Body Movers 4 - 4 Bodies and a Funeral (13 page)

He looked contrite. “Sorry. You’re right, I took them, and I

got the refil s. You said you didn’t need them and my arm

was kil ing me.” He wrapped his hand over the site of The

Carver’s handiwork. “I just needed something to take the

edge off.”

She softened toward him. “It’s okay. I just wish you

would’ve said something.”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” Then he suddenly looked

concerned. “Is your arm stil bothering you?”

“It’s nothing that over-the-counter painkil ers can’t take

care of.”

“Okay. Good.” Wesley shifted his backpack on his

shoulder. “Uh, I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Dad

again, have you?”

She shook her head.

“So what are we supposed to do?”

Carlotta inhaled for strength. “What we’ve been doing for

over ten years—we wait. He said he’d be in touch.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I…” She swallowed a mouthful of doubt. “Yes, I do.”

His shoulders fel in obvious relief. “Me, too. And you’ll tel

me if you hear from him again, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’l tel you.” Then she gave him a pointed look.

“Meanwhile, in case Pops decides to pop up, let’s make a

pact to stay out of trouble, okay?”

9

Wesley looked into his sister’s dark brown eyes and had to

squash the urge to laugh. A pact to stay out of trouble?

He was on the verge of il egal y accessing the records of

their father’s criminal case through the city computer

system. Chance was trying to get him into a poker game

that would, if Wesley were caught, effectively violate his

probation and land his ass in jail. And before the week was

over, he’d be on the payrol of one of the most dangerous

loan sharks in the city.

“Sure, Sis, no problem,” he said, dropping a kiss on her

cheek. Carlotta was beautiful, with their mother’s great

bone structure, dark complexion and knockout figure. No

wonder Jack, Coop and Peter all leaked brain cel s when

they were around her. After Peter had bailed him out of a

jam, Wesley had promised to put in a good word for him

whenever he could, and to play interference between

Carlotta and the other two men, but there was no pinning

down his sister.

He actually felt sorry for the three guys. Even the one who

was lucky enough to eventually snag her was doomed to a

life of trying to keep up with her.

“I think I’l crash at Chance’s tonight if that’s okay. I told

him I’d help him get ready for a math exam.” In truth, they

were going to play as many practice hands of poker as

they could squeeze in. “I already fed Einstein.”

She hesitated, but then nodded. “Okay, but be careful?”

Her smile revealed the gap between her front teeth that

he—and many others—found so endearing.

“Always,” he said. “See you later.” He turned and jogged

across the lawn, feeling like he’d dodged a bul et where

the Percocet was concerned. On top of all the other grief

he’d caused his sister, the last thing he needed was for her

to think he had a drug problem.

Not having a bike genuinely sucked, but at least a MARTA

station wasn’t too far away. He put in the earbuds for his

iPod and made the hike, keeping an eye out for the

mysterious black SUV that had been haunting the curb. He

stil didn’t know who was behind the tinted glass, but he

figured they’d make themselves known when they were

ready.

The train platform at Lindbergh was crowded with

morning commuters, but at least he didn’t have to worry

about running into Mouse. In Atlanta, loan sharks and far-

flung suburbanites had one thing in common: they both

shunned public transportation.

So for him and other people living ITP (Inside The

Perimeter of the I-285 beltline), MARTA was a safe zone.

A few minutes later he boarded a packed train and

grabbed an overhead bar, mul ing the day ahead while

sleep-deprived bodies leaned into him. The Oxy made him

feel tolerant of the close quarters. If he stared at a fixed

point, he could achieve a dreamlike state and imagine how

good things were going to be one day.

His parents would come home and Randolph would be

vindicated. They’d be a family again and work through

their problems together. Things would go back to the way

they used to be, when his parents were always laughing,

hosting parties or going out to the club. They’d been the

golden couple, beautiful and successful, the envy of their

friends. The Wren family had been happy. And they would

be again.

He’d stolen his dad’s folder from Liz’s client cabinet in her

home office. Among the pieces of correspondence

between client and attorney, he’d found a love note his

father had written to Liz. When he’d confronted Liz with

proof of her affair with his father, she’d said she’d been in

love with Randolph, but that she’d accepted he would

never leave Wesley’s mother.

And after she’d admitted to the affair with his father, she

and Wesley had had sex.

If his father returned, the situation could be…sticky.

Although the inevitable question had skated through his

mind: Which Wren man would Liz prefer?

Wesley shook his head free of the sordid thought. There

wouldn’t be a choice because he planned to stop banging

Liz. He’d really only started in order to gain access to the

files in her home office anyway, and he’d seen those.

Before Liz had noticed the missing file and reclaimed it,

he’d gotten the dates and case numbers he needed to

build keys. Once fed into a computer program, he’d be

able to retrieve his father’s courthouse records. But it

would take time to build more keys in ranges narrow

enough to include his father’s data, yet broad enough to

pick up sufficient extraneous data that his father’s info

wouldn’t stand out on a report to his supervisor or to

auditors. And since he was doing al of it in conjunction

with his official assignment of adding encryption to the

database records, he’d have to adhere to the schedule

already set up to run tests against the data.

So having hours added to his community service actually

worked to his advantage—it would give him more time to

make sure he gathered every bit of information linked to

his dad’s case.

He was supposed to call Detective Terry at the Midtown

police precinct to set a time to powwow on how to best

worm his way into The Carver’s organization. It was only a

matter of time before Mouse tracked him down again, so

he wanted to be able to start laying a foundation.

Of lies.

And just in case Mouse circumvented him before Jack

Terry worked out a plan, Wesley had two hundred sixty-

seven dol ars in his wallet. Mouse wouldn’t be happy with

such a paltry payment, but it would be enough for the man

to let Wesley live.

He got off at the Garnett Station and walked the few

blocks to the city hall building on Trinity Avenue. The Oxy

made him feel like a mil ion bucks, but it slowed him down

a little. Stil , the trade-off was worth it.

He trudged through security with everyone else, then

climbed the stairs to the seventh floor of the seventeen-

story structure where Atlanta Systems Services (fondly

referred to as “ASS” by most of the employees), was

housed under the umbrel a of the city’s Department of

Information Technology. His heart was racing in

anticipation of accessing his father’s data.

His accelerated pulse had nothing to do with the fact that

he’d see Meg today.

The ASS offices were aged and crammed with cobbled-

together machines and cabled networks snaking over

floors and up the wal s of tweed-covered cubicles. The air

carried the faint smel of burnt wiring and…he

winced…BO?

When he turned the corner to his shared four-plex

workstation, he saw the source of the stench—one of his

station mates, Jeff Spooner, was sitting in front of his

laptop wearing headphones and playing a game with a

homemade joystick. An open foam container of wing

bones and a half-empty two-litre bottle of Mountain Dew

was next to the computer. Two crumpled bags of chips lay

nearby, a half-eaten burrito, and a Moon Pie wrapper. A

distinct funk surrounded the guy. His hair was rumpled

and his Georgia Tech T-shirt was stained. Jeff glanced up

and grinned, then lowered the headphones to his neck.

“Dude, I was here all night designing a new game. I think

I’m on to something. It’s a card game, but the characters

on the back of the cards are at war, so it’s two games

going on at the same time!”

“Happy for you, dude,” Wes replied, waving his hand back

and forth. “But I got one word for you—deodorant. You

better go sponge off in the men’s room before Meg gets

here.”

Across from Jeff, Ravi Chopra, the germophobe, opened a

drawer at his knee, removed a can of Lysol and began

spraying the air.

“Hey, watch my food,” Jeff said, spreading out his arms.

Wesley dropped his backpack on his desk and flipped on

the computer the foursome had jerry-rigged for him from

components they’d begged, borrowed and stolen from all

over the department.

“Where were you yesterday?” Ravi asked Wesley. “Moving

bodies?” The guy was morbidly fascinated by Wesley’s

job—constantly asking for gory details, yet appalled when

he got them.

“Yeah,” Wesley lied. “Didn’t you hear about the pileup on

I-20? Bodies everywhere, man. I spent the day scraping

intestines off the asphalt with a metal spatula.”

Jeff stared and Ravi retched over his garbage can.

“Don’t believe him. He’s a pathological liar,” Meg said,

sliding into her chair holding a to-go cup of coffee, giving

Wesley a pointed look. She wore wide-leg jeans, platform

sandals and a vintage pink Izod shirt that was snug in all

the right places. Rhinestones sparkled from the corners of

her cat glasses and her hair was pul ed back in a messy

ponytail that was somehow sexy.

Wesley scratched the back of his neck. “I was just messing

with you, Ravi. No need to lose your cookies, man.”

Meg tossed Ravi a pack of saltine crackers from her desk

drawer. He gave her an adoring look.

“Meg,” Jeff said breathlessly, “you wanna see my new

game?”

“No. And you’d better not let McCormick see it, either,”

Meg said, referring to their boss. “We al signed papers

saying anything we develop using city resources becomes

the property of the city, remember?”

Jeff looked panicked. “Even on our own time?”

“Yep.” She tossed him a flash drive. “Download everything

and I’l look at it on my Mac during lunch.”

Jeff perked up. Like Ravi, he was head-over-heels in love

with the bril iant, cool Meg.

Then she wrinkled her nose. “Meanwhile, Spooner, your

work area is smel ing a little ripe. Try to have it tidied up

by the time Wes and I get back, okay?”

Wes straightened. “Where are we going?”

“McCormick’s office.” Her smile was flat. “Apparently I’m

going to be working with you on encrypting the mainframe

databases. Fun, huh?”

Wesley had to put on his poker face to keep from reacting

with utter dismay. Meg was going to be looking over his

shoulder while he tried to pinch his dad’s files?

He was so screwed…and not in the good way.

10

Carlotta turned over the engine to the hateful Monte

Carlo, but sighed in relief when it caught. Plus ten points.

“Okay, I’m sorry for some of the bad things I said about

you,” she muttered to the car.

She gave Hannah the thumbs-up and waved goodbye as

her friend backed her refrigerated van down the driveway.

When Carlotta pul ed onto the road, she looked for the

mysterious black SUV, but didn’t see anything out of the

ordinary up and down the tree-lined street. She depressed

the gas, trying to put the matter out of her mind. At least

her car was running.

And really, in the scheme of things, a temperamental

vehicle was the least of her problems.

She was glad that she’d talked to Wesley about the

painkil ers, glad he had come clean and that the

explanation had made sense. Where that madman had cut

his initials into Wesley’s arm must have hurt like the devil,

especially after it had gotten infected. Coop had given him

antibiotics, but couldn’t prescribe narcotics for him. She

should’ve offered the rest of her pil s to Wesley anyway.

Remembering how Coop had helped tend to Wesley’s arm

brought back other memories of their weekend in Florida,

and how close she and Coop had come to consummating

their…friendship.

The thought of the bottle of vodka under his van seat kept

coming back to her. She wasn’t conceited enough to think

that their bungled attempt at a romantic weekend had

driven him back to the bottle, but if he was in trouble,

she’d never forgive herself for not checking up on him.

Carlotta dialed his cel number, trying to think of a breezy

message to leave in case he didn’t answer. He did answer,