Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 05 (21 page)

afford to pay someone to install it, too.”

“What happened to the ten grand you won in the card

game the other night?”

Wesley frowned. “The crazy fuck living in our guest room

took it.”

“Wow, that sucks.” Chance looked around the living room.

“Damn, the police made a mess of your place, didn’t

they?”

“Wel , it always looks this way, more or less. But yeah, the

fingerprint dust doesn’t help.” But the CSI team must’ve

been rattled by Einstein because the extra Oxy Wesley had

stowed in his python’s aquarium hadn’t been touched.

Chance nodded to the corner of the room. “What’s up

with the scrappy Christmas tree?”

Wesley glanced down at the sagging, metal fringe tree that

kept vigil over the unopened gifts beneath its tarnished

branches. He wasn’t about to admit that he’d pitched a fit

every time his sister had wanted to take it down over the

years. “My mom put up the tree a couple of weeks before

she and Dad had to leave. Carlotta won’t take it down until

they come home.”

“So those gifts have been under the tree al this time?”

“Yep.”

Chance whistled low. “Dude, your sister is one smokin’ hot

babe, but that sounds a little wackadoodle, don’t you

think?”

Wesley frowned. “No. And it’s none of your business.” He

tried to focus on the sensor he was trying to install, but

the Oxy was messing with his concentration.

“So for the love of God, when are you going to fix me up

with your sister’s friend Hannah?”

Wesley’s hand slipped and he dropped a bolt. He sighed

and rubbed his eyes. “I’m just waiting for the right time. Be

patient, al right?”

“So with your lawyer out of town, who’s polishing your

knob?”

“Nobody.” Meg’s face popped into his mind, then

detonated. She’d ignored him this morning at the office,

while lavishing Ravi and Jeff with smiles and cleavage.

“Dude, I heard that if men don’t get off at least three

times a week, all that come backs up and leads to

prostitutionitis. That’s an actual disease.”

Wesley squinted. “I think you mean prostatitis. And if not

getting off makes guys sick, the hospitals would be

overflowing with horny losers.”

“See, there you go again. Man, I wish I was smart like you.

My dad would probably like me a lot more.”

“At least your dad is around.” Wesley wiped his forehead

with the hem of his T-shirt. “Hand me the bolt that fel , wil

you?”

The theme of The Mickey Mouse Club chimed from his

backpack on the floor. He winced inwardly—that would be

Mouse calling. They weren’t col ecting this afternoon

because Mouse had to attend a “staff meeting.” Somehow

Wesley doubted The Carver rallied his employees with

motivational speeches. More likely, he stood at the end of

a boardroom table wielding an ax.

He ignored Chance’s raised eyebrows and climbed down

to retrieve the red phone and connect the call. “Yeah,

what’s up?”

“Hey, little man,” Mouse said. “I got some good news for

you.”

“You gonna make me guess?”

“The boss is real happy with our col ections. He said I could

start cutting you in.”

Surprised, Wesley pursed his mouth. “Great, I could use

the cash.”

“Yeah, and this way, you won’t have to keeping skimming

off the top.”

Wes almost swallowed his tongue. “I don’t know what

you’re talking about.”

“Look, Wes, you can’t con a con. Don’t worry. I didn’t rat

you out. But don’t be trying that shit now that you’re on

the payrol , capiche?”

“Capiche,” Wesley muttered.

“See you tomorrow.”

Wes disconnected the call, a little shaken. The fathead was

more astute than Wes realized. He’d have to be more

careful on this undercover gig.

“Did you get a new phone?” Chance asked, nodding to the

red pay-as-you-go model.

“It’s for my new job,” Wes said.

“Another job? Dude, you work too hard.”

From his backpack, Wes’s other phone rang. “Tel me

about it,” he said, rummaging for his regular phone. It was

Kendall Abrams. Wesley grimaced, but answered.

“This is Wes.”

“Wes, it’s me, Kendal . I got a couple of pickups iffen you

can go.”

Wes glanced up at the security system that was little more

than naked wires coming out of the wall. The installation

was turning into a bigger job than he’d planned and the

Oxy was making him antsy…or was it the lack of Oxy? He

couldn’t remember.

Regardless, he could finish installing the system later. “Uh,

sure.” He gave Kendall the town house address, then

ended the call.

“That’s it for the day,” Wes said to Chance.

“Good, I need a nap. Who was that?”

“My body-moving partner. Guy’s a ful -on redneck.”

“I thought you worked with your boss.”

“He’s been busy lately,” Wesley muttered.

Chance walked out with him and climbed into his black

BMW. “Let me know when you need a hand finishing up

the security system. I’l bring my tool belt next time.”

“Sure thing,” Wesley said with a wave. His friend meant

wel , but he was inept when it came to almost everything.

Wesley sat down on the stoop to wait for Kendall and

fought a groan when Mrs. Winningham emerged from the

house next door, holding her fugly dog, Toofers.

“Hi, Mrs. Winningham.”

“Your yard needs to be mowed,” the woman announced.

“I know. I’l get to it as soon as I can.”

“There have been a lot of police officers going in and out

of your house.”

“We had a break-in.”

The woman’s hand fluttered to her chest. “You were

robbed?”

“Yeah. It blows.”

The woman frowned. “Did the police catch the robber?”

“Not yet. I’m installing a security system. But in the

meantime, my sister and I are staying with friends.”

His neighbor shuddered. “What is the world coming to?

That Charmed Kil er is running around murdering women

in their own homes.”

He started to tel the woman that, because of her age, she

was safe. But frankly, the serial kil er hadn’t shown any

kind of pattern in the selection of his victims other than

the fact that they were all female. “Do you have a gun for

protection?”

The woman blanched. “I have my dead husband’s revolver

in a trunk, but I’d never use it.”

“Just keep your doors locked, Mrs. Winningham. Toofers

wil protect you.”

Her expression softened. “Yes, he wil .” The woman went

back inside, nuzzling her teacup pet.

He shook his head and when he looked back to the street,

the black SUV with tinted windows was rol ing by. He

sprang to his feet and ran to the edge of the curb to get a

look at the license plate. But the plate was obscured by

mud…on an otherwise pristine vehicle. It disappeared

around a corner, and Wesley cursed under his breath.

What the hel was going on?

A horn blared, nearly sending him out of his skin. He

turned to see the morgue van and Kendall behind the

wheel waving like a goober. Wesley jogged around the

front and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Scare you, man?” Kendall said with a laugh.

“Just drive,” Wesley said, picking up a clipboard from the

dash. “What’s on the schedule?”

“A residential cal —a woman suffocated.”

He swung his head around. “The Charmed Kil er again?”

“Nah. The M.E. says she was drunk and accidentally

suffocated. After that, we have to go by a nursing home to

pick up some old lady.” Kendall made a face. “That could

be nasty.”

“Not usual y,” Wesley said. “With the older ones, it’s like

they’re ready to go, you know? It’s more quiet.”

Kendall gave a little laugh. “What are you, some kind of

poet?”

Wesley frowned. “Forget it.” He glanced at the side mirror

to see if the black SUV was fol owing them, but he didn’t

see it.

The residential pickup was unexpectedly rough. Wanda

Alderman’s teenage son had found her facedown on the

couch when he’d come home from school, an empty

bottle of gin on the floor next to her. It looked as if she’d

simply passed out and accidentally suffocated in the pile of

pil ows—adult SIDS.

Seeing the face of the distraught boy flanked by some

distant relative triggered flashbacks for Wesley. Fractured

images of his mom “sleeping” on the chaise by the pool or

on the settee in the den, always with an empty highball

glass curled against her chest. He wondered briefly if his

mother stil drank…if she ever thought about him…if she

was stil alive.

Medical Examiner Pennyman, a guy Wes recognized from

previous scenes, nodded a greeting. The man shepherded

the family into another room so the body could be

removed in privacy, then returned. “She’s in ful rigor—are

you guys okay?”

“We got it,” Wesley assured him. After the M.E. left, Wes

directed Kendall every step of the way—the guy was eager

enough, just clumsy as hel .

“Easy, man,” Wesley said when the guy dropped his end of

the body—for the second time.

“Sorry,” Kendall said. “This is totally different than moving

a dead deer.”

“You a hunter?”

“No. I worked for the Department of Transportation,

removing dead animals from the highway.”

Wesley pursed his mouth, half-impressed, half-disgusted.

“What’s the weirdest animal you ever had to scoop up?”

“Armadil o.”

“There are armadil os in Georgia?”

“Freaky, huh?” Kendall grunted as they lifted the victim to

the gurney. “She’s all stiff. Wil they have to break her

arms to get her in a casket?”

“Keep your voice down,” Wesley said, careful y zipping the

body bag. “The rigor wil go away.”

“Are you in med school?”

Wesley smiled at that. “No.” He pul ed the gurney straps

securely over the bag.

“You seem to know a lot about this stuff.”

“Coop is a good teacher.”

“I don’t think he likes me,” Kendall said.

“Coop likes everyone.”

“My uncle said Coop’s a drunk.”

Wes bit down on the inside of his cheek and pushed the

gurney toward the door. “He’s a recovering alcoholic. Big

difference.”

“All I know is somebody at the top pul ed strings to get

him back in the morgue lab, and not everybody’s happy

about it.”

“With The Charmed Kil er case ongoing, I’d think that Dr.

Abrams would be glad to have an extra pair of hands.”

“That’s the point. He can’t afford any screwups on his

watch. His words, not mine.”

Wes bit his tongue to keep from saying something that

might get back to Dr. Abrams. He was quiet as they loaded

the body and drove to the morgue. His mind jumped

around, but he couldn’t forget the face of the victim’s son.

What a stupid way for the woman to die…What a cruel last

memory to leave with one’s child. Addicts were selfishly

blind to the hurt they caused loved ones.

A sudden headache flowed over his scalp. He needed a hit

of Oxy.

He glanced sideways at Kendall and when the guy was

sufficiently distracted by the god-awful country music on

the radio, Wesley slipped a tablet into his mouth and

chewed. Nirvana seeped through him, erasing all the

unpleasant thoughts about his mother and her weakness

for alcohol. By the time they reached the morgue, he was

feeling happy and magnanimous. His spirits were further

lifted by the sight of Coop’s van in the parking lot. After

dropping off the body at the crypt, he said to Kendall, “I’l

meet you back at the van in ten minutes.”

“Cool. I’ll say hel o to Uncle Bruce.”

Wesley walked to the lab and pushed open the door. Coop

was in a corner, studying a computer screen.

The tall man looked up and smiled. “Hey, Wes, what’s

shaking?”

“Uh…just helping Kendall with a couple of pickups.”

Coop looked back to the monitor. “What do you think of

him?”

“He’s okay, I guess. What are you doing?”

“Experimenting with a program I found online.”

“What does it do?”

“Takes a blurred or faded image and uses an algorithm to

try to recreate the original image.”

“What’s the application?”

“Stil trying to identify our headless John Doe.”

Wes tried not to react as he walked closer. “Real y?”

“Yeah. I found a spot on his shoulder where the guy used

to have a tattoo, but had it lasered off. That’s what I’m

trying to recreate. It might be an identifying marker that

could be publicized. Stick around for a few minutes if you

want and you can see the results.”

“Has this kind of thing been done before?”

“Somewhere, I’m sure. We’ve never had the tools or the

time to fol ow up on stuff like this.”

Wes tried to sound nonchalant. “Why are you so keen on

identifying this guy?”

Coop turned his head toward Wes. “Because even if he

was the biggest lowlife on earth, somewhere, someone

who cared about him is worried sick—his mother, a sister,

a son. They deserve to know the truth.”

Wesley nodded, then stopped when the scent of alcohol