5 Bodies to Die For

by Stephanie Bond

“My purse!” Bebe Plank was patting an empty spot on the table in front of her. “Has anyone seen my purse? It’s a zebra-print Prada clutch, and it was right here.”

  Everyone at the table stopped to look, but to no avail. After several minutes of searching, it seemed apparent that the purse had been lifted.

  “I say we call the police and have the waitstaff strip-searched,” Tracey exclaimed. “Some of them look like hoodlums, with their tattoos and piercings.” She gave Carlotta a pointed glance. “I know who my money’s on.” Then Tracey turned to stare at Hannah, who was refilling water glasses a couple of tables away.

  Carlotta opened her mouth to say her friend would never steal, but something stopped her. Hannah had always openly disdained the country-club crowd. Carlotta assumed her friend had endured a meager upbringing.

  Detective Marquez’s words washed over her. She didn’t know where Hannah lived, who her other friends were or where Hannah spent her free time. In view of how little she really knew about her best friend, could she swear that Hannah wouldn’t steal something from someone she might perceive as having too much?

  After all, Carlotta had considered Michael Lane a friend, and look how that had turned out.

  12

  Wesley looked up from playing Poker Slam when Chance strolled into the living room. His friend wore baggy briefs and black socks.

  “I thought you’d passed out in the bathroom,” Wesley offered.

  “I was jerking off thinking about your sister’s friend Hannah.”

  Wesley held up his hand. “Dude, please.”

  “When are you going to set us up? I’m dying here.”

  “I’m still working on it, okay?”

  Chance yanked on his johnson through his shorts. “Can you lose weight in your dick? I swear it looks smaller since I started walking on that damn treadmill.”

  “Seriously, man, stop.”

  “Will you look at it and give me your opinion?”

  “Okay, I just went completely deaf.”

  “Come on, man, I’m worried.”

  Wesley lost the poker hand he’d been playing and set his jaw in frustration. “The only way your tool will shrink is if you’re doing steroids. Are you?”

  Chance scratched his beer gut. “No.”

  Wesley took in his friend’s white flabby body. “Shocking. But that means you’re fine.”

  “’Roids make your dick shrink?”

  “Your balls, actually.”

  “Dude, how do you know all this shit? You should go on Jeopardy or something.”

  “And you should read a book once in a while.”

  Chance laughed. “Why, when I can just ask you stuff? Having you around here is like having a search engine on the couch.”

  “Thanks,” he said drily.

  “Wait a minute—if I shrink my balls, won’t my dick look bigger?”

  “You’re wearing me out, man.”

  Chance pointed a meaty finger. “While we’re talking about schlongs, smarty-pants, that Oxy will mess with yours. That’s why I steer clear of the stuff.”

  Wesley frowned. “I’m cool.”

  “For now. You keep eating them like candy, you’re going to be serving boneless pork to the ladies, you get my drift?”

  “How about I worry about my pork, and you worry about yours?”

  “I’m just saying, man. Ease up before it gets away from you.”

  Wesley gritted his teeth against a throbbing headache. He needed a hit right now and was playing a poker video game to keep his hands from shaking. “Why don’t you go put on some clothes.”

  Chance shot him the bird, but walked toward his bedroom. “I’m working on getting you into another card game,” he called over his shoulder.

  Another game would be nice, Wes conceded. To try to win back some of the cash that lunatic Michael Lane had stolen from his room. He’d had plans for that money. It was supposed to have made things better for his sister—pay for some upgrades around the house and replace her car. All those things would have to wait until he got lucky again.

  Wesley turned back to the video-poker game, but he had trouble focusing. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then tried again. But his reaction time was slow, and twice he mistook one card suit for another one. He cursed and tossed aside the controller, then stood and paced, his mind bouncing all over the place, from E.’s engagement to her thug boyfriend, to the identity of the decapitated man in the morgue, to the killer who was stalking the city.

  When he got shaky, his mind turned to Meg Vincent for some reason, as if she was something he could anchor his thoughts to. Then he grunted and pulled at his zipper—at least his dick was still working.

  From his backpack, his personal cell phone rang. He pulled it out, but the call was from an unknown source. Wes frowned, then answered, “Yeah.”

  “Is this Wesley Wren?” The voice was male, relatively young and thick with a country twang.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Kendall Abrams.”

  “Who?”

  “My uncle is the chief M.E. at the county morgue.”

  “Oh, right. You’re working with Coop?”

  “Yeah. We got a pickup, but Coop isn’t answering his phone. My uncle says you and me can go, if that’s awright with you.”

  Jesus, the guy sounded like a hayseed. “Sure.” Wes gave him the address of the condo building. “What are you driving?”

  “One of the morgue’s vans. See you in a few.”

  Wesley disconnected the call, uneasy about the fact that Coop wasn’t answering his phone. He tried to reach him, too, just in case, but Coop wasn’t picking up. Was the pressure of working with Abrams at the lab getting to him? It was obvious to anyone that the men had history.

  It also occurred to Wesley, though, that the prospect of moving bodies had a lot less appeal if he wasn’t with Coop. Or Carlotta…or even Hannah. Without them, it was just a job. And not a very pleasant one.

  Chance came back into the living room. To his shorts-and-socks ensemble he had added a towel around his neck. “Want to order Chinese?”

  “I have to go.”

  “To pick up a dead person?”

  “Yeah,” Wesley said, fishing an Oxy tablet out of his pack and tossing it back.

  “Well, at least you won’t need your dick for that,” Chance said.

  Wesley snapped, irritated at the interruption to his chew-buzz. “Shut up, dude. I got this under control.”

  Chance made a clicking noise with his chubby cheek. “That’s what they all say.”

  Wesley swung his backpack to his shoulder and stalked to the door, ignoring his friend. He could quit the Oxy anytime he wanted to. He just didn’t want to tonight.

  13

  Carlotta sipped from her wineglass as she strolled beside the tables featuring items up for bid in the silent auction. There were ski packages to Vail, Broadway packages to Manhattan, spa vacations to the wine country, gambling junkets to Vegas, cooking lessons in Paris, and sailing adventures in the Caribbean. To her dismay, Peter had bid on almost every trip for two on offer. She looked up and spotted him a few yards away chatting amiably with some guy whose name she couldn’t recall. After a while, the faces and names all ran together.

  She scanned other items up for auction—jewelry, art, sporting events—but her mind was elsewhere. She kept one eye on the kitchen entrance where Hannah had disappeared a few minutes ago and hadn’t returned. When Bebe Plank’s purse hadn’t turned up, the police had been summoned, but Carlotta knew how things worked in these environments enough to know that the police wouldn’t have made themselves known to guests. Instead, the cops would be shepherded into a private room, and have suspects delivered to them.

  Or in this case, suspect, as in singular.

  From inside Carlotta’s bag, her cell phone rang. She reached in and felt around the stun baton to pull out the phone. Wesley’s name scrolled onto the display.

  She connected the call and covered her ear. �
�Wes?”

  “Hey, sis, are you busy?”

  She looked around the packed ballroom. “That depends. What’s up?”

  “I’m on a body run and I could use a little help.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Uh—almost. And the house is in Buckhead.” He gave her the address.

  “That’s not too far from Peter’s neighborhood,” she mused. “What happened?”

  “No specifics. But the chief M.E. is already on the scene, so I get the feeling that it’s big. Are you in?”

  Another victim of The Charmed Killer? She weighed the experience of picking up a dead body against spending the rest of the evening at the charity auction. Fake laughter burst out behind her, making her wince.

  “Sis?”

  “I’m in,” she said. “Pick me up in front of the Bedford Manor Country Club.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there in ten minutes in a morgue van.”

  She disconnected the call and glanced at Peter across the room, still talking to Mr. Generic. Peter had been so good to her. She was probably going to regret this.

  Resolved, she drained her glass of wine, then headed toward the kitchen. A man wearing an employee name tag stepped in her path. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  Carlotta held up her glass. “Just looking for a refill.”

  “Our bar is over there,” he said, nodding. “Or any of the servers on the floor can help you.”

  She smiled. “Get out of my way.”

  He held out his arm. “Ma’am, I can’t let you go back there.”

  “I’ve already zapped two guys with a stun baton this week,” she said, patting her bag. “But I don’t mind going for a personal best if you don’t.”

  He dropped his arm. Carlotta pushed through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen area, her head pivoting, ears perked.

  “I didn’t do it!” came the sound of Hannah’s voice behind an office door left ajar.

  Carlotta headed toward the door and flung it open. Hannah stood in a makeshift office/storeroom, her expression defiant. Bebe Plank and Tracey Lowenstein stood there and from their haughty stance, Carlotta suspected they had initiated the interrogation. A male uniformed police officer stood nearby, eyeing the tall Hannah warily. A block-shouldered guy was apparently leading the questioning.

  They all turned toward her when she walked in.

  “Carlotta?” the blocky guy said, his voice loaded with surprise.

  Recognition hit her. “Herb.” Her rent-a-cop from the store. “Do you work here at the club?”

  “I got two kids in college,” he offered with a shrug. “Are you a member?”

  “A guest. And I was sitting at the table when Ms. Plank’s purse went missing. I can vouch for Ms. Kizer—she didn’t take it.”

  “This woman is not a member of the club,” Tracey said, gesturing to Carlotta. “She’s obviously covering for her thuggy friend who was hovering over Bebe’s purse just before it went missing. No one else could’ve taken it.”

  Carlotta’s mouth tightened. “Hannah is a friend of mine, and she’d never steal. Anyone could’ve taken it when the lights were down for the film.”

  “Even you,” Tracey said.

  Carlotta gritted her teeth, but didn’t respond.

  Herb turned to Carlotta. “You say you know this woman well?”

  “Yes. For many years.”

  “Does your friend live around here?” he asked.

  She looked at Hannah, panicked by the thought that she didn’t really know where Hannah lived. “Uh…yes. In the area.”

  “With my parents,” Hannah supplied. “On West Paces Ferry.”

  Carlotta tried to hide her surprise. West Paces Ferry was one of the most expensive zip codes in the county.

  “I don’t believe you,” Tracey said, her voice scornful.

  Hannah’s eyes narrowed, then she removed a wallet from her back pocket, removed her driver’s license and thrust it toward Herb.

  “West Paces Ferry address,” he confirmed.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Tracey insisted.

  “Why would I steal a damn purse?” Hannah asked.

  “For the money,” Tracey said. “You couldn’t make much as a server.”

  “Not when everyone tips as badly as you do,” Hannah offered.

  “Hannah has another job,” Carlotta cut in. “We work together.”

  “At Neiman Marcus?” Herb asked.

  “Uh…no. We have a side…thing.” Carlotta dazzled him with a smile. “In fact, we were just called out on a job. So I’m afraid we have to leave.”

  “What kind of job?” Tracey demanded.

  Carlotta swallowed hard. Telling Tracey about her part-time gig would be the equivalent of announcing it in the Peach Buzz section of the AJC. “For…the morgue,” she said warily, then rummaged in her wallet and came up with the lanyard ID that gained her entrance to crime scenes and other places where dead bodies lay in wait. “Hannah and I are body movers, and this is an emergency.”

  Tracey looked horrified. “You move dead people?”

  Hannah fished out her morgue ID and they both handed the cards to Herb. He and the uniform looked them over, then handed them back with a nod.

  Herb faced Tracey and Bebe. “Ladies, it’s your word against Ms. Kizer’s. No one saw her take the bag, and she doesn’t have it on her.”

  “She could’ve put it on the cart she was using.”

  “The cart was searched, ma’am. I think we’re done here.”

  “Let’s go,” Carlotta said to Hannah.

  They left with the protests of Tracey and Bebe following them like a cloud.

  “Thanks,” Hannah muttered. “Are we really going out on a job?”

  “Assuming you can get away.”

  “Are you kidding?” Hannah reached around to untie her apron. “I’m so out of here.”

  On the way back through the ballroom, Carlotta scanned the crowd for Peter. When he looked up and saw her coming, he smiled. But his smile dimmed when he saw Hannah with her.

  “Having a good time?” he asked, his voice tentative.

  “Yes,” Carlotta said. “But Wesley needs our help with something, so I have to step out for a little while.”

  Peter’s face darkened. “More body moving? I thought we agreed you wouldn’t be doing this anymore.”

  “I’ll be back before you miss me,” she assured him with a pat. “Have fun and don’t worry.” She had to tug her hand free and tried to tamp down the guilt she felt as she turned away. But she couldn’t deny the excitement coursing through her veins.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  Carlotta looked up to see Rainie Stephens standing there, her eyebrows raised, no doubt along with her journalistic curiosity.

  Carlotta shrugged carefully. “I left something at home. I’ll be back.”

  “Good,” Rainie said. “Because I’d like to talk to you about The Charmed Killer case.” A phone rang and Rainie reached for her purse.

  Carlotta backed away—she could guess what the call was about. “Let’s go,” she whispered to Hannah.

  They trotted to the front door of the building, and out into the thick summer night. After the cloying atmosphere of the rarefied air in the country club, the oppressive humidity felt like freedom.

  “Is Coop coming?” Hannah asked as they jogged down a set of steps.

  “No, but I got the sense that Wesley had someone with him, someone he didn’t fully trust.”

  The extended van was waiting for them. Wes jumped out and gestured for them to hurry.

  “I need you for backup,” he murmured as he helped Carlotta climb in the rear seat. “I can’t get a fix on this guy.”

  When Kendall Abrams introduced himself, Carlotta understood Wesley’s concern. The kid gave her the creeps. He looked to be about Wesley’s age, with black eyebrows as thick as bottle brushes, his eyes dark and darting. His molasses-thick accent made him sound like a hick, but he seemed observant, his eyes al
ways moving. He also did not seem pleased to have her and Hannah around.

  “What’re they doing here?” he asked Wesley. “My uncle said to just bring you.”

  “On-the-job training,” Wes responded easily. “Coop needs all the help he can get.”

  “She’s not exactly dressed for it,” Kendall grumbled, jerking his head toward Carlotta.

  “There are scrubs in the back,” Wesley said. “Chill, okay?”

  “Where’s Coop?” Carlotta asked to defuse the tension.

  “Nobody can reach him,” Kendall supplied. “My uncle thinks he’s on the sauce again.”

  Carlotta exchanged worried glances with Hannah and mentally vowed to check up on him. Since their return from the Florida road trip where they’d picked up the body of a celebutante, Coop had been withdrawn. At first she’d attributed it to their flirtation with a fling that hadn’t happened, but she was starting to think that something deeper and darker was afoot.

  They pulled in to a neighborhood that was only a couple of miles away, this one not quite so grand as Martinique Estates, but nice nonetheless, with spacious homes and neat landscaping on moderate-size lots. A two-story brick-fronted home was ablaze with lights, the driveway and curb lined with various civilian and official vehicles, including two police cars, a car from the M.E.’s office, and a GBI van.

  Her heart was pumping as they drove up to the scene. Because of the congestion, Wesley was forced to park along a sparsely lit curb, where residents’ cars were spaced at various intervals between mailboxes. They all climbed out and Carlotta told them to go ahead while she changed clothes.

  “I’m right behind you,” she assured them, moving quickly. She pulled out scrub tops and bottoms, along with booties to put over her Valentino silver-strap sandals, then stepped into the shadows to change. She pulled on the scrub pants and lifted her cocktail dress over her head.

  She smelled the man a heartbeat before he clamped his hand over her mouth. She screamed anyway, but the air backed up in her throat, giving her an instant headache. Terror seized her and she fought against his iron grip. No way was she succumbing to The Charmed Killer without a fight.

  “It’s me,” a familiar voice whispered.