Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (11 page)

whose apparent cover was sel ing pharmaceuticals when,

in fact, the man worked for The Carver and ran drugs for

Chance.

Thankful y the bul y was nowhere in sight. Wes rapped on

the door and E. called for him to come in.

“Have a seat,” she said, surprising him with a bright smile.

E. was a babe—long red hair and nice ful breasts. But

while she’d always been cordial, she’d fallen short of being

friendly.

Until today.

“Are you having a nice day?” she asked, her eyes shining.

“Uh, sure,” he said, lowering himself into a chair opposite

her.

“Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, wondering why she was so chipper. He

started to dismiss it as normal female flakiness until his

gaze landed on the sparkler on her left ring finger. “What’s

with the rock?”

“Hmm?” She lifted her head, then fol owed his gaze to her

finger and smiled, her cheeks turning pink. “Oh…I got

engaged.”

Wesley felt a little sick. “To Leonard?”

“Of course to Leonard. Who did you think?”

He shifted in his chair. “I didn’t realize the two of you were

so serious.”

She laughed, the sound like a tinkling bel . “That’s what

grown-ups do, Wesley.”

He wiped his hand over his mouth. E. had no idea what she

was getting into.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” she asked. “I

thought you and Leonard were friends.”

“Congratulations,” he said. “When are you getting

married?”

“We haven’t set a date yet. Right now, I just want to enjoy

being engaged.”

He smiled and nodded, but he longed to tel her that she

was making a colossal mistake. The only upside was her

pervasive good mood. Instead of the normal gril ing she

gave him, asking about his job and if he was staying out of

trouble, E. seemed downright giddy.

“Sounds good,” she said, closing his file. “Anything else?”

He considered tel ing her about Michael Lane having been

in their house, but she might get nosy about where he was

staying, and she already suspected that Chance was a bad

influence.

“Nope,” he said, pushing to his feet. “See you next week.”

At the door, he turned back. “Be careful, E. You know

there’s a man out there kil ing women.”

At the mention of The Charmed Kil er, she sobered, then

gave him a little smile. “I wil be. Thanks for your concern,

Wes.”

He left the office feeling grateful but a little off-kilter at the

ease of the appointment. No interrogation, no drug test. It

was a gift, but he felt bad taking it, knowing that E. was

being conned by Leonard the Lughead.

He was so ready for an Oxy hit. Standing on the heat-

radiating sidewalk in front of the building, he popped one

of the pil s in his mouth and rol ed it around for a few

seconds before crushing it between his molars. A choking

bitterness flooded his tongue, but was fol owed by a tide

of ecstasy that swept through his throat, chest and limbs.

Compromising the tablet’s time-release coating al owed al

its sweet goodness to pour into his pleasure centers at

once.

All was right with the world.

“Hey, dumb ass!”

He pivoted his head to see the long black Town Car sitting

at the curb, windows down. Mouse leaned forward to

shout through the passenger-side window. “Get in!”

Wesley almost smiled. He and Mouse had fallen into a

routine. His community service commitment had him

working at ASS every weekday morning. Afternoons he

spent with Mouse col ecting on The Carver’s past-due

accounts. On Wednesdays, Mouse knew to pick him up

after his probation meeting.

It was like being fucking married.

“Let me get my bike,” he said.

By the time he’d unlocked his bike Mouse had popped the

trunk. Wes glanced around the trunk before dumping his

bike inside, glad to find it empty of body parts. Then he

swung inside, happy for the cool interior. The advantage of

riding around with a fat man was that the air conditioner

was always on. And the chow was always plentiful.

“I got you two chicken sandwiches,” Mouse said through a

mouthful of food, nodding to the Wendy’s bag that sat on

the floor in the precise place the severed head-in-a-bag

had sat yesterday. “I know you like those.”

“Thanks,” Wes said, reaching for the food. “What’d you

get?”

“Baconater,” Mouse said, hefting his half-eaten burger.

“My wife would fucking kil me if she knew I was cheating

on my diet.”

Wes arched an eyebrow at the man’s bulk. “You’re on a

diet?”

Mouse stuffed a fry in his mouth as he pul ed away from

the curb. “I don’t need you busting my chops, too.”

Wes unwrapped one of the sandwiches and bit into it.

“What’s on the agenda?”

“Same old shit. A handful of col ege snots who think they

can get away with not paying the man.”

Wesley had convinced Mouse that he could help him

col ect from nontraditional clients by getting into places

Mouse couldn’t, including dormitories, student centers,

frat parties, sports clubs and other col ege hangouts that

provided a layer of security between debtors and

col ectors.

In the backseat of the Town Car was a box that held a

plethora of props—fast-food-delivery vests and hats,

mocked-up lanyards that read Campus Security, even jock

props like sports equipment. Baseball jerseys helped him

to look convincing on the occasions when he needed to

carry a baseball bat.

Thank God he’d only had to use it to bash in a couple of

minifridges. That had been enough to convince his

reluctant customers his swing made up for his aim.

Today, though, he was so mel ow from the Oxy, he didn’t

feel like bashing anything. So after he’d talked his way into

a dorm at Emory University, a computer lab at Georgia

State and band practice at Georgia Tech (by wielding a

piccolo), he’d used an Oxy pil to lubricate his marks. Once

they were floating toward nirvana, they parted with their

daddies’ money pretty easily.

“You got the magic touch today,” Mouse said, counting

bil s. “Here’s something extra—get a haircut.” He handed

two hundreds to Wesley, which Wes added to the three

hundreds he’d filched from the payments before

delivering them to Mouse.

Remembering what Jack had told him about chatting up

Mouse, he settled back in the leather seat and tried to

sound casual. “So, how long have you been working for

The Carver?”

Mouse shrugged, sorting the bil s by denomination.

“About fifteen years, I guess.”

“How did that happen?”

Mouse laughed. “Same way it happened for you. I owed

the man money, and decided I was better off col ecting for

him.”

“Guess that’s worked out for you.”

“Pays the mortgage.”

“Are you involved with other parts of the business?”

Mouse looked up. “What other parts?”

Wesley tried to look nonchalant. “I dunno. I just figured

The Carver was into other things. Good businessmen

diversify.”

“The boss has other business interests around the region,”

Mouse said stiffly, sounding like a publicist, “but you don’t

need to concern yourself with them.”

“Just wondering if that guy I detoothed was a customer, or

if maybe he had personal issues with The Carver.”

Mouse folded the wad of cash and stuffed it into an inside

jacket pocket. “Maybe he was someone who asked too

many questions.”

Sweat popped out on Wes’s upper lip. He swallowed hard

and glanced at the nearest street sign to get his bearings.

“I think I’l go ahead and take off.”

“Want me to drop you somewhere?”

“Nah, this is fine. Pop the trunk?”

“Yeah. Later, little man.”

Wesley climbed out and retrieved his bike, then watched

the Town Car drive away, probably home to a three-car

garage in a suburban cul-de-sac. He wondered if the man’s

family had any idea what he did for a living.

With a start he realized he didn’t even know Mouse’s real

name.

Wesley threw his leg over his bike, about to head back to

Chance’s place, but at the sound of his cel phone ringing

from his backpack, he stopped and pul ed it out. Liz

Fischer’s name flashed on the caller-ID screen, and blood

rushed to his groin. The last time he’d slept with her she’d

called him on the rug for blurting out Meg’s name in the

thick of things, so he wasn’t sure he’d hear from her again.

The other worry that nagged at him was the fact that he’d

told Liz his father had approached Carlotta at a rest area in

Florida. He’d justified the slip by tel ing himself that since

Liz had been Randolph’s attorney, she had a right to know

he was alive and wel .

But, as he’d learned from his father’s papers, Liz wasn’t

just Randolph’s attorney, she’d also been his lover. And

now that Wesley’d had time to think about it, letting Liz in

on the secret might not have been the wisest move. What

if she was sore at his father for taking off and decided to

go to the D.A.?

His hand shook slightly as he flipped up the phone. Damn,

the Oxy seemed to be wearing off more and more quickly.

“Hi,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Hi yourself,” Liz said, her voice cracking.

Wesley frowned. “Are you sick?”

“I’ve been better,” she said. “It’s been a rough couple of

weeks. I wanted to let you know I’m going out of town for

a few days.”

“Okay,” he said, puzzled. “This doesn’t have anything to do

with my dad, does it?”

A rueful noise sounded over the line. “No. I just need to

think through some things.”

“Okay,” he said, stil at a loss as to how, or if, he should

respond.

“I thought you should know in case something comes up

that needs my attention. How’s the undercover work

going?”

“Fine. Jack is so wrapped up in The Charmed Kil er case

that he told me to lie low for a while.”

“Yeah, everywhere I go, that’s all people are talking about.

The women in my office are scared to death.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Um…I haven’t decided yet.”

“When wil you be back?”

“Maybe a week or so. Call my cel if there’s an emergency.

Maybe all this serial-kil er business wil be over by the time

I come back.”

Wesley frowned. “Is something else bothering you, Liz?”

A pregnant pause sounded over the line. “Nothing you can

help me with. I’l check in when I get back.”

Wesley closed the phone, frowning. Liz Fischer wasn’t the

kind of woman who was easily rattled, especially by

anything work related. So whatever was shaking her cage,

it had to be serious…and personal.

9

Carlotta lowered the Vespa kickstand in the mall parking

lot and careful y climbed off the pink scooter—not easy to

achieve in a short skirt. Then she walked over to where

Jack sat in his sedan and grinned. “I think I have the hang

of it. But thanks for fol owing me.”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think this is a

good idea.”

“Why not?”

He gestured to the scooter wildly. “You’re exposed. It’s not

safe.”

“It’s perfectly safe. There are scooters al over this city.

And the helmet? Hel o?”

“I know, but you…”

She crossed her arms. “What?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know what Ashford was

thinking.”

“He was thinking that I needed transportation, and he

knew I wouldn’t accept a car. It’s a very thoughtful gift.”

“Just remember that the learner’s permit is only good for

six months.”

“I know.” She loosened the chin strap on the matching

pink helmet. “Do you think the salesman is going to be

okay?”

“He’l be pissing sparks for a while, but yeah, he’l be fine.”

“He was really nice about the whole thing.”

“Thank the magic skirt,” Jack said wryly, his gaze drifting

down before he looked back up. “I’m glad to know you’re

not afraid to use the stun baton, but you might need to be

a tad more discriminating.”

She frowned. “I wanted to use it on Agent Wick this

morning.”

“That, I wouldn’t advise. I talked to your boss about

Michael Lane being on the loose again. You’l have an

undercover security officer in your area in case Lane

decides to put in an appearance.”

She nodded, her gut clenching.

“Keep your cel phone with you and call me if you see

anything suspicious.”

“Jack, tel me the truth. Do you think Michael is The

Charmed Kil er, or don’t you?”

He looked uneasy. “It doesn’t matter what I think—we

can’t take any chances. Pay attention to everything and

everyone around you.” He wet his lips. “And stick close to

Ashford. I’l see you tomorrow when you come in to take

the polygraph.”

“Any tips for when I take it?”

“Yeah—try to tel the truth.” He waved, then pul ed away,

watching her in his side mirror.

Carlotta waved after him, muttering, “Easier said than

done.”