3 Men and a Body (21 page)

toward a group of girls wearing pink T-shirts that spel ed

out “We lve you, Kiki.” (The O must have been detained in

traffic.) “And you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of the

crowd.”

She felt sheepish. “It’s sil y, I guess, but after everything

that happened, I feel close to her somehow.”

“I can understand that. Do you want to come inside? I can

smuggle you in the back.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“There’s no room in the chapel, but you can sit in our

upstairs lounge. There’s a speaker if you’d like to listen to

the service.”

Carlotta smiled. “That sounds nice.”

She elbowed her way through the crowd to the nearest

opening in the fence. Coop showed his identification to a

cop at the edge of the parking lot, and he let them pass.

“Motherwell’s is going to be famous after this,” she said.

“No offense, but I think my uncle would be happier if we

didn’t have a funeral like this again anytime soon. The

security alone has been a nightmare.”

“Have there been more incidents?”

“No, thank goodness.”

“Were you the one who, um, took care of the body?” she

asked nonchalantly.

He pursed his mouth. “What are you getting at?”

She shrugged. “I just wondered if you noticed

anything…strange.”

“For instance?”

She shrugged again. “A fracture of the hyoid bone or

thyroid cartilage, perhaps?”

His eyebrows shot up. “A little nighttime reading on

forensic pathology?”

“I was curious, so I looked up a few things. I’m trying to

expand my mind.”

“Okay. Wel , you’re right that a fracture of the hyoid is an

indication that a person was strangled.”

“So was Kiki’s fractured?”

“What makes you think I checked?”

“Because I saw your face when you looked at her at the

morgue. You don’t agree with the M.E.’s findings.”

“I don’t agree with his methods,” he corrected. “His

findings might be completely accurate.”

“Or not.”

Coop sighed, then looked at her sideways. “I checked.

There was no fracture.”

Her shoulders fel .

“You seem disappointed,” he said, sounding amused.

“No, it’s not that. I just thought if her death wasn’t an

accident, she deserves justice.”

“I agree,” Coop said.

“But it sounds as if her death was an accident, just as the

M.E. ruled.”

“Could be.” Coop pul ed out a set of keys to unlock a back

entrance. “On the other hand, a fractured hyoid is less

common in children and young adults during strangulation

because the bone hasn’t yet calcified.”

She walked inside and waited until he’d locked the door

behind them. “You’re saying that she stil could’ve been

strangled.”

“There are a couple of dozen possible causes of death,

including a severe asthma attack, just as the M.E. ruled.”

“I saw you look at her eyes. Was there petechial

conjunctive hemorrhaging?”

He squinted. “Have you been watching CSI?”

“You’re being evasive.”

He pressed his lips together, then said, “Broken blood

vessels in the eyes is an indication of asphyxia, which

doesn’t necessarily mean the person was strangled.”

“I know. She could have been smothered, or choked to

death. But did you notice the circle imprint below her

neck? As if she was wearing a necklace and it was pressed

into her skin when someone wrapped their hands around

her neck.”

“Or the EMTs did it when they tried to resuscitate her. Or

maybe the impression wasn’t a necklace at all, but the end

of an instrument they were using to revive her.” Coop

smiled. “Look, I think it’s admirable that you want to help

this young woman, Carlotta, but unless we have proof that

she was murdered, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Can’t you get Dr. Abrams to do an autopsy?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t die in his jurisdiction and

only the D.A. or the family can request an autopsy. Since

her family objected in the first place, that’s not likely to

happen. And since there’s no reason to suspect her death

was anything other than an asthma attack, the D.A.’s

office won’t get involved.”

“What about the fact that someone—three different men,

in fact—were trying to claim her body, not to mention the

attempts to actually steal it?”

Coop held up his hands. “Freaks, perverts, cults,

paparazzi—take your pick.”

She fol owed him into the lobby, where guests were stil

arriving in all their contrived finery. A door to a rear lounge

opened and the family emerged. Carlotta recognized Kiki’s

parents from TV and newspapers. The Deerlings had been

wel known in Atlanta even before their daughter had

become a celebrity. They looked drawn and devastated.

Carlotta’s heart twisted for them. Kiki’s older sister, Kayla,

was by their side, looking just as distraught. Her boyfriend,

Jamie Reardon, a local land developer, seemed to be

supporting her weight.

The lobby quieted as the family made their way into the

chapel, and Coop leaned down. “I need to go. The stairs to

the second-floor lounge are through that door. Help

yourself to a beverage from the refrigerator. With

transporting the body to the cemetery, I probably won’t

see you afterward.”

“I’l let myself out. See you soon.”

He smiled. “I hope.”

Carlotta slipped through a door at the other end of the

lobby and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Off the

landing were three doors, marked Office, Storage, Lounge.

She pushed open the door to the lounge to find a room

with upholstered sofas and easy chairs, a small television,

plus table and chairs and a kitchenette. A speaker was

mounted on the wall and underneath was a sign that read

Chapel, along with an on-off switch. Carlotta snapped it

on. A hymn was being played on the piano. An older man’s

voice sounded, announcing that the service would begin.

Carlotta remembered hearing that the family’s minister

would be conducting the service. He said a prayer, then

introduced Matt Pearson to sing a song.

A hush fel over the chapel. Carlotta found herself holding

her breath, too.

“I wrote this song for Kiki after I first met her,” he said,

ending with a choking sob. He’d obviously lost his

composure, and Carlotta hoped the young man was

sincere. Sniffling noises sounded, then he gulped a deep

breath and piano music began to play. She recognized the

melody from the radio, a ballad that had been popular a

few years ago. His voice was sweet and mellow as he sang

of young love that would last for all time.

A pang struck her chest at the poignancy of it. Young love

could be so powerful, as she well remembered with Peter.

But it could be so optimistic and misguided, too, to think

that love was enough to get two people through anything.

“Love isn’t enough,” she murmured aloud, “because life

intervenes. Logistics get sticky, and people change.”

Her arm was aching again. She hadn’t thought to bring her

Percocet, but on the kitchenette counter were scattered

packets of over-the-counter painkil ers and smel ing

salts—necessities for a funeral home, she realized. She

picked up a packet of ibuprofen and removed a bottle of

water from the refrigerator. After swallowing the tablets,

she wandered to the window that overlooked the parking

lot.

If possible, the crowd had swol en in size, a heaving mass

of moving color, with countless satel ite dishes and pole

microphones jutting into the sky. Carlotta set down the

water, withdrew the binoculars from her purse, and

scanned the mob that represented the incredibly diverse

appeal of Kiki Deerling. All shapes and sizes, all races, male

and female, young and old.

Redheaded.

She stopped and focused on the figure standing separate

from the people around him, arms crossed awkwardly. He

was openly crying, his face twisted in anguish. Without the

priest’s col ar, he looked different, but she was sure it was

the same man who’d approached her at the morgue, the

same man in the crowd in the magazine pictures.

Carlotta left the room at a trot. She descended the stairs

as quietly as possible, conscious of how noise might travel

in a silent building. At the double-door entrance stood two

security guards.

“I need to get some air,” she said, and they stepped aside,

obviously less concerned about who left the building than

who tried to get in.

When the door opened, cameras clicked furiously until

their owners realized she wasn’t a known entity.

“Who are you?” photographers shouted.

“Did you know Kiki?”

“Are you a member of the family?”

“Who are you wearing? Dior? Versace?”

She paused at that one, because she’d always dreamed of

being asked who she was wearing. But out of the corner of

her eye, she spotted the redheaded man—at the same

time he spotted her. His jaw dropped, then he spun on his

heel and sprinted in the opposite direction. Carlotta ran

after him, but was slowed by the crowd, her stiff arm and

the fact that her Marc Jacob platform sandals weren’t

meant for aerobic exercise.

At the edge of the property she stopped to catch her

breath and look around, but the man was nowhere in

sight.

Minus ten points.

23

“You made the payment on your court fine, Mr.

McCormick is happy with your work and you’ve been

staying out of trouble.” E. looked up from Wesley’s file and

smiled. “Very good.”

Wesley nodded. “Are we finished? I have somewhere I

need to be.”

She eyed him thoughtful y, then closed the folder. “Okay,

yes, we’re finished.”

He exhaled and stood.

“Just fil this before you leave,” she said, handing him a

cup with a paper lid. “See you next week.”

He hesitated, then took the cup and left her office.

Standing in the hall, he broke into a cold sweat, then made

himself walk to the restroom, where an officer was

standing guard. When the man saw the cup, he opened

the door and fol owed Wesley inside. Wesley went to the

urinal and unzipped his pants. The guard looked over

Wesley’s shoulder long enough to see him pul out his

johnson, then turned away.

Wesley took his time whizzing in the cup. With some deft

handwork, he managed to simultaneously empty the

contents of both vials that Chance had given him into the

container. He capped it with the paper lid and passed it

off, then put everything back where it belonged, zipped

and washed his shaking hands.

He tried not to stare at the urine sample while he dried his

hands on a paper towel—he was afraid it would turn blue

right in front of their eyes. It didn’t, though, and the officer

didn’t seem to suspect anything. So Wesley nodded, like

always, swung his backpack to his shoulder, then strol ed

down the hall and out the building. He’d know soon

enough if he failed the drug test.

He rode to Chance’s, and when his friend opened the

door, he gave him a high five.

“Ready to win tonight, my man?”

“Yeah,” Wesley said, cracking his knuckles. “I’m feeling it.”

Chance was ful y dressed for a change, with homemade

porn on the TV, but no drug runners and no naked women

lying around. When it came to money, Chance was usually

all business. His sobriety alone told Wesley how much he

wanted half of that twenty-grand winning pot tonight.

To warm up, Wesley played Poker Smash until it was time

to leave for the card game. It was being held in a midtown

nightclub that had closed down in preparation for the

wrecking bal in a few weeks’ time.

When they walked inside the vacant, gutted building, a

man named Grimes welcomed them and counted the five-

thousand-dol ar chair fee that Chance handed over in

hundreds, as requested. Another guy patted them down.

When all was in order, Wesley and Chance were led

through another door. Several sets of tables and chairs

were arranged on what had once been a dance floor.

Many players were already seated, the cigarette smoke

trailing thick into the air. Wesley noticed a couple of

familiar faces from previous games. When a case of nerves

threatened to take hold, he chomped an OxyContin and

relaxed. Within seconds, a feeling of euphoria began to

descend. Everything seemed rosy and his confidence level

soared.

The games of Texas Hold ’Em poker began, and Wesley

was hot from the start. It took a couple of hours, but one

by one he eliminated every player at his table to win a

spot at the final table. He was already guaranteed the

entry fee back. Anything else he won he would split with

Chance, fifty-fifty. After a short break, the final five players

took their seats. Under the table, Wesley’s leg began to

bounce, a spontaneous and unwelcome tic. He crossed his

ankles and lit a cigarette in an attempt to get it under

control.

For the first few hands, his two pocket cards were crap. He