6 Killer Bodies

by Stephanie Bond

  “I’m glad you’re clean,” she said, “but I wish you’d told someone you were going to detox. We were all worried sick about you.”

  “It was a last-minute decision,” he mumbled.

  “Your friend even gave Jack notes so we could take care of you,” she said, pushing a piece of paper in his direction.

  He glanced at the list. His memory of being strapped to a chair and stabbed was probably Mouse shooting him up with enough Valium to knock him out. He’d stripped him no doubt to make the puking and the diarrhea easier to deal with. And instead of holding him under water to drown him, he’d forced him into hot baths to alleviate the muscle cramps.

  The man was a fucking saint.

  “Sounds like I grossed everyone out,” Wes offered.

  “Obviously the worst of it was over by the time Jack brought you here yesterday. Peter got you in a hot shower and into clean clothes. I gave you a tablet of Valium and you fell back to sleep.” She pushed a plate of eggs toward him and poured a glass of orange Gatorade. “So…how do you feel?”

  He shoveled the eggs into his mouth and within a few bites, he could feel his energy returning. The drug had released its hold on him. “I’m good,” he said, stuffing buttered toast in his mouth. “Got any jelly?”

  She smiled and retrieved a jar of strawberry preserves from the refrigerator. “So…did it stick?”

  “What?”

  “The detox,” she said, wearing her mom face. “Have you quit Oxy for good?”

  Wes swallowed the food in his mouth, then took another drink and set down the glass. When he considered how lucky he was to have people around him who cared about him—maybe more than he cared about himself—he started to choke up. He cleared his throat and thumped his fist on his chest to regain his composure. Then he lifted his gaze to Carlotta’s and said, “Sis, I swear, I’ll never do drugs again. That stuff will eat your brain—I was stupid on Oxy.”

  She smiled and reached across the bar to hug his neck. “I love you.”

  He made a face. “I love you, too.”

  Carlotta laughed. “I know that hurt, but thanks. It’s good to have you back.”

  He dove back into his breakfast with gusto. “So what did I miss?”

  From the way Carlotta’s face blanched, he knew something bad had happened. With brimming tears, she told him about Maria Marquez’s murder and Coop’s disappearance. When she told him that the burned body had been identified and also linked to Coop by several eyewitnesses—her included—his heart sank.

  “So Coop really is The Charmed Killer?” he said.

  Carlotta didn’t respond, just busied herself cleaning up the kitchen. He could tell the stress of worrying about Coop was wearing on her.

  “Coop has dug his own grave,” Wes said. “You gotta let it go, Sis.”

  She raked the remnants of his plate into the sink disposal with jerky motions. “I know.” She turned on the machine, and a few seconds later when she flipped it off, she seemed to have pushed aside the dark thoughts for the moment. “Liz wants you to call her. She said it was important.”

  “Okay.” But inside he was wincing. He hadn’t spoken to Liz since fleeing from her offer to sleep over last weekend. She was probably pissed, but she’d have to wait.

  He had another girl to see.

  The sound of the pounding he’d heard earlier had resumed. “What’s that noise?”

  “Peter’s fountain is being repaired,” she murmured. “While he’s busy supervising, I think I’ll run a couple of errands.”

  “Can I catch a ride to midtown?”

  She frowned. “Shouldn’t you rest?”

  “It’s important. Besides, I feel better than I have in a long time.”

  “Okay. I laundered your clothes—they’re in the closet in your room. Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”

  “Fifteen,” he said, then raced downstairs for a quick shower. He checked his accumulated cell phone messages. One Meg had left Wednesday night saying she was at the movies and had he changed his mind? The rest were from Carlotta, Chance, Hannah, and Liz, all wondering where he was and would he please call. Kendall Abrams had called several times asking for his help with body pickups. The guy sounded desperate.

  As Wesley tucked in his shirt, he conceded Meg was probably furious that he hadn’t showed up for their date, but maybe she was a little worried about him since he’d missed work Thursday and Friday.

  On the drive, he was especially aware of sensory details—the new-car smell of the rental, the sound of Carlotta’s buoyant laughter, the indigo hue of the sky, and the cloying moisture in the hot summer air. He had thought the Oxy made everything better, but it was so damned good to have a clear head again.

  “Where shall I drop you?” Carlotta asked.

  “Um…somewhere close to Georgia Tech would be fine.”

  She gave him an amused smile. “Which dorm is Meg’s?”

  Sheepishly he gave her directions and when she slowed the car, he jumped out. “I’ll get a ride back,” he said.

  “Okay. Wes?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I keep forgetting to thank you for getting rid of the fire ants in our yard. Mrs. Winningham was impressed.”

  Wes frowned. “Sorry, Sis. I meant to take care of it, but I forgot. The ants must’ve found a better yard. See ya.”

  He turned and jogged up the sidewalk to Meg’s dorm. Passing coeds stared at him, and he wondered if he still looked a mess from the detox. He’d lost at least five pounds, and he didn’t have many to spare. He walked into the lobby and punched in Meg’s number on his cell. His hands were shaking, but at least it wasn’t from drugs.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Hey, it’s Wes.”

  She scoffed. “Not the Wes who stood me up Wednesday night. Because he would know better than to call me four days later with some lame excuse.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Something came up.”

  “I gathered as much when you ditched work Thursday and Friday.”

  “Can I see you? I’m in the lobby of your dorm.”

  She sighed. “I’m actually on my way down.”

  He smiled into the mouthpiece. “I’ll be waiting.” He ended the call and paced the length of the room, eager to tell Meg that he was clean and they could start over.

  When the elevator doors opened and she stepped off wearing a yellow sundress and pink sandals, he couldn’t hold back a sappy smile. “Hi.”

  She looked somewhat less happy to see him. “What, are you stalking me now?”

  “You look nice.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m going out.”

  He balked. “On a date?”

  When she smiled at someone behind him, he turned to see Preppy Mark standing there, dressed like a Ralph Lauren magazine ad…in a gay magazine. He smiled at Wes. “Hey, Schwinn.”

  Wes glared at him.

  “Wes,” Meg said, “did you want something?”

  He looked back to her, suddenly tongue-tied. “I, uh, wanted to apologize for…Wednesday night.”

  “No biggie,” she said with a shrug. “Is that all?”

  “No. I…I got clean, like you said.”

  “Good for you. See you later.” She turned away and walked up to Mark, giving him a blinding smile. “Ready?”

  Wes watched them walk out the door and rubbed his breastbone. The detox had done a number on his body. He was feeling strange things in strange places that he’d never felt before.

  27

  Carlotta handed money to the clerk at the dry cleaners drive-through and her charm bracelet clinked. She stared at the charms and mentally ticked back through the ones they’d found on all the victims of The Charmed Killer. Wesley was right—except for the lipstick charm found in Maria’s mouth, they all pointed to Coop. The GBI would say that he was taunting them, daring them to figure out his clues.

  But what if the charms were a clever way to frame Coop?

  And why did the charms before Ma
ria’s murder skew neutral or masculine, and then suddenly skew feminine? It didn’t track…just like the fact that the victims had seemed random, or at least innocent, up to that point.

  Then a thought curled into her brain. What if Maria’s murder had been a copycat crime, meant to look as if The Charmed Killer had done it?

  Her pulse raced. If so, the obvious culprit would be Rueben Garza. What if Garza was the kind of man who wouldn’t accept Maria’s decision to leave? He was a police officer, who would naturally be following The Charmed Killer case. He’d have the strength and the know-how to kill…and a unique signature under which to disguise his deed.

  Comments that Maria had made came back to her. I was married, but that’s over…You’re putting your faith in the wrong guy, and I know what that’s like. It would explain why Maria had always seemed withdrawn, and why she would shy away from a relationship with Jack.

  Jack…

  She thought back to the night at the restaurant. Jack had said Maria had invited him, but Maria had gone out of her way to assure Carlotta they weren’t on a date. And when they’d heard a noise from the tree line, Maria had instantly drawn her weapon, telling Carlotta to go inside, and not to get Jack—that she could handle it.

  What if the noise hadn’t been made by a dog, as Maria had claimed? What if she thought she was being stalked…by her ex-husband? Maybe she’d invited Jack to dinner thinking that if Garza confronted them, Jack could take care of himself.

  Or shoot the man, if necessary.

  If Garza was getting his information from the newspaper, or from inside sources, he might not have realized that all the charms had been of a neutral or male bent.

  And then she remembered a small detail—the charm removed from the mouth of victim number five, Marna Collins, was a pair of handcuffs. But it had been reported erroneously in the paper as being a woman’s shoe.

  With that piece of flawed information, planting a lipstick charm would seem believable.

  Carlotta itched to tell Jack her theory, but without proof, she knew he would blow her off.

  “Ma’am?”

  She jerked her head around to see the irritated clerk waving her change. “There’s a line behind you.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” She took the money, then pulled over in the parking lot and called the midtown police precinct.

  “Atlanta PD,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Brook, it’s Carlotta Wren. I need a favor.”

  “What?” the woman asked in a voice that was more interested than cautious.

  “Do you know if the police department covered the arrangements for Maria Marquez’s ex-husband Rueben Garza to come to the funeral?”

  “Yeah, we paid for it, him being a cop and all. Professional courtesy.”

  “Can you find out if he’s still in town and where he’s staying?”

  “Hm. Might take me a few.”

  “Call me back on this number.” She ended the call and tapped on the steering wheel nervously until Brook called her back.

  “He’s at the Four Seasons, girl, room 535, paid for through tonight.”

  “Thank you so much. And, Brook…don’t mention this to Jack.”

  “I kinda thought you might say that. Don’t worry. I don’t wanna know what you’re up to and if I get called to the stand, I have no problem committing perjury. Goodbye.”

  Carlotta smiled, then disconnected the call and headed to the Four Seasons. The last time she’d been at the hotel, she’d crashed an upscale party and had been reunited with Peter. That seemed like ages ago, but in reality, it had been only a few months.

  So she remembered the layout of the hotel perfectly.

  After parking along the street, she jammed on dark sunglasses and walked to the entrance. It was a lovely place—the doormen were gracious, the lobby was luxurious, the air was perfumed. With her chin held high, she walked through the lobby to a house phone and dialed room 535, prepared to hang up if Garza answered. But if the man had done what she suspected him of, he would not be holed up in his room on a pretty Saturday, mourning his dead ex-wife.

  She let the phone ring until it rolled over to voice mail. The she hung up and called again, just in case he was sleeping. Again, no answer.

  Carlotta returned the receiver and headed toward the elevator bay. Then she walked around the corner to a service elevator and rode down to the basement. There she followed the hum and the heat to the laundry room and knocked on the half door that led into the humid, noisy place. A sweaty man hurried over, his expression concerned.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  She sighed dramatically. “I’ve called housekeeping three times for a robe with no response, so I decided to come down and get one myself.”

  He winced. “Your room, ma’am?”

  “535.”

  “Last name?”

  “Garza.”

  He hurried to a phone and made a quick call, presumably to the front desk. Then he came back, looking contrite. “Sorry, ma’am, how many robes do you need?”

  “Just one will do,” she chirped.

  He left and came back with a white waffle-weave robe, freshly laundered and folded to crisp perfection. “Here you are, ma’am. So sorry.”

  “Thank you.” She handed him a five dollar tip, then turned on her heel and made her way back to the service elevator.

  She rode to the fifth floor and found the ice machine room. There she quickly removed her clothes down to her underwear and shrugged into the robe. Her cell phone and wallet went into the pockets of the robe, then she stuffed her clothes into her purse and stowed it behind the ice machine. Someone had left a glass sitting on top of the machine, so she grabbed it and filled it with ice before making her way back down the hallway until she spotted a housekeeping cart.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the maid, who was writing on a form on a clipboard. “I’m so sorry, but I went to get ice and I locked myself out of my room.” She held up the glass of ice as proof, then pulled the robe tighter around her. “I can’t go down to the lobby looking like this. Can you help me?”

  The housekeeper looked dubious.

  “It’s room 535, Garza,” Carlotta said, pointing to the clipboard. “Please?”

  The woman checked, then looked back and nodded.

  “Oh, thank you. I’m so embarrassed,” Carlotta gushed. She stealthily snagged a pair of latex gloves from the cart and stuffed them into the pocket of the robe before following the maid to the room.

  The woman unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Carlotta held her breath, hoping that Garza wasn’t there, but the bed was made and the room was silent. She thanked the woman profusely, then elbowed her way inside, taking care not to touch the doorknob. She didn’t want to leave fingerprints.

  Once inside, she set the glass of ice on a table and pulled on the latex gloves. Then she set about snooping, not sure what she’d find, or if she’d find anything at all, but systematically opening drawers and cabinets.

  Mr. Garza had gone shopping, she noted, fishing through bags from Hugo Boss, Versace, and Gucci. Not exactly the behavior of a grieving man, although she begrudgingly admitted he had good taste.

  In the bathroom, the vanity was crowded with moisturizers and creams. The man was a bit of a metrosexual who was obviously in preservation mode. She picked up a bottle and made a face. She wondered if Garza’s fellow police officers knew he used a pore minimizer.

  Carlotta opened his toiletry bag and sorted through razor, tweezers, nose-hair clippers, and a manicure set. She was about to move on when she spotted the glimmer of a silver chain in the corner of the bag. She grasped it between two gloved fingers and pulled it out.

  Then almost dropped it.

  It was a charm bracelet featuring “girly” charms—a purse, a high-heeled shoe, a hat, a hairbrush…and a noticeable gap where a charm was missing.

  A lipstick?

  Her hand began to
shake.

  The bastard had done it. He’d killed Maria and blamed it on The Charmed Killer.

  From the other room, she heard the sound of a card key being inserted in the door. Alarm seized her. She dropped the bracelet back into the toiletry kit and weighed her options: Hide or get caught.

  She hid.

  In the shower. She barely had time to pull the curtain closed before the bedroom door opened, and the sound of upbeat whistling reached her ears.

  She gritted her teeth. He’d just killed a woman and he was whistling?

  Because he thought he’d gotten away with it.

  As he moved around the room, she closed her eyes and prayed she’d get out of there alive. She was starting to think that hiding in a bathtub from a man who’d just drowned a woman in her bathtub might not have been the smartest move. She thought wistfully of the stun baton in her purse—why hadn’t she brought it with her?

  Then she remembered she had her phone. She couldn’t make a phone call without being heard, but she could text.

  She pulled out the phone and frantically typed a cryptic message to Hannah: urgnt cll 4 seasns get man out rm 535. She hit Send and prayed Hannah was available and that she understood.

  The whistling grew louder and to her horror, Rueben Garza came into the bathroom and proceeded to take a leak. She held her breath, but was sure he could hear her sweating. Through a sliver in the shower curtain, she could see his reflection in the mirror. He was tall and dark-skinned. He wore swim trunks and fussed with his blue-black hair with the hand that wasn’t holding his dick.

  Nestled in his chest hair was a gold medallion—maybe a St. Christopher medal.

  The same size and shape of the metallic flash she’d seen from the tree line outside the restaurant. Blood rushed in her ears.

  Garza finished and shook himself off, then flushed the toilet and walked back into the bedroom.

  She exhaled and wondered how long she could stay in here. What if he decided to take a shower? How would she explain her presence in his room, in a robe?

  From the next room she heard him scoff. “What the—?” Then she heard the sound of ice clinking in a glass. She winced—he’d found her glass.