Body Movers (16 page)

about the fact that in a few days, that thug Tick would be

back, demanding another payment that Wesley wouldn’t

have. Even with his new job, he’d be lucky to have half of

what the fat man would want.

And then there was next week…

She sighed, swung out of her car and slammed the door in

frustration. Rounding the Monte Carlo, she gave it a kick in

the back tire, wishing she could sel the redneck car but

knowing that was impossible considering how much she

owed on it and what it was worth. She eyed her beloved

white Miata, and conceded that even crippled, it could

bring a few thousand dol ars. But that would be a last

resort. Surely there was something else she could sell.

She walked into the house and smiled at the noise and

good smel s coming from the kitchen. “I’m home,” she

shouted.

Wesley came to the doorway and waved. “How does

lasagna sound?”

“Fantastic.”

He eyed her up and down. “What happened to your

clothes? You look like you’ve been in a brawl.”

She glanced down at the black marks on her skirt and

blouse—between the Angela Ashford incident and

skidding across the parking garage, she was a mess. And

she wasn’t about to tel Wesley about her “brawl.” “I

walked out in front of a car when I was leaving work and

decided to sacrifice my outfit.”

“Good cal .”

“I thought so.”

“Go get cleaned up. Soup’s on in ten.”

“Okay,” she said, moving toward her bedroom. She rubbed

the shoulder that she’d landed on, her mind stil clicking

with worry over the bad element that continued to haunt

their lives. If only she could get her hands on enough cash

to get the loan sharks off their backs.

She turned on the shower, then backtracked to her

bedroom. From beneath her bed she pul ed a small trunk,

and from the trunk, a red House of Cartier ring box. Her

pulse raced as she raised the hinged lid and stared at the

glittering one-carat diamond solitaire engagement ring

that Peter had given her ten years ago. When he’d broken

their engagement, he’d told her to keep the ring, to sel it

if she needed to. And how many times had she been

tempted to do just that to pay for utilities or school

clothes or insurance? And how many times had she

refused to part with her only remaining link to Peter?

Carlotta fingered the sparkling stone and bit down on the

inside of her cheek. Perhaps it was time.

13

“That was amazing,” Carlotta said, pushing away her plate

and smiling at her brother.

“I know,” he said with a smirk, stil mopping up red sauce

with crusty Italian bread. He pushed up his glasses. “I

could teach you how to make it sometime.”

She batted her lashes. “And spoil your pleasure in cooking

for me? Never.”

He wiped his mouth, then wadded up the paper napkin

and threw it at her. Frowning, he leaned forward. “Hey,

what happened to your neck? It looks like someone tried

to choke you or something.”

Her hand flew to her throat and she could feel the angry

welts left by the chain that Angela Ashford had twisted

around her neck. “It’s…an allergic reaction to a necklace I

wore, that’s all.” Wesley looked unconvinced, so she

changed the subject. “When does your community service

begin?”

“I have an appointment with my probation officer

Wednesday. He’s supposed to arrange for me to work with

the city geeks on their lousy security.”

“Good—maybe that’l lead to a ful -time job.”

“I already have a ful -time job.”

“And it’s fine for now,” she said careful y. “But you can’t

move dead bodies for the rest of your life.”

“Why not? Coop does okay.”

She frowned. “But this body-moving thing is just a side job

for him too, right?”

“A side job from the funeral home, yeah. He contracts with

the morgue when the M.E.’s office is short of vehicles.”

Carlotta looked at the clock—almost seven. “You’re not

working tonight?”

“I’m on call. Coop said most weekend calls are late at

night. Shootings, drunk-driving accidents, that kind of

thing.”

She winced.

“I think he likes you.”

“Who?”

“Coop.”

Her eyes widened. “Your creepy boss likes me?”

“He’s not creepy. He’s kind of…nice. And, yeah, he asked

about you.”

She frowned, remembering that she’d looked a fright the

morning she’d met him, the morning after her crying jag

over Peter. “Asked what?”

He shrugged. “You know, if you were single and stuff. He

said he thought you were cute.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Cute? What is he, in grade

school?”

“Don’t worry, I told him that he wasn’t your type.”

“Oh.” She studied her nails—she needed a manicure badly.

Then she looked up. “What’s my type?”

Another shrug. “You know—smooth, slick. Coop said you

were probably into metrosexuals.”

She frowned. “And how could he possibly know that?

When he met me, if I remember correctly, I was in my

pajamas, wearing no makeup, and my hair was a foot tall.”

“Yeah, but stil , he could tel you were classy.”

She smiled. “You think I’m classy?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

She laughed and in the wake of the cozy moment, she

considered asking Wesley about the postcard she’d found

from their parents. It had been a long time since they’d

really talked about their parents. Maybe it was time to

reopen that can of worms.

“Wesley—”

The chirp of his cel phone cut her off. He lunged for the

tiny device sitting on the counter. “Hel o?” He smiled.

“Yeah, man.”

Carlotta wondered if it was that Chance Hol ander, calling

to lure Wesley into some kind of Friday-night trouble. Rich

little bastard. He surrounded himself with people like

Wesley who were impressed by the toys and good times

his money could buy—people who would do his bidding.

Wesley grabbed a pen and scribbled something on a

napkin. “Got it. I’l get there somehow.” Then he

disconnected the cal .

Carlotta set her jaw, gathering verbal arguments for

Wesley not to meet up with his troublemaker friend.

“That was Coop,” Wesley said breathlessly, his eyes

shining. “We have a job.”

“Oh,” she said, her arguments vanishing as her thoughts

turned foolishly to how she would greet Cooper Craft now

that she knew he thought she was cute.

“But there’s one little problem.”

At the catch in her brother’s voice, she was instantly on

alert. “Oh?”

Wesley chewed his lip, then sighed. “It’s a residential

pickup, and Coop was close to the address when he got

the call. Would you mind driving me there?”

“You’re not serious?”

“Wel , I could drive—”

“You know you can’t drive on a suspended license!”

“I can’t get there on the train.”

Carlotta acknowledged that her brother was right, and felt

herself wearing down. She’d hounded him about a job,

and now he finally had one. It wouldn’t kil her to drive

him; it wasn’t as if she had something better to do. “Okay,

just don’t make a habit of this.”

He whooped. “Thanks, sis. I’l grab my backpack while you

put on a bra.”

She glared and swatted at his arm as he walked by, then

pushed away from the table. The things she did for love.

She went to her room wondering what would be

appropriate to wear. She surveyed her flare-leg Levi’s,

Juicy Couture T-shirt, Michael Kors high-heeled Mary

Janes, and decided the outfit would have to do. She

donned a bra and added a brown shrug sweater against

the evening chil , then slid chocolate-pink lip balm onto

her lips to keep them from getting chapped, not because

Cooper Craft thought she was cute.

“Come on,” Wesley said from the doorway of her

bedroom. “You’re dropping me off. You don’t need

lipstick.”

“It’s lip balm.”

“Whatever, come on already.”

She swung her purse to her shoulder. “You owe me for

this.”

“Yeah, wel , add it to the list.”

They blew by Mrs. Winningham who was weeding her

flower bed. “Wait! I want to talk to you two!”

“Some other time, Mrs. Winningham!” Carlotta promised

the woman as they ran for the garage.

“But someone has been parking on the street and

watching our houses! Don’t you care?”

“No!” they yel ed in unison, ducking under the opening

garage door and bolting for the Monte Carlo.

“Christ,” Carlotta muttered under her breath. “It’s

probably that Detective Terry snooping around.”

“Yeah, probably,” Wesley said in a noncommittal voice.

Or any one of several other undesirables, she conceded

miserably. “Do you have the address?” she asked as she

backed out.

“Yeah, it’s in Buckhead.” He read off the street name and

number and Carlotta frowned. “Hmm, that’s a nice area.

Did he mention the neighborhood?”

“Yeah, it’s Martinique Estates. Know it?”

She frowned. “Maybe. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place

it.” She’d probably crashed a party there sometime, but

didn’t want to say so in front of her brother. Besides, those

days were behind her—no more party-crashing. She’d

made an exception the other night and it had put her in

the path of Peter Ashford, a scene which may have caused

the humiliating takedown today at work. Her skin crawled

at the memory and she touched the tender place on her

throat. Thank God Lindy hadn’t called the police or the

situation could have spiraled into something much more

messy.

“Did someone have a heart attack in their home?” she

asked.

“Coop didn’t say, but that’s a good guess.”

Unbidden, her parents came to mind. They would be in

their mid-fifties now. If her mother was stil drinking, she

couldn’t be in good health. And her father had smoked like

a chimney and enjoyed his bourbon. Occasionally she

wondered if she and Wesley would even be notified if they

were sick…or worse. But according to the postcard that

Wesley had kept hidden, they were stil kicking.

She glanced sideways at her brother in the dark cab of the

car, unspoken words simmering on her tongue. But his

face was a mask of concentration. It wasn’t an appropriate

time or place to bring up their parents’ latest

communication.

Ten minutes later they were winding through the

community of Buckhead, Atlanta’s premier address,

featuring enormous tree-laden lots and even more

enormous amenity-laden houses. Old money met new

money behind the soaring gates of the private

communities where residents lifted a col ective nose at the

rest of Atlanta. Carlotta knew, because she’d grown up in

just such a neighborhood.

“You missed the turn,” Wesley said, exasperated.

She frowned and looked in her rearview mirror. “I’m doing

the best I can. It’s so dark out here!”

“Turn around!”

“Shut up and put on your seat belt!”

They bickered until they pul ed up to the wrought-iron

gates of Martinique Estates. A squad car with a silent,

flashing light sat next to the gatehouse.

“Lot of commotion for a heart attack victim,” she said,

impressed.

A security guard accompanied by a uniformed police office

approached the car as she rol ed down the window.

Wesley leaned forward and flashed an official-looking

badge with his photo and something about the medical

examiner’s office. The policeman looked at it, then handed

it back and signaled for the gatekeeper to let them in.

Recalling all the tickets that Wesley had counterfeited for

her, she frowned. “Is that a fake badge?”

“What? No. Coop gave me this. I’m official. Turn here.”

She did and again had the feeling that the street name was

familiar for some reason. She stared up at the monstrous

brick houses that looked more like compounds than

homes and, God help her, she felt a stab of envy. Money

didn’t buy happiness, but it made certain aspects of life a

whole hel of a lot easier. She’d lived on both sides of that

wrought-iron gate, so she knew.

Wesley was craning for house numbers, but that became a

moot point when they both caught sight of a squad car

and an ambulance, lights flashing, and various other

official-looking vehicles parked at angles on the curb and

in the downward-sloping driveway. The megamansion sat

below curb level, judging by the way the land fel away and

by the downward gaze of the onlookers. “I think we found

the right house.” She guided the car closer, picking up an

approaching cop in her headlights, then stopped and

zoomed down the window.

“You need to keep moving, ma’am.”

“We’re here to help transport the body,” Wesley said,

sounding amazingly mature. He handed the badge to the

cop, who, after scrutinizing it, handed it back. “Okay, but

you’l have to park here and walk onto the property. The

pool is down there.”

“Pool?” Wesley asked.

“The woman drowned,” the cop said curtly.