Body Movers (42 page)

“Is Wesley with you?” she asked. “I’m having a bit of an

emergency at home.”

“No, he’s not with me,” Coop said. “Is it anything I can help

you with?”

The snake lifted its head and moved toward her a few

inches. She inhaled sharply. “Um…how do you feel about

snakes?”

“Snakes?”

“Wesley’s python got loose and it’s in my bedroom.”

“I see,” he said, sounding amused. “And where are you?”

“A-also in my bedroom…standing on the dresser.”

He laughed. “I’d be glad to come over and return it to its

container.”

She went weak with relief. “Would you? No, wait—the

front door is locked. How would you get in?”

“I’l get in,” he said. “I’l be there in about ten minutes.”

The snake inched closer to the dresser. “Hurry,” she

squeaked, then disconnected the call.

She looked down at her pale blue stretch lace chemise and

matching thong and realized in mortification that Coop

was going to get an eyeful of more skin than even her

doctor normally did. What had possessed her to forgo her

regular pj’s last night in favor of this sexy little number? All

that talk yesterday about lingerie?

But there was nothing to be done—her faithful house-coat

was draped over a chair across the room. Besides, the man

was a doctor and he dealt with corpses, for heaven’s sake.

To him, the human body was no big deal.

The snake slithered closer, its head up. She pressed her

back to the corner and looked for a weapon among the

clutter on her dresser to use if she had to. A Thigh Master,

a white bra, an empty water bottle, a curling iron, a pair of

Gucci sunglasses and two purses—one in snakeskin, which

might give the creature pause.

One by one, she threw the items in its path, but the result

was never more than a momentary hesitation. It was

definitely seeking her out. She used the bra like a

slingshot, which merely made the snake flinch. Too late

she realized she should have put on the bra instead of

flinging it—at least that much of her would have been ful y

covered when Coop got there.

Where was he?

When the snake stopped in front of the dresser and reared

its head, she started to whimper—this wasn’t a good way

to go. She threw back her head and started screaming,

“Help me! Anybody! Mrs. Winningham, can you hear me?

Help!”

“Whoa,” a voice said from the doorway.

She looked up and her knees nearly buckled in relief to see

Coop. “Thank God you’re here.” She pointed at the snake.

“Kil it.”

He stared up at her for a moment, then turned his

attention back to the snake and wiped his hand over his

mouth. “I don’t think that’s necessary. He’s not going to

eat you.”

“Then why did he crawl into bed with me?”

Coop grinned. “He’s male, isn’t he?”

Her face warmed and she was reminded of her state of

near undress. And Coop definitely wasn’t looking at her

with the detached disinterest of a doctor.

“Are you going to leave me up here forever?” she asked.

He crossed his arms, unabashedly skimming her from head

to toe. “Can’t I at least enjoy the view for a minute or

two?”

Under his appreciative gaze, her nipples budded and she

felt an unexpected tug of desire in her stomach. She

inhaled shakily to clear her head, then narrowed her eyes

at him. “No.”

He grinned, unfazed as he pul ed a pair of heavy leather

work gloves from his jeans pockets and yanked them on.

Then he knelt and gently picked up the snake by its neck

and thick body, his arm muscles contracting under the

weight. “Where does it go?”

“Wesley’s room across the hall,” she said, pointing.

“There’s an aquarium.”

He left the room, carrying the snake, and she sagged in

relief. After climbing down from the dresser, she felt a

little sil y in the aftermath. She pul ed on her robe and tied

the belt, then walked out into the hall. Coop was closing

the door to Wesley’s room. “He’s back in the aquarium,

and I, um, fed him.”

“Wesley said he’s been fasting, whatever that means.”

“Reptiles go through phases,” Coop said. “He must have

suddenly gotten hungry to have gotten out.”

“I don’t know how it happened,” Carlotta said, shoving her

hand into her messy hair. “Wesley always keeps his door

closed—that’s our deal.”

Coop pushed on the door and it opened without even

turning the knob. “The strike plate is off center.” He

frowned. “Looks like someone has taken a screwdriver to

this lock. Have you had a break-in recently?”

“No,” she said, then sighed. “The police must have done it

when they confiscated his computer equipment.”

Something else she could thank Detective Terry for.

“Ah. Wel , I put the pin back in the top of the enclosure,

and he’s ful now, so I doubt you’l have this problem again

anytime soon.”

She smiled in gratitude. “Thanks for coming, Coop. I’m

sorry for interrupting your morning.”

His warm eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “Anytime you’re

in trouble, don’t hesitate to cal .” He grinned. “Especially if

you’re wearing skimpy lingerie.”

A flush climbed her face as she relived the moment of

electricity between them. Understandable, she decided, in

the heat of the moment. “I assumed Wesley was with you

this morning.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m picking him up later today.”

She bit into her lip. “Not another body pickup at

Martinique Estates, I hope?”

“No.” He shifted from foot to foot, and she knew he was

thinking of her connection to Peter. “The memorial service

for Lisa Bolton is this afternoon at my uncle’s funeral

home.”

Wondering if anyone of interest might show, she

murmured, “I’l try to make it.”

“Okay, I’l see you then.”

Carlotta shoved her hands in the pockets of her robe. “Um,

Coop, you saw both bodies…do you have any theories

about whether the same person might have committed

both crimes?”

He adjusted his glasses. “I’m just a body hauler. I’m not

supposed to be offering theories on the crimes.”

Which was what he’d probably been reminded when he’d

pushed for the autopsy on Angela Ashford on her behalf,

she realized. “But did you see any connections?” She

pressed her lips together, then murmured, “I need to

know, Coop.”

He hesitated, looking as if something was causing him

physical pain. Then he exhaled noisily. “Okay, after viewing

both bodies, it would be my very unofficial opinion that,

yes, the bruises around the women’s necks were made by

the same person.”

Carlotta’s hand went to her own neck. A few days ago,

that would have been good news because a serial kil er

would have exonerated Peter. But now…now she was

starting to wonder just how far Peter would go to wipe his

slate clean and start over.

With her.

35

Wesley went over the answers he’d written on Chance’s

exam four times because he didn’t want to be the first one

to hand it in and draw attention to himself. After a dozen

people had turned theirs in and left, he walked up to the

professor’s desk and dropped the exam on the stack

without making eye contact. He strol ed out of the

classroom and down the hall, soaking up the atmosphere

of hurrying bodies and snatches of lectures leaking out of

various rooms.

His pulse ratcheted higher and he experienced a pang of

regret for not applying to col ege. At the time it seemed

like a big time-waster, but now he was having second

thoughts. Maybe he could apply for the fall, although he

wasn’t sure how that would work with his probation. And

he’d have to apply for school loans, which he couldn’t

even consider until he paid off Father Thom and The

Carver.

One of the best things about being on campus was that it

was close to a blood center. He went in to donate plasma

and came out an hour later with his bel y ful of juice and

cookies and forty-five bucks in his pocket, enough to get

his cellphone service reinstated at a customer service

center—also handily located on campus.

He took the Marta train to within a couple of blocks of

Chance’s condo, then rode the elevator up and rang the

doorbel to report in. When Chance didn’t answer, he rang

it again. He’d started to turn away when the door opened

and a busty blonde dressed—barely—in a miniskirt, halter

top and five-inch heels came teetering out. She smirked

and walked by him with the stink of sex, pot and booze stil

clinging to her. Wesley looked back to the door to find

Chance standing there in a black robe, smoking a joint, his

expression glazed. “Come on in, man.” He turned and

walked back into the condo.

Wesley fol owed and closed the door behind him.

“How’d the exam go?”

“You’ll get a B.”

“Cool. Hey, finals are just around the corner if you want to

work off the rest of what you owe me.”

“I’l think about it,” Wesley said. “Man, isn’t it kind of early

to get high?”

Chance laughed. “Haven’t been to bed yet. Cecilia kept me

up all night, if you know what I mean.”

“What are you doing, man? That girl looked like hel —

you’re going to catch something nasty one of these days.”

“A pharmaceutical sales rep friend keeps me supplied with

antibiotics. Besides, normally I go a little higher class, but

my regular girl drowned, of all goddamn things.”

Wesley raised his eyebrows. “Drowned?”

“Yeah. She told me her name was Kay, but I saw her

picture in the paper and turns out she was a fucking

debutante—can you believe it?”

Wesley’s heart sped up. “What was her real name?”

Chance took a drag on the joint, held his breath until his

face turned red and exhaled. “I don’t remember.”

“Dude, it’s important.”

Gesturing vaguely, Chance said, “Angel or Angie or

something.”

“Angela? Angela Ashford?”

Chance pointed. “That’s it, man. God, she was hot.

Gorgeous ass.”

Wesley’s heart was beating so fast, his hands started to

shake. “Let me get this straight. You paid the woman

whose picture was in the paper, Angela Ashford, to have

sex with you?”

“Dude, which one of us is stoned here? Bitch charged five

hundred a pop to do me in her pool house.” He took

another drag on the joint, held it, then exhaled slowly.

“But she was worth it.”

“Gotta go,” Wesley said, then jogged toward the door.

Outside the condo, he punched 411 into his cel phone for

directory assistance and asked for the Atlanta Police

Department.

“Connecting,” the operator said.

“Atlanta PD.”

“Detective Jack Terry, please.”

“Who’s cal ing?”

“It’s Wesley Wren. Tel him it’s urgent.”

36

Carlotta hurried toward the entrance of Motherwell

Funeral Home, checking her watch. The memorial service

for Lisa Bolton was already under way, but she was

planning to sneak in the back, if possible, and stay as long

as she could on the remainder of her lunch hour. She

fanned herself with her hand—as always, Atlanta had

made the leap from spring to summer in the span of a

couple of days. It was easily ninety degrees.

She opened the door and walked into the entryway. An

older suited man greeted her and from the family

resemblance, Carlotta identified him as Coop’s uncle.

“Are you here for the Bolton family?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“The service has started, but there are seats in the back if

you’d like to slip in.”

She nodded and allowed the man to open one of the

heavy double doors just wide enough for her to slide

through. An organist was playing a beautiful hymn, and

the mood was melancholy. The pews were nearly ful , but

she stole into a padded folding chair in the back. From the

other side of the room where he stood against the wall,

Coop caught her eye and nodded briefly. Her face warmed

when she recalled this morning’s encounter. The man was

attracted to her—and she was surprisingly intrigued by

him. But she had way too much on her plate now to deal

with a flirtation.

Not when the man she had loved for most of her life was

suspected of murdering his wife and the woman lying in

the mauve-colored casket in the front of the room.

White lilies covered the closed casket, and mounds of

flowers flanked either side. Unexpected tears scalded

Carlotta’s eyes at the mundane routine of marking the end

of a person’s life: a pretty box, flowers, a set number of

songs and a few nice words. She hadn’t known Lisa Bolton,

but she’d envied people like her and Angela. People living

a seemingly luxurious existence, with the world at their

feet. Had some deranged person targeted them for that

very reason?

As discreetly as possible, she scanned the room for familiar

faces, not entirely surprised to see some of the same

people who had attended Angela’s funeral service: Walt