“Okay, sure.” Kendall pulled a half-eaten sandwich out of his pocket and settled on a stool in front of a monitor showing an autopsy in progress.
Wes left the morgue and entered the main part of the hospital. From there, he rode the elevator to the floor where he’d followed Coop. After he stepped off the elevator, it took him a while to get his bearings, but he managed to retrace his steps back to the neurologist’s office where he’d seen Coop sitting in the waiting room. The place was studded with patients, a few of them clearly in some stage of radiation or chemotherapy. His throat convulsed. Some people got dealt a shitty hand.
He walked up to the receptionist’s desk and gave the young woman there his best sad smile. “Hi. My last name is Craft. I’ve forgotten when my next appointment is. I was hoping you could look it up for me?”
She smiled. “No problem. Who’s your doctor?”
Wesley glanced down at the stack of business cards on the counter, but the names of at least five doctors were listed for the practice.
He touched his forehead and squinted. “I’m sorry—this is so embarrassing. My memory is completely shot. I guess that’s why I forgot my appointment.”
“That’s okay, sir. What’s your date of birth?”
He could guess at the year Coop was born, but didn’t have a clue about the date. “Uh…I don’t know.”
“It would be on your driver’s license,” said a male voice behind him.
Wesley turned to see Meg’s father, Dr. Harold Vincent, standing a few feet away. Wes almost swallowed his tongue. “Um…I don’t have a driver’s license.”
“Mr. Craft forgot the date of his next appointment,” the young woman told the older man, then tapped her forehead in what Wesley presumed was supposed to be a discreet gesture.
Dr. Vincent stepped forward to pass the receptionist a thick stack of files, then looked back to Wesley with a smirk. “So today it’s Mr. Craft?”
“I, uh…actually was asking for a friend. How are you, Dr. Vincent?”
The man ignored his greeting. “This hospital doesn’t give out personal information on any of its patients. So unless you have business of your own here, you should leave.”
Wesley frowned. “I’m at the hospital on business for the county morgue.”
“Oh, yes…the body moving. I believe I saw that on a resume.”
“You mean on a background check, don’t you?”
The man’s mouth pinched. “The last time I looked, Wren, the morgue was in the basement. If I see you around here again trying to pull another con, I’ll call the police.”
“You’re just trying to keep me away from Meg.”
The doctor squinted, then looked into Wes’s eyes. “Oh, and you’re high on something, too. Figures.”
Wes pulled back, assuming his pupils were dilated. “I took a couple of pain pills for a migraine.”
“Right.” Dr. Vincent made a rueful noise. “The point is, I don’t have to do anything to keep you away from Meg. Punks like you implode on your own. It’s just a matter of time before my daughter figures you out.”
Dr. Vincent turned to the receptionist and pointed to Wesley. “He’s leaving now. If he shows his face in here again, call security.”
Then the man strode away, leaving Wes feeling like a…punk. If Meg Vincent had ever been within his reach, she had just slipped a little farther away.
18
Carlotta juggled her cell phone while she pulled the strap of the slingback sandal over her heel. “So it looks like Coop will be out of jail by morning,” she said to Hannah, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Technically, he could’ve been released after the arraignment yesterday except there was some glitch in the system that monitors the GPS ankle bracelets.” She hopped across the bedroom into the bathroom, putting on the other sandal in the process. “But all that matters is he’s getting out of that horrible place.”
Silence rang across the line.
Carlotta frowned at her phone, then tapped the microphone. “Hannah, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“What’s wrong with you? This is great news!”
Hannah sighed. “Carlotta, maybe Coop belongs in jail.”
She stopped. “Don’t tell me you actually believe Coop is The Charmed Killer.”
“Okay, let’s just put that aside for now. Have you considered for even a moment that Coop might be in danger when he’s out—from the public, or from…himself?”
Carlotta dropped into a vanity chair. “No. I don’t think Coop would hurt himself. Do you?”
Tension vibrated over the line. “Sweetie, you need to accept the fact that Coop might’ve undergone some sort of personality change. Maybe he suffered a nervous breakdown or some kind of posttraumatic disorder from all his years of seeing the worst of what can happen to people. Or maybe he really is sick. Maybe there’s more to him being at that neurologist’s office than he wants anyone to know.”
Carlotta pressed her lips together and picked at the hem of her skirt. “Rainie Stephens said she’d try to find out about the neurologist. Meanwhile, can’t you let me be optimistic? The prosecutor’s case isn’t rock solid if Liz Fischer was able to convince the judge to give Coop bail. That has to be a good sign.”
“Bail was set at a million bucks. That’s not exactly a vote of confidence. I’m wondering if the judge assumed that Coop couldn’t make that kind of bail. Not many people could,” Hannah added in a suspicious tone.
“He probably put up a property bond,” Carlotta said. “No doubt his building in Castleberry Hill is worth a nice sum.”
“Still.”
From downstairs, Peter called her name. Carlotta turned her head. “I gotta run.”
“Big plans tonight?”
“Peter is taking me to dinner at the new tapas place in midtown.”
“You mean Morsels?”
“Right. Have you eaten there?”
“Yeah. You might want to take a snack with you. The portions are minuscule.”
Carlotta laughed. “It’s supposed to be the hottest restaurant in town. Peter had to pull strings to get us reservations.”
“I’ll add string-puller to his list of good qualities,” Hannah muttered.
“Do you and Dough Boy have plans?” Carlotta asked sweetly.
“Are you and Peter going to have a quickie before you go?”
Carlotta frowned. “I’m hanging up.”
“Me, too.”
Carlotta stabbed a button to end the call, irritated. Hannah’s comment reminded her of all the sex she wasn’t having with Peter, and how awkward things had become between them in the intimacy department. Both of them seemed content not to force the issue.
But she knew it was one of the reasons Peter had pushed for setting a date to go to Vegas. A change of venue would be good for both of them, to get away from the stress and ghosts plaguing both of them here.
“Carly,” Peter called up the stairs again. “We need to leave soon if we’re going to make our reservation.”
“Two minutes,” she called back, then pushed to her feet and reached for her makeup bag. She added blush to her cheeks and stroked on red lipstick, then ran a brush through her hair in broad strokes, opting to leave it loose around her shoulders.
She considered changing purses to something smaller, but she’d promised Jack she would keep the stun baton with her at all times. So she dropped her cell phone into her shoulder bag and went downstairs. Peter waited at the bottom, smiling up at her. Her heart squeezed with affection.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It was worth the wait,” he said, reaching up to clasp her hand.
It was a beautiful summer night. Carlotta felt a pang for the absence of the Porsche convertible, but the sunroof in Peter’s luxury SUV let in the stars. A few minutes into the drive, Peter’s cell phone rang.
He picked it up and frowned. “It’s Brody Jones, I have to take this.”
“Of course,” she murmured, i
nstantly anxious. Brody Jones was chief legal counsel for Mashburn & Tully. From the side of the conversation she could hear, she knew the topic was the connection between her father and Alicia Sills.
When Peter ended the call, his face was creased. “Brody wants to go with me when I talk to the GBI tomorrow.”
“Why? You’re not under suspicion.”
“Brody is concerned that the GBI or the D.A.’s office will use this as an excuse to look into the company’s records.”
“Look for what?”
He hesitated. “Evidence that your father has been corresponding with someone in the building over the years.”
She scoffed. “With Alicia Sills? That’s ridiculous.”
“Probably,” he conceded. “But Brody is concerned that even if Randolph has nothing to do with The Charmed Killer case, the D.A. will see this as an opportunity to nose around for information that might be relevant in your father’s fraud case.” His mouth flattened. “And after all, your father did contact me.”
Her pulse jumped. “Have you told anyone?”
“No. But if the company’s phone records are subpoenaed, I’d have to think they’d be looking closely at mine.”
“Because of our relationship?”
He nodded.
She closed her eyes briefly. “I’m so sorry Randolph got you involved. If you want to tell the GBI about the phone call when you talk to them tomorrow, you should.”
“It’s not relevant to the case they’re working on.”
“I know, but I don’t want this to blow up in your face, Peter. You can’t risk the appearance that you’re aiding and abetting my father.”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry.”
She smiled back, but anxiety still gnawed at her as Peter held open the door for her at the restaurant.
Morsels was tucked into a large former single-family residence on Juniper Street, one block off Peachtree. True to its reputation, the place was packed. The inside had been gutted, with only the beamed ceilings bearing testament to the original interior design. The lighting was dim and lively piano music sounded from a far corner. Their table wasn’t ready yet, so they stepped into the bar area to order a drink.
“How about champagne?” Peter asked.
Her thoughts immediately went to the charm on her bracelet of the two flutes touching, overflowing with bubbly, celebrating…something. “Champagne makes me a little headachy. Would you mind if we had wine instead?”
“Of course not. Whatever you want.”
She chastised herself for being superstitious. But right now, she didn’t want to risk doing something that might rip a hole in the fabric of the universe.
While the piano tinkled in the background, they sipped a buttery white burgundy wine and made small talk.
“Someone is coming out to repair the fountain Saturday,” Peter said.
A flush warmed her neck. “Have I apologized today for demolishing the fountain and your car?”
He winked. “It was an accident. Insurance will take care of everything. Just think of it as…a contribution to the economy.”
She laughed. “When are you getting a new Porsche?”
“Soon,” he said, toying with the stem of his glass. “Or maybe not.”
“But you loved that car.”
“Yes, but it’s not very practical.”
“That’s not really the point of owning a sports car, is it?”
“No. But I’m at a different point in my life than when I bought the Porsche. Then it was just me and Angie, and we didn’t plan to have a family.”
Carlotta nearly choked on her wine.
Peter gave her a little smile. “So I think I’ll hold off for now.”
She was saved from responding by the hostess arriving to say their table was available. As they were led to their seats, Carlotta did a double-take when she recognized the couple seated at an adjacent table—Jack…
And Maria.
And the way their heads were together, they weren’t discussing blood-spatter patterns.
“Hello,” Carlotta said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
They looked up and separated guiltily. “Hi, Carlotta,” Jack said stiffly. Then he stood and extended his hand to Peter. “Small world.”
“Yes,” Carlotta murmured in agreement.
Maria hid her reaction by taking a sip from her water glass.
“Peter, you remember Detective Maria Marquez,” Carlotta said.
“Good to see you again,” Peter said.
“Yes, you look well,” Maria said, referring to the last time she’d seen him—stretched out on Carlotta’s couch recovering from an accidental zap from Carlotta’s stun baton. Maria nodded to Carlotta. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Dismissed, Carlotta moved woodenly to her seat. Peter held out her chair and murmured in her ear, “Do you want to get another table?”
“Don’t be silly,” she whispered back. It wasn’t as if their tables were close enough to hear each other’s conversations.
Darn it.
From where she was sitting, she had a perfect view of the couple, just over Peter’s shoulder. Their server gave them menus. Carlotta pretended to study the small plate items while reeling inside—and peeking over the top. Maria wore a clingy brown sleeveless dress and strappy sandals. Jack wore tan slacks and a black collarless dress shirt. It was clear they hadn’t just left the office and dropped in for a beer before going home.
“What looks good?” Peter asked.
She jerked her gaze back to the menu. “Um…everything. You pick.”
“Why don’t we start with an olive tray?”
“Uh…sure.” She glanced back to the table next to theirs, noting the couple seemed to be concentrating on eating.
“Carly.”
She looked back to Peter. “Yes?”
“Are you going to be distracted by Jack and his girlfriend all evening?”
She frowned. “I’m not distracted. I was looking at what they ordered.” She turned her head and nodded to a saucer of colorful food the couple on the other side of them was sharing. “Is that paella? It looks good.”
Peter gave her a pointed look, then nodded to her glass. “Finish your wine.”
She lifted her glass for an obligatory sip. “Do you think I have time to go to the ladies’ room before they bring the appetizers?”
“Probably.”
“I’ll be right back,” she promised, then shouldered her bag and walked past Jack and Maria’s table. Once she was out of Peter’s sight, she stopped a server. “Is there somewhere I can step outside to smoke?”
The waiter nodded. “There’s a covered stoop through that door at the end of the hall.”
Carlotta hurried down the hall, then pushed open the door to step out onto a small concrete pad. Hemmed with a thin metal railing, the stoop faced a line of trees about ten yards away. Light from the house on the other side filtered through the shadows of the thick foliage.
She slid out a cigarette and lit it quickly. The first drag soothed her frayed nerves a bit, but as she chewed a thumbnail, the hurt she’d been keeping at bay descended, swamping her chest. When Jack hadn’t pursued a relationship with her beyond their few trysts, she’d assumed he wasn’t looking for a relationship, period. Yet here he was, on a date with Maria, in a nice restaurant Carlotta would’ve sworn he wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Obviously he was making exceptions for the new woman in his life that surpassed simply dressing better.
She took another drag on the cigarette, irritated with herself that seeing Jack with Maria bothered her so much. She had Peter. She’d been living in his house for a couple of weeks now, and was planning to go to Vegas with him next week. Why should she care who Jack slept with?
She gave a little laugh—that was it. When she’d thought he was only sleeping with Maria, it wasn’t so bad. But dating Maria? Taking her to nice places and being seen in public? That signaled…commitment.
&n
bsp; From inside her purse, Carlotta’s phone rang. She removed it and glanced at the caller ID screen to see Rainie Stephens’s name appear. Curious, she connected the call. “Hi, Rainie.”
“Hi, Carlotta. Is this a bad time?”
“It’s fine, but I only have a couple of minutes. Great news about Coop getting bail, huh?”
“Yeah. That means the D.A. doesn’t have a slam-dunk case even in the one murder they charged him for, the Alderman woman.”
“I wasn’t on that scene,” Carlotta said, taking another puff on the cigarette. “But I remember my brother talking about it.”
“I was able to get my hands on what kind of DNA was recovered at the scene. It was a pair of latex gloves with Coop’s fingerprints on the inside, plus saliva on a paper cup found in the kitchen trash.”
Carlotta scoffed. “Both of those things could’ve been planted.”
“I know. I’m just telling you what the D.A. has.”
“Were you able to find out anything about Coop’s visit to the neurologist?”
“Not yet, still checking. But I did think of something we could do that might flush out Michael Lane.”
Carlotta took another drag. “What?”
“How do you think he’d react to a story in the paper announcing that you’d agreed to write an expose on him for a tabloid? You know, air his dirty laundry?”
“I think he’d be furious. Michael could be flamboyant, but he didn’t like other people knowing his business.”
“I noticed that on the profile, which is why I suggested it.”
“Profile?”
“Yeah. I got my hands on a report that a profiler with the APD used to analyze suspects and compare them to the one created for The Charmed Killer.”
Carlotta smirked. “Really? Tell me about the profile for The Charmed Killer.”
The sound of papers being shuffled sounded in the background. “UNSUB is male, aged twenty-five to fifty, probably Caucasian. He probably has a dysfunctional relationship with his mother. He’s a loner who struggles with authority. He holds a job that he feels is inferior. Feels wronged by society. Has above-average intelligence, is admired by peers and coworkers. Is well-read and compelled to achieve, but tends to misrepresent ability. Craves approval, but is private and paranoid. Narcissistic, not a joiner. Could be a physician or someone in the medical field. Has a credible, non-threatening appearance to gain trust of victims. Physically fit. Probable scouting, military, or police background, or otherwise trained in killing methods.”
6 Killer Bodies Page 15
