3 Men and a Body (19 page)

applications that management wanted to risk moving to a

more efficient, but untried, system.

“As you know firsthand,” McCormick said, “hackers are

becoming more and more sophisticated. We can’t expect

to secure the databases one hundred percent.”

“But you should at least encrypt the data,” Wesley replied.

“I can see we’re on the same page. It’s something we’ve

needed to do for a while, but we never seem to have the

time or the funding. Since you were able to breach our

security, you’re an ideal candidate to help us out in this

area.” The man cleared his throat. “But since we haven’t

been able to determine exactly what data you changed, I

was hoping that first you’d, um, share that with me.”

Wesley swallowed a smile. The man was asking him to

confess to things they hadn’t been able to detect? Right.

No one needed to know that he’d removed all references

to three speeding tickets for Chance—at five hundred

bucks a pop. And he’d left himself a nice easy trail back

into the file, kind of like dropping breadcrumbs, so he

could sell his services again sometime. That asshole cop

Jack Terry had arrested him and confiscated his

equipment, but the man didn’t know that Wesley had

stored his best computer stuff at Chance’s condo and was

just laying low until he was off probation.

“I didn’t change anything,” he said solemnly. “I just

wanted to prove that I could get in. I was hanging out with

a few other hackers and we got points for breaking into

different systems. It wasn’t about messing with the data.”

McCormick looked relieved. “That’s very good news.” He

passed a manual across the desk. “Okay, this should get

you up to speed on encryption techniques and two

different encoders that we have access to. Take a couple

of days to read it, then we’l sit down and come up with

some general guidelines on how to proceed.”

“Okay,” Wesley said, a little perplexed that the man would

be putting such an important job in his hands. It made him

feel oddly…responsible.

“See you in the morning, Wes.”

Wesley stood there for a few seconds, then attributed the

giddy feeling to the OxyContin. “See you in the morning.”

He left the building and noticed what a nice day it was—

everything seemed better on the little white pil s. He was

more in tune to his surroundings; his senses were more

keen. He rode his bike to the courthouse and forked over

the last of his cash as a payment on his fine—the other

part of his sentence. Then he pedaled to Chance’s condo.

His friend was high as a kite, in a great mood. “Come on in,

man.”

The room was smoggy with pot smoke. A half-naked

woman lay curled up asleep on the living room rug.

“You want something to eat? I just had a pizza delivered.”

Wesley scooped up a slice. “I was hoping to practice a few

hands of poker.”

“Yeah, sure, just step over her.”

Wesley peered at the woman as he maneuvered around

her. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s just stoned.”

“Who is she?”

“My economics teacher. I’m not going to need for you to

take that exam for me, after all.”

“Dude, at least cover her up.”

“She doesn’t know the difference. Hey, you stil banging

your attorney?”

“Occasionally.”

“Sweet. How’s your arm?”

“Better.”

“Need some more OC?”

Wesley hesitated. “I’d better not. My probation officer

sometimes takes a urine sample for drug testing.”

Chance laughed. “So what? Man, I can fix you up with a

blocker. You just pour it in your sample and it’s clean, like

that.” He tried to snap his fingers but missed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, man, I’m sure. I sel to lots of truck drivers, and

those guys have to get their whiz tested all the time.”

“I don’t have any cash.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Chance pul ed out a key ring and

unlocked a cabinet drawer, then pul ed out a smal bag of

white pil s. “Are you chewing?”

“Yeah. You were right—it’s good.”

Chance handed him the bag. “Don’t chew with alcohol, got

it?”

“Thanks.”

“Where did you disappear to all weekend?”

“I had a body run to Boca Raton.”

“Why Boca?”

“It was to pick up that celebrity chick, Kiki Deerling.”

Chance’s jaw dropped. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Did you get a look at her body?”

“Briefly.”

“Were her tits real?”

“I don’t know, man. All I saw was her face, and it was bad.”

“Bummer. She looked like a nice piece of ass. Speaking of

nice, why don’t you put in a good word for me with that

chain-gang woman your sister hangs out with?”

“Hannah?”

“Yeah, I really dig her.”

“She’ll dig you, too—a grave. Steer clear, man.”

“Get me a date with her and you can have another bag of

OC.”

Wesley hesitated, but the inducement of having yet

another bag of white pil s at his disposal was disturbingly

appealing. “I’l see what I can do.”

21

“Hannah, this is Carlotta. Did I ever tel you that when

Detective Jack Terry was here, he told me that he gets a

manicure regularly? I know your hands are always dry

from washing them so often with your catering job, so I

got the name of the cuticle cream he uses. Call me on my

cel if you want to chat.”

Carlotta put the cordless phone back into its cradle and

chuckled, wondering how long it would take for the bits of

made-up personal info to trickle down to Jack. Maybe it

was petty, but it was the only diversion she had at the

moment.

“Breaking news in the death of celebrity Kiki Deerling,” the

television announcer said.

Carlotta moved closer and turned up the volume.

“The medical examiner in the Boca Raton district has

issued his findings. Dr. Shore’s statement read that, quote,

‘After consulting with the attending physician at the

hospital where Ms. Deerling was treated, and after

performing a visual examination of the body, my

conclusion is that the cause of death is due to

complications from an asthmatic incident,’ unquote. There

was no mention of il egal substances. From the M.E.’s

report, we are left to believe that Kiki’s Deerling’s death

was simply an unforeseeable tragedy.”

“I guess that’s that,” Carlotta murmured, chiding herself

for wanting there to be more drama associated with the

starlet’s demise. The ex-boyfriend was official y off the

hook, although she suspected that rumors would always

connect him to the scandal, that some people would

accuse the family of a cover-up to hide Kiki’s drug use and

say that Matt Pearson had benefited from the conspiracy.

Footage rol ed of the squeaky-clean decoy van leaving the

morgue entrance, the pink bow on the antenna fluttering

in the wind. The caption read “Deerling’s body leaves Boca

Raton morgue.”

She smiled. At least most of the people had been fooled.

“Meanwhile, we’ve learned that a memorial service for

Kiki wil take place in Atlanta Wednesday afternoon at the

Motherwel Funeral Home in Buckhead. The service is

private—only for the family and close friends of Kiki—but

the public is welcome to gather outside in a parking lot.

There’s a rumor that Kiki Deerling’s ex-boyfriend Matt

Pearson wil sing a song at the service, but his publicist,

who was also Kiki’s publicist, has not yet confirmed it.

Afterward, the body wil be interred at the Deerling family

cemetery plot in Atlanta.”

Carlotta wondered what Kiki’s sister thought of Matt

Pearson performing at her sister’s funeral. Maybe Kiki’s

publicist had convinced the sister it was in everyone’s best

interests to play nice.

And what a blow to the publicist, to lose a cash cow like

Kiki Deerling. Hol ywood movers and shakers were

probably already convening all over town to establish the

next “it” girl who would assume Kiki’s role as partyer

extraordinaire and arm candy to the rich and dangerous.

Chances were good that the spoils would go to Kiki’s on-

again, off-again BFF, Naomi Kane. Naomi didn’t have

sparkle, but maybe it just looked that way because she

was always in Kiki’s shadow. Carlotta remembered that

the girl had gotten good reviews for her performance in an

independent film, but her acting career had never taken

off. She and Kiki were supposedly always squabbling about

something trivial, but Carlotta suspected most of it was

simply fodder for the publicity mil . And for that matter,

their friendship itself might have been one of those

choreographed partnerships dreamed up on an agent’s

dry-eraser board.

Carlotta clicked off the TV. “You have enough drama of

your own,” she reminded herself aloud.

She showered and dressed careful y, dreading her errand

and allowing her mind to wander. She hoped Wesley did

wel at his community service job—deep down she wished

it would make him start thinking about a career. He was so

damn smart. It was a shame he had so little ambition.

She sighed. Of course, in his mind, he had all kinds of

ambition—to win the World Series of Poker, for example.

She surveyed her outfit of swingy white skirt and royal-

blue Kay Unger long-sleeved tunic to help mask her arm

cast. The pair of Tory Burch silver ballerina flats that she

coveted would be a perfect complement, but she had

resisted the urge to splurge.

Not that she’d had much of a choice, with her Neiman’s

card maxed out. And after Wesley had dared her to cut up

al of her credit cards a couple of weeks ago, she was left

with one paltry Visa and one measly Mastercard, neither

of which could withstand the force of a shopping trip to

Target, much less the mall.

The Fendi patent leather rainbow flats would have to

suffice.

She left her hair loose, then chose a beige Valentino straw-

and-leather bag to add polish to her summery outfit. It

was last year’s bag, but Peter probably wouldn’t notice—

although the women he worked with would.

She walked to the Lindbergh MARTA station and rode the

train one stop north to the financial district in Buckhead.

From there it was a short walk to Mashburn & Tul y

Investments, formerly Mashburn, Tul y & Wren. Their

offices were housed in the Pinnacle Building, an iconic

structure with an awning of curved glass sloping over the

topmost floors, two of which housed Mashburn & Tul y.

As she rode up the elevator, Carlotta questioned once

again whether she should’ve called Peter first. But she’d

been afraid that when she said she needed to talk to him,

he would ask her out for a romantic dinner, or worse,

invite her to come to his house. And she wasn’t ready for

that yet, not with the engagement ring he’d had

customized for her hanging over her head.

She wished for the thousandth time that she could

separate her relationship with Peter from her father’s

impossible situation. But the two threads kept crossing

and doubling back on each other.

She stepped off the elevator and noted the subtle changes

since she’d last been here. When she was a teenager and

her father had serviced accounts of celebrity athletes and

other prominent people, he would sometimes allow

Carlotta to bring her autograph book and politely ask for

signatures. Her father had been an important man in his

own right, successful and gifted when it came to making

investments, wel -liked and respected. Everyone the media

had interviewed—coworkers and clients—had seemed

incredulous when he was accused of fraud.

Aside from her father’s name having been removed from

the glass doors, the corporate color scheme had changed

from browns to blues. A receptionist just inside pressed an

intercom button and asked if he could help her.

“Carlotta Wren to see Peter Ashford.”

“Is Mr. Ashford expecting you?”

“No.”

“Just a moment, please.” The man picked up the phone,

and after a few seconds a clicking noise sounded. “Come

in, Ms. Wren.”

She pushed open the heavy glass door and walked inside.

The place reeked of money, giving the impression that a

machine in the back room churned out hundred-dol ar

bil s.

“Mr. Ashford is coming out to get you himself.” The

receptionist’s tone was part curious, part impressed. “Nice

bag,” he added.

“Thank you,” she said self-consciously, until she realized

he was being sincere. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

He smiled, revealing teeth so perfect that they made her

aware of the gap between her own front teeth. “I’m

Quentin Gallagher. And I couldn’t help noticing that your

last name is Wren. Are you related to Randolph Wren?”

“He was—is—my father,” she said, steeling herself for a

rebuke.

Quentin leaned forward and snapped his fingers. “I knew

you looked familiar—you’re the woman who fel from the

balcony of the Fox, aren’t you?”

She tapped her cast. “The one and only. But for the record,