Body Movers (40 page)

nowhere in sight. Stil , when she climbed into the car, she

locked the doors.

Gripping the steering wheel kept her hands from shaking,

but the day’s events were beginning to take their tol on

her. She backed out of the space jerkily and made a wrong

turn before exiting the garage into traffic. She settled in

for a stressful commute home, her brain running a

constant loop of images of Peter, past and present. No

matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn’t reconcile

the man she’d fal en in love with all those years ago to the

man whose ties to the dead women could no longer be

ignored.

About a mile from the town house, she was jarred from

her fog by a set of headlights behind her that seemed to

be approaching at high speed. She tapped her brake a few

times, hoping her flashing lights would signal the driver to

slow down, but the car kept coming. She gasped and

gripped the steering wheel hard as the car whipped

around her just before impact, then veered right to

sideswipe her car. Sparks flew as metal ground against

metal. Carlotta screamed, pumping the brake and

struggling for control as the dark car tried to force her

onto the shoulder.

An air horn blasted. She jerked her head up to see a large

delivery truck barreling toward them.

Impending crash—minus ten points.

32

Carlotta screamed at the sight of the oncoming truck. She

slammed on her brakes just as the other car pul ed away

and slid in front of her, narrowly missing the blaring truck.

Her seat belt pul ed her up short of bouncing against the

steering wheel. Other car horns sounded behind her and

cars screeched to a halt to prevent a pileup.

She gasped for breath, her mind numb as she tried to

assimilate what had just happened. When she realized

that she wasn’t bleeding and how close she was to the

town house, she straightened the car and pul ed away

slowly, her arms trembling with the force of clinging to the

steering wheel.

Someone had nearly run her off the road. Accident, or

premeditated?

Her vital signs had yet to return to normal when she pul ed

into the driveway leading to the garage. As the garage

door went up, she saw Detective Terry emerge from his

car across the street.

God help her, but she was glad to see him.

She climbed out of her car on unsteady legs to survey the

damage to the car under the overhead garage light. Long,

horizontal scratches marred the dark blue paint job, and

the rear fender was badly dented. She tried to recall the

amount of her deductible on her car insurance. Five

hundred? A thousand? Christ, would she ever be out of

debt?

“Gee, what does the other car look like?” the detective

asked wryly as he walked up.

She frowned at him. “I wish I knew—the driver almost

kil ed me.”

He sobered. “What happened?”

“Someone tried to run me off the road about a mile from

here.”

“Are you sure?”

She crossed her arms. “Does it look like I imagined it?”

He pul ed out his notebook. “Describe the other car.”

She sighed and touched her forehead. “I don’t know. It all

happened so fast. Dark, maybe.”

“Dark? I’m going to need more than that to go on.” He

bent and ran his hand over the scratches. “Looks like green

paint. Was it a car, an SUV, a truck?”

“A car.”

“Two-door or four-door?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see the license plate?”

“No.”

“Not even the color of the plate, maybe the state?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Did you see the driver?”

She squinted, trying to remember. “There was only one

person in the car, a man.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No. He was wearing a hat…maybe.”

His mouth flattened. “Tel me what happened.”

Carlotta explained as best she could, but realized that little

about her story seemed concrete, except the scratches.

“But it felt…deliberate.”

“Do you remember doing anything that might have

triggered another driver’s anger—cutting someone off, for

example?”

“No. If I did, I wasn’t aware of it.”

He put away his notebook. “I’l file a report before I leave.”

She put a hand to her temple. “Let’s go inside. Wesley

should be home.”

But he wasn’t. She’d expected to be met with the savory

aroma of lamb chops, not the scent of maple syrup,

because she’d left out the container this morning. In a

flash, she recalled that the spot behind her Miata had

been empty—Wesley’s motorcycle was gone. Christ, what

now?

“Is something wrong?” the detective asked.

She closed her eyes briefly. If she told him that Wesley was

driving on a suspended license, the man would likely arrest

him as soon as he arrived home. “Wesley must have been

called out on a job.” She turned on lights as they walked

into the living room, then gestured to the couch. “Would

you like to sit down?”

“Okay,” he said, then settled where only a couple of nights

ago she had been prepared to make love with Peter.

She averted her gaze and sat in the chair adjacent to the

couch.

“What did you want to talk about?” the detective asked. “I

assume this has something to do with the Angela Ashford

case.”

She nodded, then took a couple of deep breaths for

strength. “I’ve…been asking some questions.”

His eyebrows went up. “Surprise, surprise.”

She glared at him. “Do you want to know what I found out

or not? Because I’d just as soon skip this little conference

and go to bed.”

When the whisper of a smile lifted his mouth, she realized

her gaffe. “I meant alone…of course.”

“Of course,” he said. “Yes, Ms. Wren, please, please tel

me what information you found.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she told him about initiating a

conversation with Dennis Lagerfeld at the cigar bar, and

that the man had come by the store that afternoon. “He

picked up the same jacket that Angela had purchased,

then asked what happened to clothing that got returned.”

“That’s not exactly conclusive evidence,” he said.

“But this might be,” she said, holding up a little plastic

sandwich bag.

He squinted. “What is it?”

She smiled triumphantly. “A hair from Dennis Lagerfeld’s

sleeve. I thought you could match it to any hairs you might

have found on the jacket that Angela returned.”

He looked incredulous. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, I thought you’d be grateful!”

He lifted his hand. “Okay, okay, I’l take it.” He held up the

bag, studied the single dark hair inside and wrote

something on the plastic Baggie.

“Lagerfeld asked me what time I got off work. He could’ve

had someone run me off the road.”

The detective sighed impatiently. “Did he happen to ask

you out?”

“Yes.”

“No offense, but I suspect he was more interested in doing

you than doing you in.” He gave her a flat smile. “Anything

else, Sherlock?”

She frowned and told him about the consultation

appointment with Dr. Suarez and her conversation with

him. “He said I had a lovely neck.”

The detective stared. “That’s all? You want me to target

this guy because he’s got a thing for your neck?”

“Don’t you see? A man who strangles people would notice

someone’s neck!” She pul ed another Baggie out of her

purse. “Here.”

He rol ed his eyes heavenward. “Another hair?”

“Chewing gum. I saw the doctor take it out of his mouth

myself.”

He snatched the Baggie from her hand. “You are

unbelievable.”

“Why are you so hostile? I know that Angela was a patient

of Dr. Suarez, and get this—I saw a picture of Lisa Bolton in

the before-and-after pictures on his computer screen.”

His eyebrows went up. “I didn’t realize you knew the

woman wel enough to recognize her.”

She swallowed hard. “I…remembered something.”

“Oh?”

“I saw the Bolton woman before.”

“Where would that be?”

“At the party…where I ran into Peter…a couple of weeks

ago.”

His expression hardened. “And you’re just now

remembering this?”

She held her breath and nodded.

“Thanks for the information,” he said calmly. “And from

now on, Ms. Wren, rather than putting yourself in

potentially dangerous situations, why don’t you let me do

my job?”

She bristled. “So you’ve questioned Dennis Lagerfeld and

Dr. Suarez?”

“I can’t pin down Lagerfeld. I’m at a disadvantage because

the man doesn’t want to sleep with me,” he said dryly.

“But I interviewed Suarez over the phone yesterday. He

couldn’t seem to recall who Angela Ashford was. And

honestly, the guy just doesn’t fit the profile.”

“What profile?”

“Most women are murdered by someone they know,

usually a spouse or someone they’re romantically involved

with. Dr. Suarez swore that wasn’t the case with Angela

Ashford. He even offered to take a polygraph test. His

strange behavior was probably a result of you asking

questions after I did.” He frowned harder. “Which is why

you need to stick to selling overpriced clothes and leave

the police work to me.”

Anger spiked in her chest, and she briefly considered

throwing him out then and there. Ungrateful brute. But

Angela and Lisa deserved justice, no matter what it cost

her. “There’s one more thing. It has to do with Peter.”

Now he seemed interested.

In a halting voice, she told him about the piece of lingerie

linking back to Peter’s credit card.

He leaned forward. “Are you sure it was the same

lingerie?”

She pul ed out a piece of paper. “I’m almost positive, but

here’s the information on the garment we carry to

compare to what Lisa Bolton was wearing.”

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly.

Carlotta moistened her lips. “I understand that the Bolton

woman was pregnant?”

He looked surprised, then nodded. “DNA was taken from

the fetus to help determine who the father is.” He angled

his head at her. “I don’t suppose you have any DNA from

your boyfriend you could share?”

She shook her head, thinking that Monday night she had

come close to letting him deposit a sample.

“I questioned Ashford about the Bolton murder,” he

continued. “He said he barely knew the woman, but he

seemed mighty reluctant to talk about his whereabouts

Monday evening.”

Carlotta stood abruptly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d take that

accident report now.”

He hesitated, then pushed to his feet. “Ms. Wren, I can’t

figure you out. I go back and forth between thinking that

you believe Peter Ashford is innocent, to thinking that you

could have committed this murder yourself and are

sending me on a wild-goose chase with these so-cal ed

clues that you’ve conveniently uncovered.” His eyes

narrowed. “It even occurred to me that you might be so

bitter over Peter Ashford ending your engagement all

those years ago that you could be setting him up. Get rid

of the wife and him, all in one blow.”

She scoffed. “That’s utterly ridiculous. And why would I kil

Lisa Bolton?”

“Maybe because she was Ashford’s girlfriend.” He

shrugged. “Or maybe the murders aren’t even connected.

Besides, who knows why people do what they do?”

She set her jaw. “My only goal is to help you get to the

truth, Detective. Now—my accident report?”

He studied her for a moment, then said, “I’l need your

license and registration.”

She leaned over to pul her wallet from her purse and a

card floated to their feet. When she realized it was the

postcard from her parents that she’d been carrying

around, she practically pounced on it. Unfortunately, his

hand was there first.

She straightened slowly, her heart galloping in her chest as

he held up the card, studying it.

“Wel , wel . A postcard from your long-lost folks.

Interesting. Recent postmark, too.”

Carlotta shrank under his scathing glare. “Wh-what

happens now?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he said, his voice dripping with

sarcasm. “I’m stil all choked up about your speech on how

your only goal is to help me get to the truth.”

Carlotta closed her eyes, wondering if handcuffs were in

this season.

33

Wesley took a deep breath and banged on the door to

Chance’s condo, pul ing at his sweat-soaked shirt. Man,

what a day.

Chance flung open the door, his round face beet-red.

“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been going nuts

wondering if you got your skinny ass kil ed or something.

Hobbs said you didn’t show.”

“Sorry, dude, something came up, and my cel phone

died.” Cut off, actually, because he hadn’t paid his bil .

“Where the hell is the stash?”

Wesley lifted the bag and thrust it into Chance’s hands.

“Untouched.”

“What the fuck happened?”

Wesley dragged his hand across his forehead. “My

probation officer happened. She fol owed me to the drop.”