Body Movers (30 page)

She gasped. “That was a joke. I didn’t mean it!”

“You and Peter became reacquainted and the spark was

stil there, wasn’t it?”

She locked gazes with him, then looked away, wondering if

men could ever understand the power of young love, a

woman’s emotional connection to the person with whom

she had lost her virginity. It was a memory that bonded

her to Peter.

The detective gave a little laugh that said her body

language told him everything he needed to know about

how she felt about Peter. “Angela was in the way, and

angry about the two of you.”

“She was angry,” Carlotta said, “but she was wrong.” A

hysterical little laugh escaped from her. “Besides, if I were

in on this, why would I push so hard to make sure the body

was autopsied?”

“Maybe you got scared,” the detective said. “Maybe you

didn’t think he’d go that far, and now you’re having

second thoughts.”

She gritted her teeth. “Peter’s not a murderer. If his

marriage had deteriorated so badly, he would’ve divorced

Angela.”

“Real y? He’s not one of those guys caught up in family

image?”

She turned her head to prevent him from seeing the

sudden moisture in her eyes. Wasn’t family image the

reason that Peter had abandoned her, leaving her alone

and bewildered? “Not if it meant murder,” she said finally.

“For your sake,” he said quietly, “I hope that’s true.”

His unexpected compassion caught her off guard. “Have

you questioned Peter?”

“Yes, and he denies kil ing his wife.”

Carlotta exhaled, then caught herself—if she truly believed

that Peter was innocent, why was she so relieved? She

straightened, aware that Detective Terry was studying her

every move.

“Did you ask him if Angela was having an affair?”

“Yes. He said if she was, he didn’t know about it.”

She bit her lip. Or perhaps he didn’t want to know?

“But Mr. Ashford is behaving suspiciously,” the detective

added. “He already had his wife’s things removed and

destroyed, and hired a cleaning service to clean the house

and the guesthouse top to bottom.”

The information startled her, but she tried to hide her

reaction by lifting her shoulders in a slow shrug. “That

sounds to me like a man who’s trying to get on with his

life.”

“Exactly,” the detective said, eyeing her. “One more

thing—Mr. Ashford knows that you were the one who

raised questions about Mrs. Ashford’s death because of

the men’s jacket his wife purchased and returned.”

She closed her eyes briefly and in her mind’s eye saw any

second chance that she’d had for happiness with Peter go

up in flames. “I suppose you told him?”

“I had to. Sorry if it makes things tense between the two of

you,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. Then he stepped

back and pul ed out a notebook. “What time did you leave

work last Friday?”

“About five-thirty—you can check my time card.”

“Where did you go?”

She pressed her lips together and decided not to mention

the incident in the parking lot—it would only make her

(and Peter) look more guilty if they discovered it was

Angela who had tried to run her down. “I went straight

home. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive. Wesley was there,

he’d made dinner.”

The tiniest smile came over his mouth, easing the tension.

“Your brother cooks?”

“What’s wrong with that? Men cook.”

“Not this man,” he said with a laugh.

“Then together we’d starve,” she said cheerfully, “because

I don’t cook either. I guess it’s a good thing we don’t like

each other.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. He cleared his throat and looked

back to his pad. “You ate dinner, then what?”

“We were stil eating when Coop cal ed Wesley for a body-

moving job.”

His mouth twitched. “I think the official term is ‘body

retrieval.’”

“Whatever. I drove him because his license is suspended

and Coop was already on the scene.”

“And you had no idea it was the Ashfords’ house?”

“None. You were there when Peter pul ed up. I was

shocked.”

“Both of you seemed surprised to see the other,” he

conceded mildly. “Hel of a coincidence, though.”

The entire conversation was wearing on her, and so was

his proximity. “Are we finished? I’m on the clock. You’re

going to get me fired, Detective.”

He frowned. “I’l need the jacket that Angela Ashford

returned, if you stil have it.”

“Lucky for you, I do,” she said, happy to escape the

intimate confines of the dressing room. When they walked

out, more than one salesclerk cut her a sly look.

“You could wipe that smirk off your face,” she hissed at

him. “People think we were in there messing around.”

“That’s impossible,” he said. “If we’d been in there

messing around, we would’ve been in there much longer.”

She raised an eyebrow and gestured to his NASCAR tie.

“Are you sure you don’t want to replace your cartoon tie

while we’re in the men’s department?”

He looked outraged and flipped the tie over. “Mark Martin

signed this tie.”

“Who?”

He frowned. “I thought you were into celebrities. This tie is

probably worth a hundred dol ars.”

“Then you should definitely sel it.”

A scowl settled on his brow. “The jacket?”

“Right this way.” She headed toward the escalator and as

they rode up, she watched him looking around, taking in

the expensive displays and the pretty people. He tugged at

his tie and she felt a little pang at having made fun of it—

the big man obviously thought he had scored a winner.

His body language left her unsettled. He hovered close like

her personal mountain, crowding her space. Inching away

was useless—the man seemed to expand like foam

insulation to fil the space around him. He was a head

taller than she, and his head was in constant motion—

scanning, registering. It was, she presumed, his training, so

ingrained that he probably wasn’t even aware of his

actions. His hands on the rubberized rail were huge, like

the rest of him, and surprisingly wel manicured, although

she’d bet he cleaned his nails with a pocketknife. A large

crested ring on his right hand had something to do with

law enforcement. The man obviously had to shop in the

big and tall section, but his suit was wel cut. His rumpled

blue shirt, however, was tight since he had the top button

undone, and his belt was a bit too…gadgety. His shoes

were black and plain with a high polish. His western boots

suited him better, she decided.

Her foot caught abruptly. Too late, she realized that while

she was daydreaming, they’d reached the top of the

escalator. She flailed and suddenly those large wel -

manicured hands closed around her waist and lifted her

off her feet, moving her forward as he walked off the

escalator. He set her down and smiled. “Are you okay?”

“I…yes, I was just…distracted.”

He grinned. “I have that effect on women sometimes.”

Flustered, she could only glare and slap his hands away.

Burning with humiliation, she led the way to her

department, trying to regain her composure. “This is

where I spend most of my day.”

He looked around at the sparse racks of the couture

department and gave that universal man-nod that meant

he just didn’t get it. “No offense, but I’d rather dodge

bul ets.”

She managed a wry smile and walked to the storage area

outside the dressing rooms where she had put away the

jacket. When she found it, she unzipped the bag and

handed it to him. “The bag was brand new, so there’s no

chance that trace evidence from a used one could have

been transferred to the jacket.”

He frowned. “Somebody who looks like you shouldn’t be

home at night watching CSI on television.”

She frowned back and vowed not to make any more slips

about just how pathetic her social life real y was.

He careful y removed the jacket from the bag and held it

up. “This is too big for Ashford.”

“That’s what I tried to tel you,” she said dryly. “It’s too big

for Angela’s father, too.”

“Did she have brothers?”

“No.”

“Brothers-in-law?”

“No sisters.”

He brought the jacket to his nose and sniffed. “Cigar

smoke.”

“Right. And Peter is allergic to cigarette and cigar smoke.”

She flushed, thinking that her own smoking would be one

more thing that Peter would disapprove of. “There was a

cigar in the breast pocket.”

He patted the pockets. “Was?”

“I…took it out.”

He looked up. “What happened to it?”

She suddenly remembered what she’d been looking for in

her locker that morning—the cigar. “I don’t know. I put it

in my purse and now…it’s gone.”

“You lost it?”

She winced and nodded. “But I can describe it. It was a

Dominican Cohiba, very pricy. Purchased from Moody’s

Cigar Bar downtown, and only four people have bought

them in the past six months.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t tell me you’ve

been playing detective.”

She bristled. “Someone had to. If you’d believed me, I

wouldn’t have had to take matters into my own hands.”

“You compromised evidence. There were probably

fingerprints on the cigar.”

She swallowed. “I didn’t open the bag it was in.”

“No, instead you lost it.”

“Wel , I didn’t mean to!”

He glared at her like a disapproving teacher, then shook

his finger. “Find that cigar. And when you do, call me.”

Carlotta frowned. “Do you want the names of the people

who bought the cigar or don’t you?”

From the confounded look on his face she couldn’t tel if

he wanted to strangle her or shake her hand. His mouth

tightened and she thought she heard a muttered curse as

he reached for his notebook. “Okay, but this is where your

pretend investigation ends, got it?”

24

As her shift wore on, Carlotta stewed over the crack that

Jack Terry had made about her “pretend investigation” in

tracking down the origin of the cigar—jerk. She’d saved

him hours of legwork. June Moody might not have been so

wil ing to share the names of her customers with a

behemoth detective. Carlotta nibbled on her thumbnail,

feeling miffed.

It was her persistence that had led to Angela’s case being

reopened. Now she was supposed to just step back and

put Peter’s fate into the hands of the police? Detective

Terry was already convinced that Peter had done it. How

diligent would he be at fol owing every little lead?

Besides, she might be in a better position to get some

answers.

Pul ing out the piece of paper on which Michael had

written the name of the plastic surgery clinic, she picked

up the phone at the register and dialed information, then

the clinic.

“Buckhead Expressions,” a honey-voiced woman

answered.

The name made the place sound more like an art gallery

than a cosmetic surgery center. “Hello. Does Dr. Joseph

Suarez work for your clinic?”

“Yes, would you like to make an appointment for a

consultation?”

Her pulse ratcheted higher that the man was connected to

Angela, if only indirectly. Since her next day off was

Tuesday, she asked about availability that day.

“There’s an opening at ten o’clock Tuesday morning.”

“I’l take it,” she said, then listened as the woman

explained that they didn’t accept insurance cards unless a

procedure was deemed a medical necessity, so Carlotta

should come prepared to pay the three-hundred-dol ar

consultation fee.

She could think of a thousand other things to spend three

hundred dol ars on, but at least she didn’t have to worry

about having money next week for that gangster, Tick.

Wesley had gotten his first paycheck from Coop and

promised her he’d be able to cover his payment to that

Father Thom creep.

Thank God Wesley was finally starting to behave

responsibly.

On her lunch break, she stopped by the administrative

office and looked around for a deserted cubicle where she

could snitch a few minutes on the Internet. M. Smith’s

cubicle in a nice secluded corner looked adequately

abandoned and M. had even left a cryptic note on the

monitor that read: “Be back at 1:30.” Nice of him. Or her.

She had twenty minutes.

Hoping the machine was minus a keyboard password, she

rol ed the mouse and was rewarded with the monitor

coming to life, the desktop studded with little icons, most

of which were alien to her. But Wesley had insisted that

she learn some basics about browsers, so she was able to

locate one fairly quickly. From there she moved to a search

engine and typed in “Dennis Lagerfeld Atlanta.” Big

mistake, she realized as over a half mil ion hits were

returned. She narrowed her search by using tricks Wesley

had taught her, but was at a loss as to how she could

connect the man to Angela. Then on a hunch, she entered