Body Movers (45 page)

business.”

“Hey,” he said quietly, “how are you doing?”

Twenty-four hours since Peter had been taken into

custody, and she was stil a little numb. “I’l be okay,” she

said, her voice more confident than she felt.

“Sis, I’m sorry that Peter isn’t the man you thought he was.

You can’t blame yourself for not realizing how much

someone could change. All you can do is put it behind you

and move on.”

A bittersweet pang stabbed her chest. “Wel , listen to you,

Dr. Phil.” Then she angled her head. “Thanks.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Breakfast on the deck in ten

minutes.”

“That nasty pile of wood? What wil we sit on?”

“Don’t worry. I got it covered.”

Curious, she pushed to her feet and shuffled toward the

bathroom. Her body felt leaden, burdened with guilt and

shame and disappointment over the events of the past

couple of weeks…over the last couple of decades…but like

she’d told Wesley, she’d get through it.

History had taught her there was no other choice.

She washed her puffy face, holding a cold cloth against her

eyes until her fiery skin felt soothed. Then she pul ed her

hair back into a ponytail and donned shorts and a T-shirt.

She padded through the house barefoot, stopping at the

front door long enough to pick up the newspaper,

dreading the inevitable details inside.

She walked through the kitchen, opened the back door

and exclaimed in surprise. The wood of the deck had been

restored to its natural yel ow color. A new gas gril sat in

the corner, and the flowerpots were fil ed with blooms

and grasses. A children’s plastic wading pool fil ed with

water sat between two orange beach chairs draped with

brightly colored towels. Plates of fresh fruit and yogurt and

tall glasses of orange juice sat on TV trays. Clad in shorts,

Wesley reclined in one of the chairs, his face tipped up to

the sun, his feet in the water up to his shins. “It’s not

exactly an in-ground pool but it feels pretty good.”

She sank her teeth into her lip. He’d remembered her

comment about the luxurious life she might have had if

she’d married Peter. Her heart expanded with love for her

little brother, who was not so little anymore. And that was

okay because she felt privileged to be able to watch him

turn into a man.

See what you missed, Mom and Dad.

She smiled wide. “Plus ten points.”

He grinned.

Settling in the opposite chair, she stuck her feet into the

cool water, snagged a chunk of fresh pineapple and

opened the newspaper.

“I’l take the sports page,” Wesley said.

She handed it to him, her thoughts wandering briefly to

Dennis Lagerfeld and his connection to the dead women—

had he been a john? It would explain why he’d acted so

strangely. And what about Dr. Suarez? He also could have

had a relationship with Angela or Lisa or both of them. And

either man could have left that cigar in the jacket. Her

money was on Lagerfeld, but it didn’t matter. The women

had exposed themselves to all sorts of dangerous men by

opening themselves and their homes to strangers. Yet

Angela’s husband had proved to be the most dangerous

man of all. And the question stil remained if Peter was the

father of Lisa Bolton’s baby.

The story was on page two. The police had arrested Peter

Ashford for the murder of his wife, Angela, and were

questioning Ashford about the murder of a neighbor, Lisa

Bolton. Meanwhile, an anonymous source reported that

an accomplice might be linked to a cigar found in the

possession of one of the victims.

Carlotta frowned. An anonymous source? The only people

who knew about the cigar were her, Detective Terry,

Hannah, June, Coop…

And Liz Fischer.

Carlotta fumed. Liz was probably also the person who had

“leaked” the story of Wesley’s arrest to the paper…maybe

in an attempt to flush out their father? She was probably

sleeping with a news reporter, too. Carlotta shook her

head, vowing never to trust the woman again. How her

father and Jack Terry both had been taken in by that

manipulative ho, she didn’t know.

Then Carlotta frowned. Who was she to talk? She had

been taken in by a murderer, hadn’t she? But in her head

she could stil hear Peter say, This is al a big mistake, and

see his pleading face from the back of Detective Terry’s

car.

She looked up from the paper. “Wesley, about the

information you gave to Detective Terry concerning Angela

Ashford…”

He turned his head. “Yeah?”

“Wel , I assumed that was from Chance Hol ander.”

He didn’t respond.

“Did you ever…”

His eyes widened. “Me? No, I’m not into hookers.”

“Oh. Good.” She looked back to the newspaper, then back

to him. “So, what are you into?”

He thought a minute then said, “Redheads.”

“Oh.”

From the kitchen she heard her cel phone ring. “Wonder

who that could be.”

“Probably Hannah. She’s called you, like, six times this

morning. I have to warn you, I think she’s wearing Coop

down on the body-moving thing.”

“Oh, please don’t tel me that,” she said, stepping out of

the water.

Wesley shrugged. “He needs another crew member—

people are dying faster than we can pick them up. I told

him we need a double-decker hearse.”

She winced and went in to get her phone. A local number

flashed across the screen, but it wasn’t Hannah’s. Curious,

she punched the call button. “Hel o?”

“Hi, is this Carlotta?”

“Yes.”

“Carlotta, this is Amy Lin at Designer Consigner. I’m calling

because I found something in one of the Coach purses that

you brought in and wondered if you need it back.”

Her pulse picked up—cash, she hoped. “What is it?”

“It’s a cigar in a plastic bag. I didn’t open it—it looks

expensive.”

Carlotta groaned inwardly. She’d emptied her purse on the

bed, then taken it to the consignment shop, apparently

with the cigar stil inside. The cigar probably wouldn’t have

any bearing on the case now except perhaps to help

identify one of Angela’s johns, but she’d turn it over to

Detective Terry. “Yes, Amy, I’d like to have it back. And

thanks for not opening it. I’l be by to pick it up on my way

to work, in about an hour.”

“Fine, I’l be here. By the way,” Amy said, her voice raising

an octave, “did you ever find that big, strong man to

protect you? The danger is stil with you, I’m afraid.”

Unbidden, an image came into her head of Detective Terry

hauling Peter off her the day before. She’d probably never

know if Peter would have hurt her, but he hadn’t been in a

clear state of mind, so who knew what he was capable of?

But as far as Detective Terry being the man that Amy had

envisioned—wel , he’d really only been doing his job,

hadn’t he?

“I’m not sure,” she said cheerful y. “But I’l keep an eye

out.”

“Good,” Amy said. “I’l see you later.”

Carlotta disconnected the call, then turned over her hand

and studied it. She smirked. The only danger she saw was

the slight stain of nicotine between her forefinger and

middle finger.

She dismissed the woman’s words and went to get ready

for work, deciding to dress to the nines. It always made

her feel better.

40

“Detective Terry, please,” Carlotta said into her cell phone

as she walked toward the parking garage, wondering if he

was on duty, or if he had hooked up with Liz Fischer for a

Saturday-night special.

The operator told her to hold and after a couple of rings,

he answered with a curt, “Terry here.”

“This is Carlotta,” she said, then added, “Wren.”

“Carlotta,” he said with a sigh, “I know who you are—

you’re the woman who has single-handedly doubled my

workload into the foreseeable future. What kind of trouble

are you in now?”

“None,” she said hotly. “I thought you’d like to know that I

found the cigar that was in the jacket that Angela Ashford

returned. I’m leaving work, so I could bring it by—unless

you’re too busy with your workload.”

“Stil trying to clear your boyfriend of murder?” he asked

wryly.

She scowled. Insensitive brute. “I just don’t want to be

accused of destroying evidence again. Do you want it or

not?” She stabbed the button for the elevator.

“Of course I want it. Call me when you get here.”

She disconnected, muttering under her breath. The

elevator doors opened and she walked on, her Miu Miu

pump–pinched feet dragging with fatigue. The muscles in

her arms ached from carrying clothes to and from dressing

rooms. Her prized Judith Leiber necklace, a gold-plated

breastplate, had grown heavier and heavier as the hours

had worn on. It had been a long day, but at least her sales

had been good. She’d stayed late to make sure her

paperwork was in order and now a glance at her watch

told her the time was closing in on ten o’clock. A yawn

overtook her as the elevator began to descend. She was

thinking past dropping off the cigar to lying in bed

watching What Not To Wear when the bel dinged and the

doors opened again.

Akin Frasier stood smiling at her. “Hel o, Ms. Wren.” He

puffed out his chest as he walked on, trying to fil the

overlarge jacket he wore.

“Hi, Mr. Frasier,” she said, too tired to be annoyed or

amused by his marching-band pomposity.

“I guess you’re feeling better now that Peter Ashford is in

jail.”

“Um, yes,” she murmured.

“He’s about the same caliber as that wife of his,” the man

said. “She was some stuck-up woman.” He sniffed. “Some

of those women who come in think they’re too good to

talk to the likes of me.”

Unease pricked the back of her neck. It sounded like

Frasier was harboring a lot of resentment toward people

like the Ashfords.

“I’m sure it’s unintentional,” she said mildly.

“Maybe,” he said, then cracked his knuckles.

She looked down and noticed he was clenching and

unclenching his fists, and a tickle of panic stirred in her

chest. He began to rock back and forth on his heels and

that’s when she smelled the faint scent of cigar smoke

waft from his uniform.

When the implication hit her, terror wasn’t far behind. She

fumbled for her cel phone and dropped her purse, spil ing

its contents on the floor. The cigar went flying to a far

corner.

“Let me help you,” Frasier said, grasping her arm.

She screamed and yanked free just as the elevator doors

slid open. She ran through the doors, smacking into a big

body and bouncing off.

The person steadied her and she looked up, blinking in

recognition at Patrick Forman, Dennis Lagerfeld’s agent.

“Help me,” she gasped. “I’m afraid for my life.”

“You should be,” Patrick said, then calmly removed a gun

with a silencer from his jacket, leveled it at a shocked Akin

Frasier and pul ed the trigger.

Carlotta jumped at the pinging noise, and horror washed

over her when Akin Frasier slumped to the floor of the

elevator just before the doors closed.

She gaped at Patrick Forman. “It was you.”

A cruel smile spread over his face. “It was me.”

41

Carlotta stared into the barrel of the gun and lifted her

hands high. “You were Angela Ashford’s john, not Dennis.”

He nodded, proud of himself. “That’s right. For once, I got

the beautiful woman, instead of whatever hag happened

to be with the girl that Dennis wanted. And I wasn’t just

Angela’s john—the stupid woman was in love with me.”

Carlotta’s mind raced. Perspiration trickled down her back.

“Until you got Lisa Bolton pregnant?” she prompted.

He nodded. “That shouldn’t have happened. That bitch

tricked me. She told Angela about the baby, and Angela

was furious. We had a big fight, and she broke it off.”

Her heart thrashed in her chest.

“And returned the expensive jacket she’d bought you.”

Dennis had recognized the jacket all right, as one his agent

had been wearing. “With a cigar inside that Dennis had

given you.”

He smiled. “A cigar that has my fingerprints on it, which is

why I need it back. Peter Ashford wil take the fall and no

one need ever know I was connected to Angela or Lisa.”

She swallowed hard and decided to stall, hoping someone

with a bigger gun would happen by. “Wh-what makes you

think I have the cigar?”

“You show up at Moody’s asking questions, talking about

how you knew Angela. Then Dennis confronts me about

the jacket and tel s me that Angela returned it to you. It

doesn’t take a genius to figure out why you were snooping

around. Dennis I don’t have to worry about—I got so much

shit on him, he’d never turn me in. But you…you need to

learn to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

“You tried to run me off the road,” she said.

“Yes, but you can’t seem to take a hint.”

The fact that he didn’t bother denying his crimes made her