2 Bodies for the Price of 1 (28 page)

Carlotta nodded, a little hurt that he’d leave her alone at a time like this but she couldn’t pretend to understand how his mind worked.

While Jack cleared the cops out of the house, Coop stood. “I guess that’s my cue.”

She smiled up at him. “Thank you again.”

“Being around you is the most excitement I’ve had in a while.”

Jack returned in time to overhear the remark. He gave her a disparaging frown. “She can’t seem to help herself.”

Coop stuck out his hand. “Take care of her, Jack,” he said in a mild tone that contradicted the way he squeezed Jack’s hand.

Jack looked him directly in the eye. “I intend to. Thanks for your help.”

The handshake lasted a few seconds longer before Coop retreated.

Carlotta walked him to the door and waved goodbye, postponing the moment when she’d have to face Jack’s wrath. He would, no doubt, lecture her on withholding information and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong and generally making his job harder than it already was.

When she turned, it was worse than she’d expected. The big man looked like he was on the verge of flying apart—hair ruffled, suit rumpled, pilled orange tie hanging loose. And the look on his face was a barely contained rage—directed toward her.

“Jack—”

“Can’t you stay out of trouble?” he bellowed. “In the space of a few days, you’ve taken ten years off my life!”

She crossed her arms. “
I
didn’t do anything.”

He pulled his hand down his face, seeming to grapple for control. Then he shook his head. “How many lives do you have, woman?”

Carlotta shrugged, then smiled.

Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down with him to lie on the couch. He cradled her head to his warm shoulder and released a long, shuddering breath.

“Jack—”

“Shhh,” he murmured against her hair. “Don’t talk. Just let me hear you breathe.”

40

“W
hat did I tell you.” Chance pointed to a red Ferrari in the valet parking lot of the Golden Glove. “The Carver is here almost every night of the week.”

“You know your strip clubs,” Wesley admitted.

A whimper sounded in the backseat. “I’m not so sure about this,” Cherry said in a whispery voice.

“Shut up, drag dude,” Chance said over his shoulder. “This is more money than you’ll make in a month turning tricks in Piedmont Park, so find your balls, okay?”

“You’re so mean.” Cherry sighed wistfully.

But Wesley too, was beginning to doubt that they could pull this off. A skinny computer geek, a chubby small-time drug dealer and a drag queen—it sounded like the setup for a bad joke.

And if things went bad, they could all wind up hurt—or worse.

Still, he kept the picture of Carlotta dodging bullets in his mind as they drove Chance’s SUV past the valet stand in favor of a pay-and-park lot. Chance pulled into the back where there were almost no cars.

Only a swag of chain hung between posts separated them from a side road. Wesley cut through the links with a folding pocket saw in less than a minute, then he reconnected the broken chain by wrapping it with a clear piece of packing tape. Meanwhile Chance had removed his license plate and tossed it onto the floor board.

“What are you guys, some kind of cat-burglar team?” Cherry asked, giggling. “This is so exciting.”

The prostitute was dressed in a short skirt and halter top, with big hair and high heels. Other than having a flat ass, Cherry was pretty believable as a woman. Scarily so.

Chance looked Cherry up and down. “Are you sure you’re a dude?”

“Why don’t you check me out?”

It was just the kind of dare that Chance lived for. He grabbed Cherry in the crotch and Cherry squealed.

Chance frowned. “Okay, he’s legit.”

“Do it again,” Cherry said.

“Look, woman dude, I only yank mine as a last resort, why would I want to yank yours?”

“I can do things to you that a woman can’t,” Cherry purred.

“Couldn’t be less interested.” Chance shook his head. “But I like your initiative. How much do you pay your pimp?”

“Dude,” Wesley broke in. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Okay. Everyone knows what to do,” Chance said. “Let’s go even a score.”

Cherry put her arms around their shoulders and after paying a cover, they walked in like a threesome.

Almost immediately, Wesley spotted The Carver sitting in a corner booth with five women—three of them completely nude—draped over him or lounging within reach. A gorgeous black woman with enormous tits danced on his table. The man looked like he’d been eating and drinking for hours, which boded well for their plan.

At the next table sat his henchmen, but luckily they seemed equally marinated in booze and T & A.

The three of them ordered drinks at the bar and stayed within sight of each other, but blended with the crowd. Wesley kept The Carver in his peripheral view. After about thirty minutes, the man made the move Wesley was hoping for—getting out of the booth and heading toward the men’s room. Sweat beaded on Wesley’s forehead as he watched the table of cronies. Although one looked up when The Carver stood, the guy apparently decided that licking a salted nipple and doing a shot of tequila was more fun than escorting his boss to the john.

Wesley looked for Chance to give him the signal. To his consternation, Chance was mesmerized by the blonde dancing on stage, stuffing bills into the only clothes she wore—her schoolgirl knee socks. And Cherry had disappeared.

He abandoned his drink and got Chance’s attention with a poke. “The Carver’s gone in—you have to find Cherry.”

Chance nodded, slammed his drink and went off in the other direction.

Wesley walked toward the men’s room, sweating profusely now. When he got to the bathroom, he removed an Out of Order sign from under his shirt and tacked it on the door, then slipped inside. As Chance had described, the men’s bathrooms were really like small changing rooms with toilets. He saw The Carver go into the one on the end, and all he could do at that point was pray that Chance and Cherry got there soon. Two men exited their booths and left without washing their hands. Wesley shook his head.

Some men were such pigs.

Finally the men’s room was empty except for The Carver. Just when Wesley had given up hope and was ready to abandon the plan, the door opened and in walked Cherry and Chance. Wesley pointed to the occupied booth and motioned for them to hurry.

A slim-jim tool got them inside the booth before The Carver could react.

“What the hell?” was all he had time to say before Wesley slapped a piece of duct tape on his mouth and Chance tied his wrists with a cable tie. The middle-aged man looked almost pathetic sitting on the john with his pants around his ankles. His eyes rolled wildly and he moaned against the tape. “Hmm hmm hmm?”

“Who am I?” Wesley interpreted. “My name is Wesley Wren. I owe you money, which I intend to repay.

But one of your guys took a couple of shots at my sister today and I need to make sure that never happens again.”

He motioned to Cherry, who lifted his skirt—and pulled out a massive dick, which he laid against The Carver’s cheek. The older man tried to recoil, but had to maintain his balance on the toilet with his bound hands. Chance snapped a few pictures on his cell phone.

“That’s good,” Wesley said. Then he got up in the man’s face. “If anything happens to Carlotta, these pictures hit the Internet, got it?”

The man nodded. They left the booth, exited the bathroom and made their way to the entrance as quickly as they could without raising suspicion. Wesley spotted one of The Carver’s guys strolling toward the bathroom. Once they hit the parking lot, they broke into a sprint with Wesley half-dragging the high-heeled Cherry. They vaulted into the SUV.

Cherry turned to look through the back window. “Here they come!”

Sure enough, The Carver’s men were in a full run, scanning the parking lot, obviously determined to retrieve the phone with the pictures on it and then beat them all to a bloody pulp.

“Hurry, man!” Wesley yelled.

Chance churned the ignition and gunned the gas, breaking through the taped-up chain and jumping a curb to get onto the side street. After they’d gone a couple of blocks, he turned on his headlights and whooped.

“That was awesome!”

Wesley high-fived Chance, loving the feeling of having the upper hand for once in his life. Now that they’d escaped with the pictures, he held all the cards. He sat back in the seat and laughed at Chance’s retelling of every detail, even sweeter now because they’d pulled it off.

A haughty smile crawled over his face. Maybe he wouldn’t even pay The Carver the rest of what he owed. The man had almost killed his sister; he was getting off light.

Wesley folded his hands behind his head. He could get used to this power thing.

He only wished his dad could see him now.

41

T
wo days after the shooting, Jack still called or stopped by every few hours to make sure Carlotta was okay. After spending the night platonically in each other’s arms, they seemed to have reached some sort of unspoken pact—a relationship between them was impossible.

At least for now.

Wesley had returned from his overnight stay with Chance in a suspiciously good mood and had been so attentive that she’d forgiven him for leaving the night of the shooting.

Coop too, had called to check in, but had seemed a little distant, as if he were afraid of treading on claimed territory. The professional relationship between him and Jack that predated her was going to make things sticky between her and Coop, she suspected.

Which made her thoughts swing to Peter. She’d kept the phone he’d given her in her purse, grateful for its comforting presence. And she knew it was unreasonably selfish of her, but she was a little irritated that she hadn’t heard from him all week. Carlotta realized that she wasn’t even sure when he would return and she wondered if that’s how life with
him
would be—leading parallel lives that ran side by side, but rarely intersected.

When he did call later that day to say hello, he sounded so harried that she was instantly remorseful. She had to keep reminding herself that he’d been through the trauma of losing his wife and was probably struggling to regain footing and focus at work. Plus, he was giving her the space
she
had requested.

“I miss you,” he said. “I wish I had brought you with me. We would’ve had fun in the city.”

“Sounds like you haven’t had any down time.”

“Not much,” Peter admitted. “But it’s been nice to get out of Atlanta for a few days, to be away from everything. Everything except you, of course.”

“Sounds like a change of scenery is just what you needed.”

“I was thinking that when I get back, maybe we could plan a weekend away somewhere, to get, you know…reacquainted.”

“That sounds nice. I’ll think about it.”

“Great,” he said, sounding relieved and happy. “Anything exciting going on there?”

A positive ID on the bridge jumper, the suspicion that it was murder, a second murder linked to the first and a drive-by shooting that had her still picking grass from her teeth. “No, not a thing.”

“Good. I’ll be back Monday afternoon and I’ll pick you up for the concert around six. I made reservations at Eno’s.”

“Sounds wonderful. I can’t wait.”

“Me, either. Bye, Carly.”

When she hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. She jumped—loud noises seemed to make her do that now—and groaned when she saw Mrs. Winningham on the stoop, holding Toofers.

She took a deep breath and opened the door. “Hello, Mrs. Winningham.”

“So you’re not dead after all.” Toofers just snarled.

“So they tell me.”

“I came to get my casserole dish. I told Wesley that I needed it back.”

“Right. Let me get it for you. Would you like to come in?”

“Well, all right.”

Carlotta stepped back and the woman walked inside, her nose crinkling. “I heard the shooting the other night and saw the police. I never thought I’d be living in an area where a body isn’t safe in her own front yard.”

“Neither did I,” Carlotta lamented, walking into the kitchen and covering the waste can where the icky chicken casserole had ended up.

“Your family has brought a bad element to this neighborhood,” the woman called after her.

“I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Winningham.” No use denying it. She picked up the clean casserole dish and lid and returned to the living room.

“When are you going to get your front window fixed? It’s an eyesore.”

“I know. Soon, I hope.”

The woman took the casserole dish and frowned. “And that enormous broken TV at the curb—you’re only allowed to put out appliances for pickup on the third Tuesday of the month.”

“I’ll tell Wesley,” Carlotta promised.

Toofers spotted the silver Christmas tree and took advantage of Mrs. Winningham’s one-arm grip to wriggle loose and attack with the might of a rabid rat. Carlotta grabbed the tree, and Mrs. Winningham grabbed Toofers and a tug of war ensued. Ornaments and fur flew before the two were finally separated.

“My tree,” Carlotta moaned, surveying the mass of bent and naked branches.

“My baby!” Mrs. Winningham cried, sticking her fingers down the dog’s throat to retrieve bits of tinsel.

She screwed up her face and gave Carlotta a poisonous glare. “If he has to go to the vet, you’re getting the bill!”

Carlotta fumed. “What about my Christmas tree?”

“It’s the middle of summer!” Mrs. Winningham shouted, retreating to the door. “You people are a bunch of freaks!” The door banged shut and Carlotta stuck her tongue out at it. Then she burst out laughing.

Carlotta spent an hour straightening out the limbs of the misshapen tree and putting the small, faded ornaments back in place. She picked up one of the rewrapped gifts, and a fresh burst of anger toward Jack erupted in her stomach. She gently shook the package and tried to decipher the indistinct rattle inside.

Since he hadn’t kept any of the presents or divulged their contents, they must not have contained any explosive information—or cash.