Jack. She went limp for a few seconds before her anger surged and she turned on him. “What are you doing?” she whispered harshly, covering her red bra with crossed arms, as if it mattered. “You nearly scared me to death!”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “No one can know I’m here.”
Realization dawned. “So this is another victim of The Charmed Killer?”
“So it seems.”
“I thought you were taken off the case.”
“That was a mistake.” His voice was thick with anger. As her eyes acclimated to the darkness, she could see his tie was undone, and his hair was sticking up, as if he’d been raking his hand through it.
“So that explains the subterfuge. But how are you going to investigate a crime if you’re not even supposed to be here?”
“When I saw you get out of the van,” he said, his voice suddenly cajoling, “I thought you might be willing to help.”
“You told me to stop body moving, and now you want my help?”
“As if you’d listen to me. Nice bra, by the way.”
She frowned and pulled on the top half of the scrubs outfit. “Jack, are you crazy? What can I possibly do to help?”
“Be my eyes and ears. Ask questions—be your nosy self.”
“Can’t your partner be your eyes and ears?”
“Not without jeopardizing her job. The state guys are watching Marquez to make sure she doesn’t feed me information.”
The thought of being in a position to give Jack something Maria couldn’t gave her a little rush. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” he said, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “If I’m not here when you come back out, I’ll call you later.”
He disappeared into the darkness, presumably to his car that was parked on another street. Carlotta took a moment to marvel over how her relationship with Jack had changed since they’d first met. Was it possible to bond over murder and mayhem?
Feeling the weight of her mission, Carlotta hurried toward the house, her head spinning with revelations.
When had she become the girl who would leave a black-tie event at the country club for a chance to jump headlong into investigating a serial killer?
14
Carlotta flashed her morgue ID and a big, toothy smile to get past the crime scene tape. Wesley, Hannah and Kendall stood waiting for her on the porch.
“They won’t let us in,” Wesley said. “They’re not finished yet.”
Carlotta wandered over to glance through a window and saw Dr. Abrams conferring with GBI agents Wick and Green over the body of a woman lying on the floor of what looked like a den. Detective Marquez stood nearby, listening intently.
From her clothing, Carlotta judged the victim to be in her thirties. She was dressed modestly, and her clothing was intact. She lay on her back, arms at her sides. The woman didn’t appear to have any abrasions or other signs of outward assault, but her face was cherry-red and swollen.
“Did you hear what happened?” Carlotta asked Wesley.
He shook his head. “No one will tell us anything.”
Carlotta spotted one of the uniformed officers standing near the crime scene tape looking her way. She elbowed Wesley. “Give me a cigarette.”
“I don’t—”
“I don’t care if you’re smoking,” she cut in. “Give me one.”
He relented. Reaching into his pocket, he tapped one out of a packet. “Need a light?”
“Not from you,” she said. Then, descending the porch steps, she walked up to the cop who was keeping watch behind the yellow tape. “Hi,” she said, smiling.
Even in the semidarkness, she could tell he blushed. “Hi.”
“They’re not ready for us to move the body yet, so I thought I’d grab a smoke. Do you have a light?” She knew he did because she’d caught the whiff of cigarette smoke on him when he’d let her through.
He pulled out a lighter and she leaned close to light the cigarette, then straightened and exhaled. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he mumbled.
“These always calm my nerves,” she offered. “This whole thing with The Charmed Killer has got me spooked.”
He nodded solemnly.
“I picked up his first victim, and two others,” she said with a shudder. “And now here’s another one.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty sick.”
She drew on the cigarette. “Who found her?”
“One of the neighborhood kids going door-to-door selling gift wrap. He looked in the window and saw her lying there. Fool thought she was asleep. Hours later he decided to mention it to his parents and they called 911. I was the first to respond.”
She made a noise to indicate she was impressed. “Were there signs of forced entry?”
He hesitated.
“I’m only asking because I live by myself, and I need to know how to protect myself.”
“No, no signs of forced entry,” he said, then pulled at his waistband and rocked back on his heels. “If you ask me, it was either someone she knew, or someone she allowed to talk his way inside.”
Their guy must not look very menacing if he was able to easily gain entrance in to women’s houses.
“Did she live alone?” Carlotta asked.
“Looks that way.”
Carlotta tapped ash off the end of the cigarette. “She wasn’t…assaulted, was she?”
“I went in when the coroner arrived and he said he couldn’t be sure until he ran tests. But it didn’t look like she was raped.”
She exhaled. “Well, at least there’s that.”
“The GBI’s involved now,” he said. “This case is getting serious attention.”
“It should be. It’s like this guy is taunting the police, leaving those charms.” She lifted her arm to show him the charm bracelet she was wearing. “It makes me afraid to even wear mine. I don’t suppose you saw what kind of charm he left this time.”
He looked over his shoulder nervously.
“I saw all the other ones,” she said. “There was a chicken, a cigar, a car and a gun. Bizarre.”
“This was a tiny pair of handcuffs,” he whispered. “I saw the M.E. take it out with tongs.”
“Ooh, creepy,” she said, tucking away the piece of information. “Well, maybe he was sloppy and left DNA behind this time.”
“I doubt it. When I walked in, I smelled bleach and I heard the CSI guys say the place was wiped clean, as if the person knew what he was doing.”
Michael Lane was a neat freak—in fact, he’d always wiped down his locker at work with disinfectant and carried around gel hand cleaner. She wondered if the other crime scenes had been sanitized.
“The woman’s face is pretty red,” she offered. “Did you hear the M.E. say what he thought had happened?”
“Said it looked like poison, but he’d have to run tests.”
Poison—a new M.O. for the killer who had suffocated, beaten, stabbed or shot his previous victims. She made a mournful noise, imagining the woman’s last moments alive. “How awful.”
“Yeah. Still, as dead bodies go, I’ve seen much worse,” he offered in a tone that said he’d been around the block, yessiree.
“Right,” she said, then dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out with her toe. “Thanks for the light.”
The officer cleared his throat. “Maybe we could get a drink sometime.”
Her mind swam for a polite brush-off.
“Carlotta!” Wesley yelled from the house.
“I’d like that, Officer…?”
“Childress, ma’am.”
“I’d like that, Officer Childress,” she said with a smile. “I have to go.” She walked back to the porch where Wesley and Hannah were descending the steps.
“They’re ready for us,” Wesley said. “Abrams wanted to talk to Kendall, show him a few things. I thought we’d go ahead and get the gurney.”
“Can you and Hannah handle it?” Carlotta asked.
“Sure.”
“Okay, I’ll see you inside.” She jogged up the steps and into the house. When she heard the voices of the GBI agents coming her way, she darted into the hallway, relieved when they walked on by and outside. They were deep in conversation, followed by Detective Marquez. Carlotta tiptoed past the front door and into the room where Abrams was bent over the body, pointing out things to his nephew, Kendall.
“Notice the extreme coloring of the facial skin.”
“Looks like a really bad sunburn,” Kendall offered.
Abrams’s mouth tightened. “It’s a sign of poisoning. Do you notice that smell?”
Kendall sniffed. “Yeah, she’s dead.”
“Not that,” the older man said, his voice shaded with frustration. “The smell of burnt almonds.”
Kendall sniffed again. “No, I got nothing. So she, what, choked on an almond?”
Carlotta almost felt sorry for Abrams—it was clear his nephew wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
“Uh, no. Remember I said she was poisoned? The scent of almonds indicates cyanide poisoning.”
“Hmm,” Kendall offered with a scratch to his head. “That’s bad, huh?”
Abrams sighed. “Very bad.”
“Dr. Abrams,” Carlotta ventured, walking closer. “What’s the victim’s name?”
He looked up and frowned. “Oh, Carlotta, I didn’t realize you were here, too. The victim’s name is Marna Collins, age thirty-eight. She was a middle-school teacher.”
“How long has she been dead?”
“Why do you want to know?” he asked suspiciously, closing his black bag and pushing to his feet.
She shrugged carefully. “I just wondered if rigor had set in, in preparation for moving the body.”
“Partial rigor,” he said in a clipped tone.
“What’s rigor?” Kendall asked.
Abrams frowned harder. “Rigor mortis occurs when the deceased’s muscles begin to freeze.”
Kendall still looked confused.
“The limbs begin to get stiff after three hours,” Carlotta supplied. “Full rigor sets in around the twelve-hour mark.” Partial rigor indicated that Marna Collins had been dead maybe six to eight hours.
“I didn’t realize you were so knowledgeable,” Abrams said, his eyebrows high.
“I watch TV,” she murmured.
“My nephew here is studying forensic pathology,” Dr. Abrams said, clapping Kendall on the back.
“It’s just my first year, and I’m not real good at it,” Kendall said miserably.
“You will be,” Abrams assured him, then headed toward the door. At the entrance, Abrams turned back. “Carlotta, have you talked to Cooper lately?”
“Not for several days,” she admitted.
“I couldn’t reach him today and frankly, I’m worried about his state of mind.”
Carlotta bit her lip. “I heard he was working in the morgue lab.”
“That’s right. I think it was someone’s idea of keeping him busy. Idle hands are the devil’s playground, and all that.”
“Someone?”
“Someone above me who thinks he can be saved,” the man said, then walked out.
His comments left her even more worried. Abrams had worked with Coop for years, had even reported to Coop before his fall from grace. Abrams had been privy to Coop’s meltdown after he’d drunkenly declared a car accident victim deceased when, in fact, she’d been alive. Abrams had a reference point for Coop that she didn’t have, so as much as she didn’t want to believe that Coop was slipping into destructive behavior, it was looking more and more as if he was.
“What do we do now?” Kendall asked her, gesturing to the body, his eyes wide.
“Why don’t you go see if they need help with the gurney,” she suggested.
He loped out of the room. Carlotta positioned her back to the windows, slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and surreptitiously snapped a few photos of the victim and the surrounding scene. There were no signs of overturned furniture in the room or any other disturbances.
Carlotta stared down at the still body of Marna Collins, and her heart wrenched. “Who did this to you?” she whispered. “How did he earn your trust?”
“What are you doing here?”
Carlotta jumped and slid the phone back into her pocket as she turned to see Maria Marquez standing there. “I got called in to move the body. So, The Charmed Killer strikes again.”
“What makes you think this is the handiwork of The Charmed Killer?”
Uh-oh. Her mind raced. “Why else would the GBI be here?”
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “If any details about this murder get out, I’ll know where they came from.”
Carlotta swallowed hard, glad when Wesley, Hannah and Kendall arrived with the gurney and body bag. The guys lifted the body while she and Hannah situated the body bag and zipped it closed around the victim, a stomach-clenching final act. They wheeled the body out to the van and loaded it in the back.
Carlotta quickly changed back into her dress in the shadows of the van. Since Jack didn’t accost her, she assumed he’d left the area. The guys dropped her and Hannah back at the country club before taking the body to the morgue.
“I might make the end of the auction after all,” Carlotta said as they walked back inside. “Are you sure you’re okay to come back?”
“I’m good,” Hannah said. “I don’t want those bitches to think they ran me off.”
Inside, they separated, with Hannah moving toward the kitchen and Carlotta toward the table where she and Peter were seated. The abrupt change in environment was jarring, moving from the bleak sadness of a crime scene to celebratory excess.
Rainie Stephens was on the stage announcing the winners of the prizes of the silent auction. Carlotta felt the woman’s gaze on her, but shrugged it off. She lifted a glass of wine from a serving tray and headed back to her table.
“Carlotta! Yoo-hoo!”
She knew that voice—couldn’t seem to escape it. She pasted on a smile then turned to greet Patricia Alexander who was clinging to the arm of a dark-haired guy in an ill-fitting tux who looked a little less happy to be there than she did. “Hi, Patricia.”
“Carlotta, meet Leo Tennyson.” The woman beamed, her eyes big as she stroked the man’s arm. Her bracelet tinkled with the charms that collectively, at least in Patricia’s mind, pointed to him as being The One. “Leo is a professional baseball player.”
“I think you mentioned that,” Carlotta said with a smile. “Hello, Leo.”
“Hello,” he said, his tone and body language bordering on surly.
“What team do you play for?” Carlotta asked out of politeness.
“The Gwinnett Braves,” he said. “It’s the farm team for the Atlanta Braves.”
“That’s very impressive.”
“Isn’t it?” Patricia broke in, rubbing against him. “We’re late because Leo had practice. I guess you’re here with Peter?”
“That’s right.”
“That should have all the tongues wagging.”
“Er…I should get back to my table,” Carlotta said, gesturing. “Nice to meet you, Leo. Goodbye, Patricia.”
Carlotta threaded her way through the crowded ballroom, then slipped into the empty seat next to Peter. He looked over and grinned in surprise.
She squeezed his hand under the table. “Told you I’d be back.”
He looked so happy that guilt swelled in her chest—and gratitude. She was fortunate to have someone in her life who cared for her as much as Peter did.
“And the winner of the trip for two for a deluxe romance package to Las Vegas,” Rainie announced, “is Peter Ashford!”
Carlotta conjured up a smile while the room erupted in applause. Deluxe romance package? To Vegas?
“Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Peter asked, squeezing her against him.
“Yes,” she murmured. Across the table, Tracey Lowenstein smirked at her and applauded halfhearted
ly.
Carlotta tried not to panic—hopefully the trip was still weeks or months away. Nothing had to be decided tonight. She clapped politely as winners of the remaining auction items were called out, and at Rainie Stephens’s announcement of the impressive figure that had been raised for the local animal shelter through the night’s ticket sales, auctions and individual donations. She waited for Peter to ask her about the body-moving job, but he didn’t. She had missed dinner, but enjoyed a few forkfuls of cheesecake with her wine, and slowly the ugly events of the Collins crime scene dimmed until they seemed surreal. She glanced around at the beautiful people in the beautiful room. There was a certain comfort in being insulated from the unpleasantries of the world.
Afterward, she and Peter danced to big-band tunes with other couples on the dance floor. Since Dr. Lowenstein hadn’t returned, Tracey sat glowering at her while Peter spun her around expertly. He was tall and graceful and she felt sheltered in his arms. She’d forgotten how well their bodies fit together. When she was away from Peter, she had trouble remembering details about his face, the way he smelled. But when they were together, she could almost fool herself into believing they’d never been apart.
On the drive home, Peter was funny and charming. She found herself studying his profile and tingling with pleasure that he wanted her. The man didn’t mind that her family name was sullied, that she lived in a substandard part of town, that she was up to her gapped front teeth in debt and that she had totaled his Porsche.
It had to be love.
When they entered his house, it was very late. The wine was still coursing nicely through her bloodstream, making her limbs loose and her smile permanent. Anticipation swirled in her stomach as they climbed the stairs to the second floor, hand in hand. Would he ask her to spend the night in his bed? Did she want to?
At the top of the stairs, he turned toward her and pulled her into his arms for a languid kiss. She opened her lips to him, inhaling the musky scent of his skin and his cologne, reveling in the texture of his tongue as he explored her mouth thoroughly. She ran her hands over his muscular arms, registering how his body had changed from a boy’s to a man’s in the time they had been apart. Her body molded to him, yielding to the unique ways he awakened her. Her breasts grew heavy, her thighs moist. They were two grown, single, consenting adults, she thought, leaning into him to increase the intensity of the kiss. There was nothing to keep them from enjoying each other’s bodies tonight.
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