Six Killer Bodies (15 page)

over this campus. He’s nowhere. I found a couple of

people who know him and they said he’s already skipped

town.”

Mouse uttered a curse questioning Logan’s relationship

with his mother. “Okay, if he’s gone, he’s gone.”

“I’l keep looking,” Wes offered magnanimously.

“Good. Are you okay? You sound high.”

“High?” Wes scoffed. “No, man, I’m just tired. From

looking for Logan,” he added for good measure.

“Okay, let me know if you find the fucker. Otherwise, we’l

sort things out Monday.”

“Okay,” Wes murmured, weak with relief. He ended the

call, congratulating himself for talking his way out of a

serious jam.

Suddenly fatigue overwhelmed him. His limbs felt like lead.

His head was an anvil. His bicycle might as wel have been

a mile away. Even if he made his way to the bike rack and

managed to get it unlocked, he’d never be able to ride it

except maybe into a tree. Wes considered the cool ground

underneath him, the soft, overgrown grass. He gauged the

distance between the foundation of the house and the

bushes. There was enough room for a skinny dude to grab

a nap. He crawled into the space and pul ed a few dry

leaves over him to ward off the damp chil .

Damn women trying to convince him he needed to do

something with his life. His life was fine, just the way it

was. He had everything under control.

14

Sunday morning in the suburbs was depressing, Carlotta

decided. In Lindbergh, she was accustomed to hearing

neighborhood noise and church bel s, something to

remind her that people were nearby. Here in Peter’s

subdivision, there was just this pervasive, profound

silence. It was maddening.

She stood on the veranda outside her bedroom, smoking a

cigarette. Yesterday’s marathon of digging into details

surrounding The Charmed Kil er case had left her confused

and afraid. Every turn had led back to Coop. The tumor of

anxiety in her stomach when she thought of him locked

away in the city detention center was rivaled only by the

sympathy she felt for the victims. To have one’s death so

horribly showcased—it was abominable.

And it was just the kind of media spectacle that Michael

would revel in. But if he was The Charmed Kil er, why

hadn’t he struck again? Had he suspended his kil ing spree

to make Coop look more guilty? Would Michael vanish

into thin air, satisfied with getting away with one of the

most hideous series of murders the city had ever seen? Or

would he wait until Coop was convicted, then kil again to

show everyone that he stil had the upper hand?

She shivered in the warm morning air, then took another

drag on the cigarette. Her hand shook and she felt antsy all

over. She needed to do something. All this waiting was

eating at her.

At a noise below, she walked to the edge of the veranda

and looked down. Peter was unrol ing a hose, preparing to

spray down the stone and concrete surfaces around the

pool and the pool house. He wore only swim trunks. He

was tall and lean, built like an elegant athlete. The muscles

in his tanned chest and back bunched as he moved. His

blond hair shone in the morning sun. Her chest expanded

with feminine appreciation—he was gorgeous. And he’d

been so good to her since he’d come back into her life. But

it worried her that they couldn’t seem to get back in sync,

not the way they’d been when they were younger.

He glanced up and saw her, then grinned and waved. She

dropped the hand holding the cigarette behind her and

waved with the other. When he looked back to his task,

she sneaked another drag, then snubbed out the butt. If

Peter was going to be busy for a while, she could use the

computer to do more research before she left for work.

He’d told her she could help herself to it whenever she

wanted, but she knew he’d object to her delving into The

Charmed Kil er case. Last night over dinner in a nearby

restaurant the subject hadn’t even come up. Of course,

Peter had thought she’d been working all day instead of

driving all over town playing Sherlock.

She ducked back inside the house and closed the door,

then grabbed the notebook holding all the details on the

case and jogged downstairs. Her footsteps echoed through

the big, empty house.

Peter’s office featured a state-of-the-art desktop

computer system with a large hi-res monitor, plus a

scanner, a black-and-white printer, a color printer, and

video equipment. Nearby was another station where Peter

used his laptop. A bookcase ful of technical and business

reference books lined one side of the room.

A wry smile curved her mouth—Wesley would love it here.

He’d always been such a techno geek. In fact, he’d made

enough money working on other people’s home

computers to cobble together a system for himself. But all

of his equipment had been confiscated when he’d been

arrested for hacking into the courthouse records, and

terms of his probation prohibited him from working

around computers except as part of his community

service.

She shook her head. He’d risked jail to try to get

information on Randolph’s case. It was more than their

father would do for either one of them.

“Where are you, Dad?” she whispered as she sat down in

front of the monitor. While the machine booted up, she

scanned her notes. Where to start?

She decided to search for recent articles on The Charmed

Kil er case, to see if any new details had come to light. The

number of media hits was astronomical, and after several

minutes of tedious skimming, she hadn’t discovered

anything new. What she needed was underground info.

Wes had once given her tips on using search engines,

advising using more formal language when searching for

sources with legitimacy, and informal language for more

unofficial sources. She reframed her searches to include

words such as “rumor,” “gossip” and “leak,” and found

more interesting fare.

One was a blog maintained by someone who called

himself Ear To The Ground. He claimed that a source in the

Georgia State crime lab reported that latex gloves with

fingerprints, hairs, and other personal objects on The

Charmed Kil er crime scenes were matched to the suspect

in custody.

Carlotta murmured a cry of dismay.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked up to see Peter standing in the doorway. He

had donned a T-shirt, and his cheeks were pink from sun

and exertion.

“Nothing,” she said, trying to switch the screen to

something innocuous, but fumbling over the keyboard.

His gaze fel on the notebook at her elbow. He’d found it

once before and chastised her for playing detective. Peter

frowned and walked over to the printer, then flipped

through the news items she’d printed. He held them up,

his expression pinched. “I thought we talked about this,

about you not getting involved.”

“We did,” she murmured. “I’m just…uh, surfing to see if

my dad’s name has been brought up again in connection

with the case.”

“Really? Then where were you yesterday?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I dropped by the store, and you weren’t there. Your boss

told me you weren’t scheduled to work.”

Anger spiked through her chest. “You were checking up on

me?”

“No.” He looked sheepish. “I brought you lunch.”

She looked down, contrite. “Why didn’t you say anything

last night at dinner?”

“I hoped you were doing something with friends, enjoying

yourself. But you weren’t, were you?”

She pursed her mouth. “I did have lunch with a friend.”

“Hannah?”

“No.” She wet her lips. “Rainie Stephens.”

His mouth tightened. “The AJC journalist who happens to

be the lead reporter on The Charmed Kil er story?”

“Uh…right. And I did go to the mall.”

“To shop?”

“Not exactly. I…was hoping to find where the kil er might

have bought the charms.”

He wiped his hand over his mouth. “Carly, why are you

doing this? The Charmed Kil er is in custody.”

“Because I don’t believe Coop did it. He told me—” She

stopped and her cheeks warmed.

“He told you what?”

“Coop told me he was glad I was here with you, glad that I

was safe. He wouldn’t have told me that unless he knew

The Charmed Kil er was stil out there.”

Peter crossed his arms. “When did he tell you this?”

She hesitated. “When I went to see him in jail.”

Peter’s head went back, as if he’d been hit. “The

authorities just let you in to chat with a serial kil er?”

“I…might’ve fudged a little about my and

Coop’s…relationship.”

He clenched his jaw. “I assume you didn’t tel them you

were his sister?”

“Uh, no. But it was for a good reason, Peter. I had to talk

to him. I had to look in his eyes and see for myself.”

“And what did you see?”

“He’s wrestling with demons, there’s no doubt about it.

But I don’t believe he did these things, not Coop.”

“You trusted Michael Lane, too,” he reminded her quietly.

“This is different.” She stood and turned off the computer,

then took the papers from his hands and shoved them in

the notebook. “I’m sorry, Peter, but I have to see this

through.” She glanced at her watch. “And I have to get to

work.”

He looked dubious.

“Really,” she said. “I have to go to work.” She brushed by

him, her chest tight with frustration—at him, and at

herself. And at the general disarray of her life.

A few minutes later, as she backed the Honda rental out of

the garage, she stopped to stare at the remains of the

beautiful concrete fountain that had once sent sheets of

water cascading down, a lovely centerpiece for the circular

driveway. Now it was a broken mass of rock because she’d

sideswiped it with Peter’s Porsche, which had toppled the

entire structure—into his car. In one fell swoop she’d

demolished both the fountain and his beloved sports car.

And stil he put up with her.

Carlotta drove toward the Lenox Square Mall, racked with

guilt. Was she subconsciously testing Peter to see how far

he was wil ing to go to make up for abandoning her when

they were younger? He knew she was up to her gapped

front teeth in debt. He didn’t approve of her body-moving

activities. He hated her smoking. She’d asked him to

conceal a phone call from her fugitive father from the APD.

She’d convinced Peter and herself they had a future in

order to keep him from taking a job in New York because

she didn’t want to risk losing the flimsy connection to her

father in case he tried to contact Peter again. And now

she’d asked Peter to conceal evidence from the GBI about

Randolph’s involvement with one of the recent murder

victims. And all of this was under the strain of their

unsuccessful attempts at lovemaking.

By the time she parked the Civic in the parking garage at

the mall, she’d decided to ask Wesley how soon they could

move back to the townhouse. Sure the place was in

shambles, but the security system worked, so she would

feel safe. And with Hannah spending more time at

Chance’s place, Wes would probably be amenable to

coming home and the two of them could work on repairs

in their spare time.

On the way into Neiman’s, her cel phone rang—it was

Hannah.

She connected the call. “Hey, Hannah, what’s up?”

“Okay, I feel like a total narc, but I thought you should

know.”

Carlotta’s pulse spiked. “Should know what?”

“Your brother just rol ed in looking like he spent the night

in a ditch. He’s also stoned.”

“Oh, no.” Carlotta stopped just outside the store entrance

and choked back sudden tears. “What should I do?”

“Nothing for now. He’s getting ready to make some body

runs with that goober Kendall Abrams. Chance has cut off

his supply, even if Wes has the money.”

“Oh, God, that’s a relief.”

“But if he has a stash somewhere, it might take a while for

him to run out.”

“I was just thinking we should both move back to the

townhouse soon. I can keep a better eye on him there.”

“I’l let you have that conversation with your brother. By

the way, Chance and I have a list of those, um, chemical

outlets you asked for…and Chance did some drive-by

research last night along Ponce de Leon Avenue.”

Where a buffet of prostitutes could be found any night of

the week. Hopeful y one of them had known Pepper.

“I have some information to share, too,” Carlotta

murmured. Maybe between the four of them, they could

think of reasons to explain away the coincidences that

incriminated Coop. “I have to talk to the GBI again in the

morning. Can we meet at the townhouse at one to discuss

what we found?”

“Yeah. I’l make sure Wes knows.”

She sighed. “Okay. Thanks, Hannah, for the heads up.”

“Ah, wel , the shithead’s like a brother to me. I don’t want