2 Bodies for the Price of 1 (13 page)

But her life had been derailed, so instead of being a Buckhead wife with few worries, she was in debt up to her eyeballs, unexpectedly unemployed and temporarily dead.

And sharing close quarters with a watchdog possessing a thickly muscled body that made her think wayward thoughts. Just how ungentlemanly was he in bed? Did he ever let his guard down? And were she and he destined to communicate solely in cagey sound bites and flirtatious banter?

She slid a lathered sponge over her body, allowing her mind to run rampant. The sight of Jack half-dressed in the changing room came back to her and she imagined what it would be like to have him holding the sponge, running his big, soapy hands all over her body, doing ungentlemanly things to her—

Suddenly the water pressure dropped, then blasted out icy cold; he was running hot water elsewhere in the house. Carlotta shrieked, jumping around to escape the frigid water. She turned off the shower and dove into a towel, her teeth chattering, more so when the cool air from the overhead vent hit her.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door, eliciting another gasp.

“Are you all right in there?” Jack asked. “I heard you screaming…hope I didn’t interrupt something.”

Irritated, she yanked on her robe, then opened the door. “You made me take a cold shower.”

He managed to take in the length of her—from wet hair to damp toes—before he grinned. “I didn’t realize I had that effect on you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him even as her cheeks warmed. “Get out of my bedroom.”

“Ah, there’s the Carlotta I know—prickly.” He gestured to her bedroom, the unmade bed, clothes strewn everywhere. “And are you always this messy?”

“Are you still here?”

“No,” he said, backing away. “By the way, I made breakfast.”

Dammit, how did he know she was starving? She frowned. “Enough for two?”

“If you hurry.”

She hurried. A quick blast of hot air to her long hair dried it enough to pull back into a ponytail. A swipe of powder and some lip gloss sufficed as makeup. She pulled an ancient pair of Levi’s and a red John Butler Trio T-shirt from her closet, and pushed her feet into a pair of whisper-thin flip flops. She considered making her bed, but didn’t, just to spite Jack.

On the way through the living room, she stepped over a bulky black duffel bag and stopped to listen to

“CNN Headline News” playing on the big-screen TV that dominated the cramped living room.

“Investigators are still looking into what may have caused Atlanta resident Carlotta Wren to jump to her death last night from the Seventeenth Street bridge.”

She gasped when her high school senior picture flashed on the screen. My God, how young she looked.

And how naive.

“Wren was eighteen when her father, investment broker Randolph Wren, and his wife, Valerie, disappeared, allegedly to evade the fraud and embezzlement charges levied against Mr. Wren when he was a partner at the Atlanta firm of what was then Mashburn, Tully and Wren. No one has heard from the Wrens since. Atlanta police say that Ms. Wren may have been despondent over her brother’s recent arrest and being suspended from her job.”

“Nice photo,” Jack said next to her. “I’ll bet you were a cheerleader.”

She turned to glare at him. “Did you have to tell them that I’d been suspended from my job?”

“Sorry. It goes to motivation.”

She ran her hands up and down her arms. “This is creeping me out. The report sounds so believable.”

“It’s supposed to. And it’s on all the wire services.”

Carlotta imagined her parents having breakfast—her father drinking raw eggs, her mother drinking vodka—and hearing that she’d taken her life in such a hideous, public way. Would her father think it had something to do with him calling her? Would they, as the police believed, come running to console Wesley and mourn their only daughter or would they, as she believed, convince themselves that what was done was done.

Jack’s hand settled on her shoulder, his eyes reflecting that pseudo-caring look that so confused her.

“Why don’t we eat before the food gets cold?”

She followed him slowly, watching numbly as he dished up a mountain of eggs and pan-fried chicken breasts. He licked the end of his thumb as he studied her. “By the way, you look pretty good for someone who’s supposed to be dead.”

“Very funny.”

“I hope it was okay to raid the refrigerator.”

“Okay by me. That’s Wesley’s domain.”

His mouth crooked into a half-smile. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

She sighed as she poured them each a glass of orange juice. “You’ve got me all figured out, don’t you, Detective?”

He set two piled-high plates on the table and waited until they’d both sat down before giving her an intense look. “No, I don’t have you figured out…yet. I wouldn’t have figured you for a Levi’s kind of gal, for instance.”

His scrutiny unnerved Carlotta. She dipped her fork into the eggs and took a flavorful bite, making an appreciative noise before asking, “What else would you like to know?”

Jack put away an enormous mouthful of food before replying. “I guess the first thing that comes to mind is why someone who looks like you isn’t married with a couple of kids.”

She concentrated on cutting a bite-size piece of chicken. “I guess I’ve been busy raising Wesley.”

“He’s a grown man. You can’t use that excuse anymore.”

She gave a little laugh. “What makes you think I want to be married and have kids? I kind of got my fill of the whole domestic scene.”

“Or maybe you were just waiting for Ashford to come to his senses.”

She bristled. “If that were so, it would make me rather pathetic, don’t you think?”

“But now that his wife is gone,” he pressed, “he’s hoping to pick up where the two of you left off.”

Carlotta looked down at her plate. “I think so, yes.”

“Because he still cares about you or because he feels like a bastard for leaving you when your parents skipped town?”

She didn’t respond—hadn’t she been asking herself the same question? Instead she decided to turn the tables on him. “What about you, Jack? Ever been married?”

He laughed, a big, booming sound. “Nope. My line of work doesn’t exactly lend itself to a white picket fence.”

“No kids?”

“Nope.”

“Really? You seem like the kind of guy who would want to replicate himself,” she said dryly.

“I think one of me in the world is enough.”

She lifted her glass of orange juice. “Well, we agree on one thing at least.”

He smiled and lifted his own glass. “It’s a start.”

Jack turned his attention back to his food and Carlotta puzzled over his comment. The start of what?

The phone pealed, sending her pulse into orbit. Was it her father? Her mother? A bill collector?

“Will the machine kick on?” he asked.

She nodded, almost nauseous by the fourth ring when her own voice sounded. “Leave a message for Carlotta or Wesley after the tone.” Then the sound of wailing filled the room.

“Wesley,” cried Hannah, “I just heard…tell me it’s not true. That sister of yours cannot be dead!”

Carlotta’s heart pinched at her friend’s mournful sobs. “Jack,” she pleaded.

But he only shook his head.

“I’ll try you on your cell,” Hannah sputtered. “If you get this message, call me and tell me what I’m going to do without her. How dare she kill herself, the bitch.” Then she disconnected the call.

At Hannah’s angry tone, Carlotta had to smile. Her friend did not emote well. Still, she felt miserable and teary for putting her through so much anguish.

“It’s only temporary,” Jack said. “The sooner your father shows, the sooner—”

The ringing of the doorbell cut him off. Carlotta gripped the edge of the table as Jack wiped his mouth with a napkin and pushed to his feet. “Stay out of sight,” he ordered.

17

W
esley blinked as Coop snapped his fingers in front of his nose. “Earth to Wesley. We’re here.”

He looked around to see that they’d arrived at the address of their residential pickup. “Sorry, dude, I’m a little distracted.”

“Understandable. Are you sure you shouldn’t be at home today?”

“I’m sure.”

“Won’t people think it’s weird that you’re working if your sister is supposed to be dead?”

“Dude, if she’s dead, then it makes sense I’d be with you, right?”

“I guess so. But you need to take your anger down a notch or two.”

Wesley alighted and walked with Coop toward the front of the modest ranch home. A police car and one from the medical examiner’s office sat in the driveway. “It’s just, what gives them the right to do this to my family?”

“Your father broke the law, Wesley.”

“My father is innocent,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I meant when he skipped bail. He’s a fugitive, and the D.A. wants him brought to justice. Don’t you want to see him again?”

“Not like this. Not lured in like some kind of animal.”

Coop didn’t respond and Wesley had the feeling that his boss believed the lies about his father. His chest ached with frustration, and he was still smarting over the fact that both Detective Terry and Coop had been witness to his emotional meltdown when he’d thought that Carlotta was gone. But he knew one button to push to get Coop on his side.

“And it burns me up thinking about Detective Terry staying in the house with Carlotta.”

Just as he suspected, a muscle ticked in Coop’s jaw. “But she agreed to it.”

“I saw her face when he told her he was moving in. She wasn’t happy about it.”

Coop’s jaw relaxed. “She’ll be safe with Jack Terry.”

“That depends on your definition of safe,” Wesley muttered.

Coop rang the doorbell, waited a few seconds, then entered the house. It was unusually cold and instantly, the stench of death and decay filled Wesley’s nose. He fought the urge to gag. A police officer stepped into the hallway, holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth.

“We’re here to take the body to the morgue,” Coop said, flashing identification.

“She’s in here.”

Wesley followed Coop into a small bedroom, swallowing past the dreaded anticipation of seeing yet another dead person—they were all so different, their manner of death as individual as they had been in life. Even the old geezers who stroked out at the nursing homes all had a different look about them, meeting death with unique expressions and positions.

Inside the small bedroom, his gaze immediately went to the ceiling fan, where the body of a young woman hung, one end of a colorful scarf wound around the base of the fan and the other end knotted around her neck. Other than the scarf, she was nude. Her head lolled to the side, her face swollen and almost purple. Her arms and legs hung limply—her body swaying oh, so slowly. Wesley covered his nose with his sleeve.

“Looks like a cut-and-dried suicide,” the masked M.E. said, filling out forms. His camera sat nearby. “I figure she’s been here maybe two days.”

“More like four.” Coop handed Wesley a mask to put on.

The M.E. frowned. “Did Abrams send you to check up on me, Coop?”

“No, he wouldn’t do that.”

The man sighed. “Okay, I give. Why do you say four days instead of two? What did I miss? Color of her fingernails, libidity?”

“The four days’ worth of newspapers on the stoop,” Coop said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “And with the air conditioner running so high, the decomp was slowed.” He turned to the cop. “Who found the body?”

“I did. She hasn’t been to work, so her boss called the police.”

“Was there a suicide note?”

The M.E. stood, his expression dry. “Do you want to take this one, Coop? Oh, no wait—you’re not an M.E. anymore, only a body mover.”

Wesley looked at Coop to see how he’d take the slight.

But if the man’s remark had affected Coop, he didn’t let on. “It’s all yours, Wells. Let us know when you’re ready to bring her down.” He looked at Wesley and nodded toward the hallway.

Wesley followed him out and pulled down his mask. “You don’t think it’s a suicide?”

“No, Wells is right—it looks like a cut-and-dried suicide.” Coop shoved his hands in his pockets.

“But?” Wesley probed.

“But it’s always nice to have a suicide note.”

“Do most people leave them?”

“No, but most women do.”

Wesley nodded, tucking away the tidbit of information. “What about last night’s jumper?”

Coop shook his head. “No note.”

“You still don’t know who it was?”

“That’s the coroner’s job.”

But Wesley could tell from the man’s body language that he was itching to look into the case himself. “So when are you going to tell me what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you lose your job as coroner?”

Coop looked away for several long seconds. “Because I was a drunk and I betrayed the trust of the people who believed in me.” He leveled his gaze on Wesley. “Once that happens, your life is never the same.”

Wesley blinked hard at Coop’s sincerity. “Did you get fired?”

“Oh, yeah. And rightfully so.”

“But you’re brilliant. I’ve seen the way that Abrams and the other M.E.s treat you—they respect your opinion.”

Coop laughed. “Far from it. I overstep my bounds way too often, but old habits are hard to break.”

“Hey, Coop,” the M.E. called from the doorway, his expression contrite. “Can you give me a hand?”

“Sure,” Coop said amiably.

Wesley put his mask back in place and followed Coop back down the hall to the woman’s bedroom. He helped bear the weight of the woman’s body so the cop could loosen the knot around the base of the fan.

Shouldering the left side of her body, he had a sudden appreciation for the term
dead weight.
Even with the mask, the odor was overwhelming. He wondered if people who were suicidal would go through with it if they could only visualize the state in which they’d be found.

Or maybe it was her way of getting back at a world that had ignored her.

Despite the swollen state of her face, it had pleasant-enough features. Her house was ordinary, her surroundings adequate. What could have happened in this woman’s life that could make her so desperate she would tie a red-and-yellow striped scarf around the ceiling fan and her neck and then jump off the bed?