Body Movers (37 page)

to be there.”

His smile faltered a bit before he recovered. “Right.” Then

he whistled low under his breath. “There is nothing more

sexy than a beautiful woman smoking a cigar.”

She forced a little laugh. “Does that mean I could get your

autograph?”

“Sure,” he said, his eyes devouring her. “Is there anything

special you want me to sign?”

Repressing an eye rol , she pul ed her autograph book

from her purse. “Here?”

He signed the book and handed it back to her. It read, To

Carly—a woman who’s hotter than the tip of her cigar.

Dennis Lagerfeld.

She realized the man had moved closer—and that his

breath smel ed of brandy. “So, do you live around here?”

she asked.

“In Buckhead.”

“Buckhead’s a big place. What neighborhood?”

“Why do you want to know?” he asked lazily. “Are you

going to pay me a visit?”

Easing off lest she raise his suspicions, she took her time

taking a puff and exhaling. “No, I’m just curious where

celebrities live in Atlanta.”

He grinned. “I live in Martinique Estates.”

“That’s a big neighborhood.”

“Huge,” he agreed.

“I know someone who lives there,” she said with a little

frown. “Or I should say, I knew someone. She died.”

“Oh?”

“Angela Ashford, she was a customer of mine.”

He drew back slightly and lifted his glass for a drink. “I

heard about that. She drowned, didn’t she?”

“That’s what I was told…at first,” she said, lowering her

voice conspiratorially. “Then I read in the paper this

morning that she might have been murdered.”

His eyebrows raised, and then he smiled and shook his

head. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,

sweetheart.” His hand suddenly landed on her knee. “Why

don’t we change the subject to something

more…personal?”

“Okay,” she said silkily, lifting her cosmopolitan for

another drink. “Do you come here often?”

“Not often enough, apparently,” he said, squeezing her

knee. “Maybe I would have run into you sooner.”

She resisted the urge to slap his hand away and nodded at

the long cigar he clamped between Erik Estrada teeth.

“That’s one huge cigar.”

He grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Suddenly Carlotta remembered why she hated going to

bars. “I’m new to this cigar-smoking thing. Do you have a

regular brand you like?”

He shrugged. “It depends. When it comes to cigars, you

definitely get what you pay for.”

“So you like expensive cigars?”

“Sure, because they’re the best—Cohiba, Opus X, Cupido. I

like to think that the pricey ones are made the legendary

way—rol ed between the thighs of virgins.”

Carlotta squinted—was that even possible?—then laughed

as if he were the most clever man in the universe. She

made more smal talk about cigars while their drinks were

depleted. Then, not sure she was going to get anything

new out of Dennis Lagerfeld, she tucked her hair behind

her ear, the prearranged signal for Hannah to intervene.

“Carly,” Hannah broke in, forcing Dennis to pul back, “I’m

sorry, but I need to get back to work.”

“If your friend wants to go on, I can give you a ride,”

Dennis offered.

“Dennis,” his agent said, checking his watch, “if you don’t

mind, we really need to finish up.”

Carlotta wanted to kiss Patrick Forman. “Thanks for the

drinks,” she said, pushing to her feet and peeling Dennis’s

hand from her leg at the same time. “And the autograph.”

“You’re so welcome,” Dennis said, looking her up and

down with appreciation. “Maybe I’l see you around

sometime.”

“Maybe,” Carlotta agreed, then waved her cigar at him

before turning to head back downstairs.

“Did you get anything?” Hannah asked. “I tried to listen,

but couldn’t hear anything other than the man purring.”

“The guy’s a player, but that doesn’t mean he’s a

murderer. When I mentioned Angela Ashford, he changed

the subject, but I couldn’t tel if it meant anything, or if he

was just trying to get into my pants.”

“Maybe both.”

“Did you get any info out of his agent?”

“Zippo. He’s all business, seemed irritated that I existed.

All I noticed was that he took care of the tab while Dennis

was trying to stick his hand up your skirt.” At the bottom

of the stairs, Hannah looked up and stopped. “Did I

mention how much I love this place?”

Carlotta glanced up and nearly stumbled to see Cooper

Craft leaning on the lacquered black counter, talking to

June. He wore worn, faded Levi’s that hung low on his hips

and a navy blue T-shirt that molded some impressive

biceps. He noticed them midsentence, did a double take,

then flashed a knee-weakening smile.

“Hey,” he said as Carlotta wobbled closer, “fancy meeting

you here.”

June looked back and forth between them. “You two know

each other?”

“My brother works for Coop,” Carlotta said.

“Remember me?” Hannah asked Coop, her voice teenage-

shril .

“Sure—how’s it going, Hannah?”

Hannah put her cigar in her mouth, sucked in deeply, then

exhaled a figure-eight smoke ring. “Grrrreat,” she growled.

“Uh…right,” he said, then looked back to Carlotta. “I

wouldn’t have taken you for a cigar smoker.”

She flushed sheepishly. “I don’t suppose I could convince

you not to mention this to my brother?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t want him to know that I…smoke.”

“He won’t hear it from me.”

She nodded her thanks, then squirmed, remembering their

last conversation about crushes and her being smart. She

pointed to the stack of cigar boxes on the counter. “You

must have your own humidor to buy that much

inventory.”

“They’re empty,” he said, lifting a lid to show her. “June is

nice enough to supply me with boxes for my hobby.”

“What hobby is that?” Hannah piped up.

“Miniatures,” he said with a shy smile. “I build miniature

vignettes in my spare time.”

“Vignettes?” Carlotta asked, suddenly feeling not so smart.

“Scenes,” he explained. “I take a photograph and

reproduce it in 3–D.”

It sounded like an obscure, tedious hobby, but whatever

floated his boat.

“I’d like to see one sometime,” Hannah said, then clicked

the tiny barbel in her tongue against her teeth.

Carlotta cast about for something to distract Hannah.

Deciding against setting her on fire with the cigar she held,

Carlotta asked Coop, “Do you live around here?”

“Not far from here—Castleberry Hil . You and Hannah

should come by sometime. I’l show you my boxes.”

Carlotta yanked on her friend’s halter to circumvent

whatever bawdy remark was about to rol out of her potty

mouth.

“Ouch,” Hannah yelped.

“We’l do that sometime,” Carlotta promised, then looked

at June. “I need to pay you for the cigars.”

June rang up the sale on the cash register. “I hope you got

what you needed,” she said, her tone casual.

“It was useful, yes,” Carlotta said. “Thank you very much.”

“No problem,” June said, handing over her change. “Come

back and see me.”

“I wil ,” Carlotta said, surprised at the kinship she felt with

this woman she’d just met. Then she turned to pry Hannah

off Coop. “We need to go, Hannah,” she said, concerned

that Dennis Lagerfeld would come down and she’d be

trapped again.

“I’l walk with you,” Coop said, stacking up the boxes and

thanking June. They left the shop with Hannah walking

between them, chattering like a toddler.

“You know, Coop, if you ever need a hand moving bodies,

just give me a cal . In fact,” Hannah said, whipping out an

ink pen and turning over his hand, “here’s my number.”

Then she proceeded to scrawl across his palm. “I’m as

strong as a fucking ox.”

“You don’t say,” Coop said, nodding.

Carlotta looked away to swallow a smile as they reached

Hannah’s van. “Bye, Hannah,” she said brightly. “Call me

tomorrow.”

Hannah pouted, then said goodbye to Coop and climbed

into her van.

“She definitely likes you,” Carlotta said, her mouth

twitching.

Coop laughed and looked at his graffiti’d hand. “She’s

hard-core.”

“I’m parked over there,” Carlotta said, pointing to her

Monte Carlo. “But you don’t have to walk with me.”

He fel into step with her, though. “I actually wanted to let

you know something about the Bolton woman’s murder.”

“Lisa Bolton?”

He nodded. “You’re probably hoping the Bolton case wil

help to clear your—I mean, Peter Ashford in his wife’s

murder.”

“It had crossed my mind,” she admitted. “If a serial kil er is

on the loose, then the police wil stop focusing on Peter.”

Coop pressed his mouth into a flat line and studied her.

“Do you know if Peter was acquainted with the Bolton

woman?”

She weighed her words careful y. “They were neighbors. I

assume he knew her.”

“Okay, don’t take this wrong, but I thought you should

know…Lisa Bolton was pregnant.”

The implication hit her like a punch in the stomach.

Coop—and probably the police—suspected that Peter was

the father…and the kil er. Numb, she opened her car door

and slowly lowered herself into the seat. What kind of

fresh hell was this?

Coop closed her door and leaned down. “Just be careful,

Carlotta. I’m not pointing fingers, but I’m not sure this

Ashford guy is who you think he is.” He wet his lips. “We

don’t know each other that wel , but…I like you. I don’t

want to see you hurt—physically or otherwise.”

She studied his sincere face, his intel igent eyes, and felt a

little tug on her heart. Then as if he realized he might have

confessed too much, he straightened and winked.

“Of course, maybe I’m just trying to get rid of the

competition.”

She laughed, happy for the break in tension, and started

her car. “I’l be careful. See you around, Coop.”

“I hope so,” he said with a smile.

But as she watched him in her rearview mirror, she

noticed that his smile faded to an expression of concern

that mirrored the fearfulness building in her stomach.

Maybe Coop was right—maybe Peter wasn’t the person

she thought he was.

30

Wesley stood on the small wooden deck at the back of the

town house, covering his cigarette and looking over his

shoulder out of habit. Carlotta had already left for work,

but if she knew he’d started smoking again, he’d never

hear the end of it.

Although at the moment, lung cancer was the least of his

concerns.

He’d arrived home late Monday night to find Carlotta

sitting up for him. He’d felt helpless and ashamed when

she’d told him about The Carver’s thug jumping her and

how that rich bastard Peter Ashford had saved the day.

Then he’d gone to his room and reconsidered his plan to

ask Tick for a few extra days on Father Thom’s payment.

When he was sure his sister was asleep, he’d snuck out,

rode his motorcycle to Chance’s and swallowed his pride.

Chance, totally stoned and half-naked, pul ed the grand

Wesley needed out of his wallet and handed it over like it

was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. Chance had told him he’d be calling

today with details of a job Wesley could do in trade for the

money he owed.

Wesley took a deep drag on his cigarette. He only hoped

he didn’t have to kil somebody. If he did, he’d have to

work it in around the meeting with his probation officer

today.

His cel phone rang and, as expected, Chance’s number

popped up. Wesley took a deep breath. Time to pay the

piper. “Hel o?”

“Hey, man, it’s me. Ready to take on that job I told you

about?”

“Yeah,” Wesley said, hoping he sounded more certain than

he felt. “What do I have to do?”

“It’s easy, man. Just deliver a gym bag to a guy in Col ege

Park.”

Alarm bel s sounded in Wesley’s head. Col ege Park was

one badass place. “That’s all?”

“Right. I’l tel you where to meet the guy and what he

looks like. He identifies himself, you give him the gym bag,

and that’s it. No money changes hands.”

Wesley pursed his mouth—it didn’t sound too bad…unless

he thought about the likely contents of the gym bag.

“Okay, but I have to meet with my probation officer first.

I’l come by afterward. See you,” Wesley said and

disconnected the call before Chance could tel him

something he didn’t want to know.

The deck looked like hel , he thought, leaning on a loose

handrail to take the last couple of puffs on his cigarette.

The wood was weathered and gray, the only

ornamentation was a rusted-out gas gril , minus the tank,

and a few pots of long-dead flowers left over from a kick

that Carlotta had gotten on last year after watching a

celebrity gardening episode on HGTV. Conversely, Mrs.

Winningham’s deck had been converted into a gazebo,

with ivy and flowers hanging freaking everywhere. The gay