6 Killer Bodies

by Stephanie Bond

  25

  “So, what did Jack want back there?” Peter asked as they drove home.

  Carlotta chewed on her thumbnail as Jack’s accusations whirled in her head. If you hadn’t been trying to protect Coop, things could’ve gone differently…maybe Maria would still be alive…Why don’t you stop trying to fix everything else and get your own affairs in order? Even now, his words cut to the bone.

  “He’s a little upset that I’ve been poking around asking questions.”

  “I can understand why. He just lost his partner to this maniac. He doesn’t want another death on his conscience.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” she murmured.

  “I know,” he said, reaching over to stroke her arm. “And Jack knows, too.”

  “Why would Wesley just disappear?”

  “He wouldn’t. I’m sure there’s an explanation.” Peter winked. “He’s probably with a girl.”

  “He’s been sleeping with Liz Fischer, you know.”

  “His attorney? Wow.”

  She slugged him in the arm.

  “I’m not saying I approve, it’s just that…isn’t he like, nineteen?”

  “Yeah, and she’s like fortysomething. She was my dad’s attorney.”

  “Yeah, I seem to remember that.”

  “Liz was also my dad’s mistress.”

  “Okay, that sounds…complicated.”

  Carlotta scoffed. “That’s putting it nicely.”

  “What about the girl we saw with Wes at Screen on the Green? She looked to be his age.”

  “Meg. Yeah, I think he likes her, but I’m not sure he knows what to do about it.”

  He laughed. “The age-old question.”

  She was quiet for a few minutes, studying her ragged nails. She used to pride herself on perfect salon manicures, but lately she’d fallen into the habit of nibbling them down to the quick. The last time Wes had “disappeared,” Peter had brought him home. It had taken some prying, but she’d finally gotten out of Wesley that The Carver had held him and tortured him. “Do you think that animal The Carver has him again?”

  “Let’s hope not,” Peter said carefully.

  “The other time…did you see the place where they held him?”

  “No. I picked him up at a gas station in east Atlanta.”

  “That’s not a very good part of town.”

  “Generally, no,” he agreed. “But Jack seemed to have some inside information, so let’s let him do his job.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap, brooding over a topic they’d never discussed because Peter had danced around it…and she hadn’t really wanted to know. “The last time Wes was in trouble, he was able to call you. So the man must’ve wanted something in return for releasing Wes.”

  Peter squirmed.

  “It was money, wasn’t it?”

  “Carly, that’s between me and Wes.”

  “But you did it because he’s my brother.”

  “Okay, yes, I helped him out of jam because he’s your brother. I happen to love you, and I know you love him. I didn’t think twice.”

  “How much did you have to pay?”

  “Please, don’t ask.”

  “Five thousand?” she pressed.

  “Carly—”

  “More? Ten thousand?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Omigod, more? Twenty thousand?”

  He pressed his lips together.

  Carlotta gasped. “Twenty-five thousand?”

  Peter swung his head to look at her. “It’s just money.”

  She covered her mouth. “Oh, Peter…I had no idea. How can we ever pay you back?”

  “It wasn’t a loan, it was a gift.” He dipped his chin. “And I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  Carlotta sat back, her mind reeling. She was overwhelmed at the lengths Peter was willing to go for her family…for her. And no matter what he said about the ransom being a gift, she felt obligated to pay him back…somehow.

  When they arrived at Peter’s home, he suggested they take a swim to relax. But she resisted, still melancholy over Maria’s death and worried sick about Wesley.

  And Coop.

  “I’m going to rest a while, then we can cook dinner together,” she said.

  He nodded and kissed her. “Don’t worry. Wes will be fine.”

  She climbed the stairs to her bedroom and turned on the news to watch while she changed out of the somber mourning clothes. Coop’s picture was plastered across the screen with a bold graphic “Charmed Killer on the Run” running across the bottom. A photograph of Maria Marquez in uniform flashed while the newscaster reminded viewers that Dr. Cooper Craft was considered armed and dangerous.

  “Coop, where are you?” she whispered.

  She retrieved her cell phone, pulled up Liz’s number and connected the call. She expected to leave a message, but Liz answered.

  “Hi, Carlotta.”

  “Liz, have you seen Wes?”

  “Not since last Saturday,” she said in a tone that indicated she was irritated with him. “Why?”

  “No one seems to know where he is. If you hear from him, will you have him call me?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any news about Coop.”

  Liz sighed. “Nothing good. The best possible scenario is Cooper calls me and I negotiate his surrender.”

  Carlotta could spin the worst-case scenarios on her own—and she’d been doing so since Jack had told her Coop was on the run.

  “I won’t tie up your line,” Carlotta said. “I just thought you might know where Wes is. Sorry to bother you.”

  “No trouble. If you talk to Wes before I do, ask him to call me. It’s…important.”

  “Okay. Bye, Liz.”

  Carlotta ended the call and wondered if Wesley had broken things off with Liz. He’d said he’d only slept with her to steal the confidential work-product file for Randolph. Now that they had it, maybe he’d decided to end his relationship with Liz to pursue Meg.

  She could only hope.

  Carlotta removed her cigarettes and lighter from her purse and walked out onto the veranda for a smoke. She lit one, then another for good measure and put both cigarettes in her mouth for a deep inhale.

  It was late afternoon on a cloudless summer day—a beautiful day to be buried. Detective Marquez’s casket was probably underground by now. She’d read somewhere that Maria was to be interred in Atlanta, in deference to her commitment to the city and to its people. Tears filled Carlotta’s eyes. Life wasn’t fair. People weren’t supposed to be cut down in the prime of their lives.

  Like the women Michael Lane had murdered. And all the victims of The Charmed Killer, whoever he was.

  Coop, where are you?

  She drew deeply on both cigarettes, sighing in relief as nicotine sped through her system, taking the edge off her anxiety. Pacing along the edge of the veranda, she watched Peter as he used a long-handled net to skim leaves off the surface of the pool. Her heart welled with affection—to think that he’d handed over all that money to save Wesley’s life. The fact that he hadn’t told her endeared her to him even more.

  The sound of a car pulling into the front circular driveway caught her attention. She walked to the other side of the veranda and looked down. Jack climbed out of the driver’s side of his dark sedan, then walked around to the trunk and removed a bike—Wesley’s bike. Her heart skipped a beat.

  After setting aside the bike, he walked back to the rear passenger door, opened it, and helped Wesley out. Her spirits buoyed, but even from this distance she could see her brother was in bad shape—he looked dazed and was having trouble walking. She raced back into her bedroom, snubbed out the cigarettes, and hurried downstairs to throw open the front door.

  Jack, still in his dress uniform, had his arm around Wesley’s shoulders. Wes looked pale and gaunt, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. His hair stuck up at all angles, and his jaw was scruffy with beard growth. His clot
hes were disheveled and filthy, and he smelled of urine and vomit.

  She was ready to crumble when she met Jack’s gaze over Wes’s head. His look telegraphed that she needed to be strong—and useful.

  “Grab his bag,” he said.

  She dashed to the car and pulled the backpack from the floorboard. “Bring him inside.”

  “He needs a bed.”

  Thinking it would be easier to get him downstairs than up, she said, “Take him to the bedroom in the basement.”

  She walked in front of them, opening doors and turning on lights. The basement of Peter’s house held a wine cellar, a home theater, and a bedroom suite with high-end furnishings that rivaled any room in the main part of the house. Jack helped Wes sit on the bed. When Wes lay down, his eyes instantly closed and he rolled into a fetal position with a groan.

  Carlotta started to go to him, but Jack pulled her back into the hall and closed the door.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “He’s going through detox.”

  “What? Where did you find him?”

  His mouth flattened. “Don’t ask.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m asking, Jack. Where did you find him?”

  He considered her silently, then seemed to relent. “With a man who works for Hollis Carver.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Apparently this guy was helping Wes detox from Oxy. He had him in a place where he could take care of him. Did you know Wes was hooked?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. “I gave him an ultimatum earlier this week about getting clean. But who is this guy and why would he care?”

  Jack averted his gaze.

  “Wait a minute. How did you know where to find Wes?”

  After much foot shuffling, he looked back to her. “As part of his plea agreement for the body-snatching incident, Wes agreed to snoop around in The Carver’s organization.”

  Her eyes widened. “He’s spying on a loan shark?”

  “Relax. He’s just riding along on collections and keeping his eyes open. He’s on the payroll, so he’s working down his debt, too. It was a good deal for Wes, all the way around.” He sighed. “But to be on the safe side, I had a GPS chip installed in the phone they gave him. I tracked it to his backpack in a car sitting outside a building, and I found them inside.”

  Her mind whirled. “So…Wes isn’t working for a courier?”

  “Only in the loosest interpretation.”

  “So he’s been lying to me.”

  “He had to,” Jack said. “That was part of the deal with the D.A.—no one could know except Liz and me. You can’t say anything, Carlotta. I know that’s like telling a cut not to bleed, but I’m telling you anyway.”

  “But it’s dangerous.”

  “So is jail,” he snapped. “Your brother got a break here. And the guy he works with obviously gives a damn about him to take this on. Detox is not pretty. You should be grateful.”

  All the fight drained out of her and she nodded. “You’re right. And I am grateful. What can I do?”

  “Apparently he’s through the worst of it.” Jack dug in his pocket. “Here—the guy who was taking care of him wrote down a few things. He’s say right now, Wes feels like he has the worst imaginable case of the flu.”

  She glanced at the list written in a masculine scribble.

  Valium to sleep

  Hot baths for muscle aches

  Imodium for the runs

  Strong mineral supplement

  B6 vitamins

  Gradual exercise

  Soft, bland food

  He should be fine in 24 hours.

  Her heart squeezed in appreciation for the person who had the knowledge and the patience to help Wes through what must have been an awful ordeal. “I can take it from here,” she said, then put her hand on Jack’s arm. “Thank you for finding him and bringing him to me.”

  His expression softened. “You’re welcome.”

  She stared into his gold-colored eyes, wishing she knew what made him tick.

  “I should go,” he said, turning to head toward the steps. She followed him upstairs and as they walked into the kitchen, the sliding glass door to the pool area opened. Peter stepped in and blinked when he saw Jack.

  “Jack brought Wesley home,” Carlotta explained. “I put him downstairs.”

  “Is he okay?”

  She nodded. “I’ll walk Jack out, then I’ll fill you in.”

  She followed Jack to his car, brimming with emotion. “This has been a terrible day for you, Jack, and here you are taking time out to do something for me.”

  “I need to stay busy,” he said, then tried to smile. “Luckily with you around, that’s not a problem.”

  She stepped forward and hugged him, pressing her face against his blue coat. “I’m so sorry about Maria.” She choked on the woman’s name.

  “I know. Me, too.” He put his arms around her waist and pulled her closer.

  After a long, warm moment, she stepped back and wiped the corners of her eyes.

  Jack cleared his throat, obviously struggling to maintain control. “Try to stay out of trouble,” he said gruffly, then climbed into this car and drove off.

  Carlotta went back into the house and relayed to Peter what had happened. “Is it okay if Wes stays here for a couple of days?”

  “He’s welcome to stay as long as he wants,” Peter said. “What can I do to help?”

  She smiled up at him, thinking how lucky she was to have him. “Can you loan him some clothes?”

  “Let’s go pick out a few things,” Peter said and they jogged up the stairs together. Carlotta ducked back into her room to turn off the television, but stopped when she saw a picture of an attractive blond woman flash on the screen. Something about her seemed familiar.

  She turned up the volume in time to hear the newscaster say, “Breaking news just in from the Fulton County Morgue in Atlanta. A positive ID has been made on the only unidentified victim of The Charmed Killer that was burned beyond recognition. The victim’s name is Casey Renee Sutcliffe from Jonesboro, Georgia. Twenty-seven-year-old Sutcliffe had not been reported missing—her family said she was between jobs, and she lived alone. They believed her to be fine until they received the call today from Chief Medical Examiner Bruce Abrams. Very sad news indeed.”

  Carlotta stared at the woman’s smiling face, and then recognition hit her hard, stealing her breath.

  One of the last times she’d seen Coop was at Moody’s Cigar Bar. He’d been drinking and behaving out of character, with a slinky woman draped over him.

  Casey Renee Sutcliffe.

  26

  Wes opened his eyes and groaned, then waited for the pain to barrel through his head. When it didn’t, he wondered if he was dead.

  If so, hell had a pretty comfy mattress.

  He turned his head, but didn’t recognize the dark room. Yellow light peeked in around the edges of a curtain. He pushed himself up gingerly and sucked in a breath at the overall soreness of his body. He felt as if he’d been turned inside out, and his memory was like Swiss cheese. He limped to the window and pulled aside the curtain. The sunlight blinded him. When he finally blinked the scene into focus, he was still confused. The window was level with the ground and he was looking out onto what appeared to be a side yard.

  He turned back to the room and searched for a light. He was in the basement of a house, but whose?

  The light revealed a nice, if boring, room that he’d never seen. He was wearing gray sweats and a T-shirt he didn’t recognize, and he was barefoot. His glasses were on a table next to the bed. He jammed them on to check the clock—9:37. In the morning, apparently.

  He went to the bathroom and found his backpack sitting in a corner. Both of his phones were dead, so he plugged in the charger and connected his main cell. When it powered up, the message on the screen said he’d missed twenty-seven calls.

  Christ, what day was it?

  His throat was parched
and his eyeballs felt dry. He filled a glass on the vanity with water from the sink and downed it, then washed his face. He found mouthwash and a comb in the medicine cabinet. He was so weak, he leaned into the vanity as he attempted to tame his hair that had dried sticking up.

  The water gurgled in his empty stomach. Damn, he was raw as hell. He had a faint recollection of violently expelling fluid from both ends. He felt utterly purged. And while the idea of popping an Oxy was mildly entertaining, his body wasn’t screaming for it.

  He still wasn’t sure what had transpired, but he felt better than he’d felt in weeks.

  After taking a whiz, he poked around the other rooms—a wine cellar and a home entertainment theater—and suddenly realized he was at Peter’s.

  He winced. That meant Carlotta was around somewhere, waiting with a sermon. He had no recollection of coming here, so this should be interesting.

  With the help of the handrail, he climbed the stairs and pushed open the door at the top, trying to piece together the fragments of his memory. He remembered Mouse taking him to The Carver’s warehouse and locking him in the bathroom. After that, things were sketchy. He recalled pain and convulsions…and being stabbed. He rubbed his arm under the T-shirt sleeve, noting no new gashes, but the muscle under one red spot was tender—as if he’d received a shot…or more than one.

  The kitchen was big and luxurious and empty. He listened for signs of life, but heard only the sound of distant pounding—like hammer meeting rock. He walked through the kitchen and into a combination sitting room/eating area. “Sis? Peter?” His throat was scratchy.

  The sliding glass door opened and Carlotta stepped inside. His heart thudded in his chest—she must hate him.

  When she saw him, though, her face lit up. “Hi. Nice to see you up and around.”

  He exhaled in abject relief that she wasn’t angry. “I’m still a little foggy. What day is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  His last recollection was of Wednesday. “What happened exactly?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sit and we’ll talk.”

  While she scrambled eggs and made toast, she told him the story that she’d cobbled together. Wes filled in the blanks silently with mounting incredulity. Apparently Mouse had taken him to the warehouse not to fillet him, but to get him off the Oxy.