Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (12 page)

She removed the helmet and stored it in a compartment

beneath the scooter seat. Just looking at the Vespa gave

her a rush of pleasure—and guilt. It was an extravagant

gift and she shouldn’t accept it, but it was a gorgeous little

plaything, and frankly, it felt good to have something

pretty to take her mind off serial kil ers, exploding cars and

long-lost fathers for the time that it took to buzz up and

down Peachtree Street.

She jogged in to Neiman’s, late as usual these days, and

removed her cel phone from her purse before dumping it

in her locker in the employee break room. She jumped on

the up escalator, but when she saw her boss, Lindy Russel ,

riding on the down escalator, she tried to hide her face.

“I see you,” Lindy said as they passed. “You’re late.”

“I have a good excuse.”

“You always do,” her boss offered over her shoulder. “I

expect you to sel your tail off today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carlotta murmured, then turned to face

forward. Lindy had let her off the hook so many times,

she’d lost count. She loved this job and had nearly gone

crazy when she’d been off work while her broken arm

healed. Retail was her life, and she was really good at it—

her name had been at the top of the sales charts more

than any other associate at this location.

Until lately.

Recently, events had converged to distract, digress and

divert her from what she thought was her calling. Wesley’s

involvement with body moving and with Coop had

overlapped into her life, and Coop had on more than one

occasion confronted her, challenging her to do more with

her life, and with her mind.

She fingered the puzzle piece on her charm bracelet. Coop

had told her she was good at solving puzzles, at helping

people.

Then she frowned. And Maria Marquez had told her she

was good at insinuating herself into investigations.

Carlotta tripped on the top step of the escalator, but

caught herself. A good reminder that she needed to get

her head back where it belonged.

When she reached her designated department, she

noticed a stocky guy in an il -fitting sport coat loitering

between racks of women’s clothes. Christ, all he needed

was a ball cap that read Undercover. He gave her a

conspicuous nod, then proceeded to scan the faces of

shoppers in the department with al the subtlety of an X-

ray machine.

But his presence did make her feel safer. Carlotta

immersed herself in her job, switching on and reading

customers to better understand how she could help them

find what they were looking for. Valerie Wren hadn’t been

much of a mother, but she’d taken the time to tutor

Carlotta from a young age on good tailoring and how to

mix and match unusual color combinations and fabric

textures. Both talents served her well when catering to the

Neiman’s clientele who came to her wanting a fresh look.

She had the added insight of knowing how her customers’

minds worked, the places they frequented and the social

competition they faced, because the Wrens had once

moved in those same circles.

Today the store was hopping. Customers congregated in

the aisles, wide-eyed and talking in low tones. They

seemed antsy and eager to buy, probably for much the

same reason that she was so wil ing to keep the pink

scooter—because it made her feel better. Apparently,

serial kil ing was good for the economy.

Despite the macabre motivation, Carlotta was grateful for

the commissions she racked up over the next few hours.

She was finally getting her groove back, and the rush of

adrenaline made her realize she’d been crazy to let herself

get distracted with amateur sleuthing. This was her life,

and it wasn’t half-bad.

Later in her shift she looked up to see fellow associate

Patricia Alexander coming her way. Carlotta swallowed a

groan. The blonde was a cross between a nemesis and a

pesky younger sister. But at the moment she looked

worried, so Carlotta tamped down her irritation.

Patricia thrust a folded section of newspaper toward

Carlotta. “Did you see this in the AJC?”

Carlotta took the paper. “What does it say?”

“That The Charmed Kil er is targeting women who wear

charm bracelets.” Patricia’s hand covered the bracelet that

she’d bought for herself, similar to the one Carlotta wore.

Surprise bled through Carlotta as she skimmed the article

written by Rainie Stephens, a reporter who’d helped her

recover Olympian Eva McCoy’s stolen charm bracelet.

Rainie cited “sources inside the APD” as indicating that the

presence of a charm bracelet might be a trigger for

random attacks on women.

“That seems inflammatory,” Carlotta murmured. “None of

the victims were wearing charm bracelets.”

Patricia squinted. “How do you know?”

Her coworkers didn’t know she moonlighted as a body

mover. “I…must have read it somewhere.” Besides,

wouldn’t Jack have told her if there was a connection?

“There must have been some reason to print it,” Patricia

insisted.

Carlotta handed the newspaper back to her. “Not

necessarily. But if it makes you feel better, don’t wear your

bracelet.”

Patricia’s face fell. “But I real y believe these charm

bracelets can predict the future.”

“I thought the spirit of featuring different charms on each

bracelet was to encourage the wearer to try new things,

not to predict the future.” She was saying the words aloud

to convince herself as much as Patricia. Just because her

bracelet had a charm with champagne glasses didn’t

necessarily mean that something…celebratory was around

the corner. If she believed that, she’d have to believe in

the corpse charm, too.

So why did she feel so compel ed to wear it?

Patricia held up her wrist and pointed to a miniature lion.

“Then explain how I met a guy named Leo—” she pointed

to a baseball glove “—who is a baseball player.”

“How do you explain the broom?” Carlotta asked, pointing

to a third charm on the woman’s bracelet.

Patricia smiled. “That’s easy. He swept me off my feet.”

Carlotta rol ed her eyes and decided not to ask about the

dog charm or the horny steer head. She might get more

information than she cared to know. “I have a solution.”

“What?”

“Wear long sleeves,” Carlotta said, tapping Patricia’s bare

arm with a wry smile. “I’m taking my lunch break.”

“Want some company?”

“Er…I’m actually running errands,” Carlotta improvised.

“Buying change-of-address cards?” Patricia asked lightly.

“Word is that you’ve moved in with Peter Ashford.”

Carlotta couldn’t hide her surprise. “Where did you hear

that?”

Patricia shrugged. “Neighbors talk.”

Carlotta set her jaw. The neighbor with the binoculars?

“It’s only temporary. There was an issue of safety at my

place.”

Patricia’s eyes widened. “Does this have something to do

with Michael Lane being on the run again?”

“Is that in the paper, too?” Carlotta asked.

“Yeah, it said he’d broken into someone’s house—wait a

minute! It was your house, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Carlotta said, glad to

have an excuse. She didn’t want to explain to yet someone

else how it was possible that a psycho could be living in

their guest room, undetected.

“So that’s why you moved in with Peter?”

“I didn’t move in. I’m only staying with him until this all

blows over.”

Patricia’s eyes gleamed. “But I can guess what the sleeping

arrangements are.”

“I’m taking my break,” Carlotta said pointedly.

Patricia looked over Carlotta’s shoulder and gasped.

“Don’t look now, but there’s a mean-looking man in resort

wear who keeps looking at you. What if he’s The Charmed

Kil er?”

“Relax—he’s a rent-a-cop.”

Patricia pul ed back. “Carlotta, don’t take this the wrong

way, but I’m starting to think that your being here makes it

unsafe for the rest of us.” She sniffed and walked away,

leaving Carlotta feeling nonplussed.

The woman wasn’t wrong.

From inside her pocket, her phone rang. She pul ed it out

to see Peter’s number, and, after glancing around to make

sure no customers were within earshot, she connected the

cal . “Hi, Peter.”

“Hi, I’m just checking on you.”

She felt a rush of affection. “Thanks, I’m fine. The scooter

is great, and Jack arranged for extra security here at the

store.”

“That was good of him,” Peter said, although his voice was

tinged with something other than whole hearted approval.

“I’m sorry, Peter, but I’m not supposed to be on the phone

while I’m on the floor.”

“I won’t keep you. I just wondered if you’d like to go with

me to the club tonight for a black-tie charity auction.”

Excitement barbed through her chest at the thought of

attending an event at the country club where Peter

belonged, where her parents had once belonged. “I’d love

to.”

“Great. I’l see you at home?”

Home. “Yes,” she murmured, then disconnected the call.

Wonder fil ed her chest at how easily Peter could offer her

access to places she’d been denied all of her adult life.

Admittedly, part of the motivation for going would be to

face down some of the people who had cast them out.

Then she gasped—she didn’t have anything to wear. All

her cocktail dresses were at the town house, which was

off-limits. She glanced with envy in the direction of formal

wear, but made herself resist the urge to splurge. No

matter how much she wanted a new dress, she couldn’t

afford it. Her employee credit card hadn’t been reinstated,

and the one card she had left after a shredding party

incited by Wesley couldn’t bear the strain.

Jack had told her if she needed something at the town

house, she’d have to have an escort. She dialed his

number and he answered after half a ring.

“Carlotta? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just need to get back into the town

house.”

“Why?”

She squirmed. “I need to get some clothes.”

“Yesterday you had a suitcase ful of clothes.”

“Not the right kind,” she hedged.

He sighed. “You want to compromise a crime scene to get

a specific outfit?”

“Peter is taking me to an event at the club, and I need

something fancy.”

“By fancy, you mean something slinky and tight?”

“Probably,” she agreed.

“Wel , in that case…I don’t think so.”

“Jack!”

“You should be careful about false advertising. You don’t

want to lead the poor guy on.”

She rol ed her eyes. “Wil you meet me at the town house

or not?”

“What time?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Okay. Be careful on that Hel o Kitty tricycle.”

“And how does a big macho detective like you know about

Hel o Kitty?”

He disconnected the call and Carlotta laughed, shaking her

head.

10

Carlotta spent her lunch break in the food court eating a

salad, but it was hard to relax with the hulking undercover

guy—Herb, she’d learned—hovering nearby. She wound

up tossing half the salad and sipping a diet soda while

searching the faces of passersby for Michael Lane.

Where was Michael, and what was he doing? Was he

enjoying the panic he’d unleashed? Was he basking in the

power?

On the walk back to Neiman’s, Carlotta spotted a jewelry

kiosk that offered cases of gold and silver trinkets, most of

it costume quality and trending young. At the sight of a

tray of charms, though, she stopped and leaned in.

“May I help you?” the female attendant asked, then

pointed to Carlotta’s charm bracelet. “Something to add to

your bracelet?”

Carlotta glanced back at the undercover security guy, who

looked bored to tears with his babysitting stint, and was

paying zero attention to what she was doing. Chances

were good Herb wouldn’t report any charm-buying activity

to Jack.

Then she frowned. And what if he did? There was nothing

wrong with being a concerned citizen doing a little ad hoc

investigative work, especial y if it led to finding the source

of the charms left in the mouths of the victims. She was in

a unique position to have seen some of the charms at the

crime scenes, so why not take advantage of her insider

information? Carlotta looked back to the attendant. “I’m

looking for some specific charms. Do you have any

chickens?”

“We have some birds, but no chickens right now. We tend

to sel out of them.”

Carlotta arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

“A lot of people are into the Chinese zodiac, the year of

the chicken.”

It was something to keep in mind, at least. “Do you have

any cigars?”

“That I think I can help you with.” The woman bent over

the tray and poked through the miniature replicas of

everything from animals to foods to letters of the

alphabet. A few seconds later, she removed a tiny charm