Body Movers (7 page)

mild applause as the man rose from a seat near the front

and nodded amiably to the crowd. He sent a special smile

in her direction.

She frowned, sinking lower in her seat. Michael eyed her

suspiciously.

“Good morning,” the detective said. His voice was pleasant

enough, but for some reason she suspected he hadn’t

volunteered for this job. And she noticed his tie was as bad

as yesterday’s. Christ, the man must be color-blind.

“I want to tel you a few things you can do to minimize

your chances of becoming a victim,” he said, his voice

almost too big for the room. “First, don’t look like a victim.

Always be aware of your surroundings. Try to buddy up

when you walk to your cars, or ask for a security escort.”

He continued with a litany of Safety 101 tips, but Carlotta

found herself tuning out, distracted by the man himself,

trying to ascertain something about him from his body

language. He moved with athletic ease as he addressed

the crowd, making eye contact and gesturing for

emphasis. She wondered what would make someone

choose law enforcement as a career. Maybe it was a family

legacy. Or perhaps it was a career choice born of his size. A

man with such a powerful build would naturally be drawn

to a physical occupation. When he lifted his large hands in

the air to make a point, she squirmed, remembering him

touching her arm yesterday, as if to comfort her. She

smirked, glad that she hadn’t fallen for his act.

His left hand was bare of rings—no surprise there. Jack

Terry seemed to fancy himself some kind of ladies’ man, so

a wife would probably cramp his style. No doubt he had a

girlfriend or three, all of them working jobs that mandated

a midriff-baring uniform. His nose and forehead were

ruddy from a sunburn—he seemed like the kind of guy

who played touch football with his back-slapping buddies

on the weekends while consuming enormous amounts of

beer.

“Any questions?” the detective asked, al smiles.

Carlotta raised her hand.

His mouth twitched. “Yes?”

“Detective Terry, doesn’t the police department have

better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks

to death?”

Michael elbowed her. “That was rude,” he hissed.

Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably and Lindy

rose to save the detective from answering, but he looked

at Carlotta, smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, yes, we

do have better things to do than to go around scaring

store clerks to death. But we get a sick kind of pleasure out

of it. Any other questions?”

Chuckles sounded around the room. She gave him ten

points for being witty, then took them back because it was

at her expense. Lindy glared at her, even more so when

her cel phone’s ringtone started its rendition of

“Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

“Uh-oh,” Michael muttered. “The boss lady is going to slay

you.”

But Carlotta didn’t care at the moment because the caller

ID said it was her home number. Wesley could be in

trouble again. She scrambled out of the row and dashed

out of the meeting room, pushing the Incoming Call button

as soon as she cleared the door. “Hel o?”

“Is this Carlotta?” a deep, sandpapery voice asked.

“Yes,” she said, frowning. “Who is this?”

“I work for Father Thom, and he wanted me to tel you

that your brother stil owes him a shitload of money. He

wants a payment, pronto.”

Carlotta gripped the phone. “Wh-where’s Wesley?”

“Right here,” the man said pleasantly. “He didn’t want me

to call you, but I convinced him it was the right thing to

do.”

“Don’t worry, sis,” Wesley said in the background. “I got it

covered.”

The man guffawed into the phone. “Yeah, right. You have

a week to come up with a grand. See ya soon, sis.”

The call was disconnected and Carlotta felt dizzy from the

air being squeezed out of her lungs. Wesley must have

squandered his “emergency fund” in the tennis-ball can in

the garage. Otherwise he surely would have given it to the

thug. Desperation clawed at her. How could she get a

thousand dol ars together in a week? A small cry escaped

from her throat.

“Are you okay?”

She jumped, then turned to see Detective Jack Terry

standing next to her, his gaze curious…and concerned.

She straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look like you just got an

upsetting phone call.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I said I’m fine.” Then

she narrowed her eyes. “You leaked Wesley’s arrest to the

newspaper.”

He frowned. “No, I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

His eyebrows went up, then he laughed. “Yeah, I’ve told a

few whoppers in my time, but I’m not lying now. Besides,

arrest reports are a matter of public record.”

“This article quoted a spokesperson.”

“Which is whoever answers the precinct phone. Look, Ms.

Wren, I’m glad we caught your brother before he was able

to do more harm, but I’m not out for his blood. The D.A.’s

office, on the other hand, might be. They’re probably the

ones who called the newspaper, maybe thinking it would

draw out your father.”

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, irritated that he

seemed to have a pat answer for everything.

He squinted. “Weren’t your eyes brown yesterday?”

She frowned. “I should get back to the staff meeting.”

“Okay.” He nodded toward her cel phone. “But are you

sure I can’t help you with whatever is bothering you?”

He’d probably love to hear that on top of Wesley’s legal

trouble, he was in debt to two unsavory characters. That

would seal his opinion that Wesley was no good, just like

their father.

“I’m sure,” she said evenly. “Goodbye, Detective Terry.

Have a nice life.”

He laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Wren, but I have

a feeling that our paths wil cross again.”

Carlotta watched him stride away, ugly tie flapping, and

muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

5

By Friday morning, Carlotta thought she might be having a

nervous breakdown—four nights of stress-induced

insomnia were taking their tol . “We have four days,

Wesley. Where are we going to get the rest of the money

to pay this Father Thom character?”

Wesley frowned and popped the top of a can of Red Bul ,

his standard breakfast drink. “Don’t worry, sis. I’l think of

something.”

Her blood pressure ballooned. “Think of something?

Wesley, your arraignment is Monday and you might be in

jail Tuesday! How are you going to pay off these thugs if

you’re in jail?”

“Liz isn’t going to let me go to jail.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Liz?”

His cheeks colored. “She told me to cal her Liz.”

Weighing her words, she said, “I don’t like the idea of you

becoming chummy with that woman.”

“We’re not chummy,” he said in a teenage-weary tone.

“She’s a good lawyer, and she’s handling my case pro

bono.”

Carlotta’s mouth puckered. “As if we’re some charity case.

And what makes you think she’s a good lawyer?”

“Dad hired her, didn’t he?”

She swallowed her words about what services her father

actually had been paying for. “If he had so much faith in Liz

Fischer, then why did he skip town?”

Wesley blanched, and immediately she was sorry. She had

promised herself over the years that she would refrain

from badmouthing her parents in front of her brother,

thinking that when he became an adult, he would

naturally reach the same conclusion that she had: that

their mother was an unfeeling coward and their father an

unfeeling, unlawful coward. But apparently he wasn’t yet

ready to let go of his childhood fantasies.

“Okay, time out,” she said, sinking into a chair at the

kitchen table and lowering her head into her hands. “I’m

scared for you, Wesley. You’re in big trouble here.”

He downed the drink. “And Liz Fischer is the best chance I

have to make things right and get back on track.”

She sighed and looked up. “I stil think I should go with you

today to talk about your case. I don’t trust Liz Fischer as

much as you do.”

He lifted his empty can high and aimed for the trash can

across the room, let it fly, and grinned when it dropped in.

She glared until he sobered. Then he ambled over to the

table, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Sis, I know

you want to help, but please let me handle this. I promise

everything’s going to work out.”

Staring up at him, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu

washed over her. Ten years ago she had been sitting at

this table, eavesdropping on her parents’ conversation in

the next room.

“Let me handle this, Valerie. I promise everything’s going

to work out for us.”

For us, her father had said, as in for him and her mother.

Not for her and Wesley. They’d been left to fend for

themselves.

She studied her brother’s sharp, precise features, so like

her father’s, and the familiar sense of love tinged with

helplessness crowded her chest. When had he grown up?

It seemed like only yesterday she was putting Band-Aids

on his knees and helping him with science experiments.

And now suddenly he was an adult, with adult problems

that she couldn’t fix, and might even have contributed to…

“Sis?”

She blinked. “Yeah?”

“I said let me take care of this. Don’t worry, okay?” He

leaned down and dropped a fleeting kiss on her forehead

on his way toward the door, but the rare display of

affection was enough to distract her from her troublesome

thoughts. She so wanted to believe him. “Do you want me

to drop you at her office on my way to work?”

“Nope. I’l take the train.”

“Call me and let me know what happened.”

“Yup.”

The front door banged closed, and she sighed, her

shoulders drooping. A headache pressed behind eyes that

were gritty and dry from lack of sleep. Despite Wesley’s

assurances, worry leaked back into her mind, and she

suddenly longed for something to numb her senses for a

while. Her gaze drifted to the liquor cabinet, which, out of

deference to Wesley’s age, held exactly two bottles of

wine—a cheap chardonnay that she’d gotten at a gift swap

at the Christmas office party, and a decent pinot noir that

she had bought on impulse two years ago, thinking it

would be nice to have on hand in case someone special

stopped by unexpectedly for a romantic evening.

A dry laugh escaped her. What had she been smoking that

night? She’d had about a half-dozen dates since then,

none of them interesting enough to inspire an encore,

much less the label “special.” Her friend Hannah claimed

that she had been without a man for so long, she was

official y a re-virgin.

Thinking of her friend who was in Chicago on a field trip

with her culinary class, she sighed, missing Hannah,

missing being able to share her recent drama with the only

person she knew whose life was more tragic than her own.

Carlotta glanced at her watch. It was an hour earlier in

Chicago. Hannah was a notoriously late sleeper, but if she

called now, she could be sure to catch Hannah before she

was out and about for the day.

She dialed her friend’s cel -phone number. On the sixth

ring, Hannah’s sleep-muffled voice came on the line.

“Who the fuck is cal ing me at seven-thirty in the goddamn

morning?”

“Good morning, sunshine. And it’s eight-thirty in Atlanta.”

“Christ, Carlotta, this had better be important. Did you get

laid?”

“No. I called because I miss you, you hag.”

“Yeah, right. What’s up?”

Carlotta sighed. “It’s Wesley. He’s in trouble…again.”

“What’s the little shit done this time?”

Hannah was the only person who could get away with

calling Wesley names, because Carlotta knew that beneath

her crusty veneer, Hannah was protective of him. “He got

arrested for hacking into the courthouse database.”

“I knew he was a smart little dude, but…damn. Why would

he do something like that?”

“To delete his traffic violations.”

“Wow, can he do that? I’ve got a couple of parking tickets I

wouldn’t mind having taken care of.”

“Hannah.”

“Sorry. So how much trouble is he in?”

“I’m not sure yet, but he could go to jail.”

“Yikes, Wesley’s too pretty to survive in jail.”

“I’m so regretting making this phone call.”

“Sorry. Do you want my attorney’s number? He did a great

job of getting my assault charge against Russel dismissed.”

Hannah had a thing for married guys—and for public

breakups, which her last married guy had responded to by

filing an assault charge. “Uh, thanks, but Wesley already

has an attorney.” Plus, she suspected that Hannah’s ex

dropping the charges had more to do with his reluctance

to face the six-foot-tal , tongue-pierced, stripe-haired,

goth-garbed Hannah in an open courtroom than with her