struck her as surly and a bit arrogant. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt, though, since she assumed he was tired, and from the stiff way he’d held himself in the tuxedo, that he was uncomfortable in the posh setting. “Can you be more specific?”
6 Killer Bodies Page 11
