5 Bodies to Die For

by Stephanie Bond

  Walking through the store, she glanced around, wondering if her coworkers had read the bit in the paper about her father being named a person of interest in The Charmed Killer case. Granted, many of them hadn’t been around when Randolph had made headlines all those years ago, and wouldn’t make the connection to her even if they’d seen it. But Patricia Alexander knew that Randolph was her father, as did many of the store’s clientele. And nothing tasted as good to Atlanta high society as a nice juicy scandal.

  When she reached her designated department, her bodyguard, Herb, was already there, loitering between a rack of Tory Burch tunics and Chetta B floral skirts. He might as well have been waving a flag. He nodded and she smiled back, glad that customers were waiting so she could forget about everything else for a while. Coop had challenged her to do more with her life than work retail, but there was something to be said about transforming a mousy wall-flower into a vivacious name-taker with a single killer suit.

  For the most part, selling clothes was a pretty cheery business to be in. The worst-case daily scenario was not having the right color or size of a particular gorgeous thing. Which was usually softened by the availability of the right color or size of any one of several other gorgeous things. The people on both ends of the transaction usually walked away happy. And retail therapy was exactly what she needed to forget that she knew too much about the layout of the midtown APD precinct.

  Not to mention the layout of Detective Jack Terry.

  Still, as much as she tried to forget about the polygraph exam and the fact that The Charmed Killer was probably out there right now circling his next victim, her mind kept going to those dark places. Was the killer eyeing an innocent woman, savoring how he was going to snuff out her life? Fingering a charm in his pocket that he would cram down the woman’s throat afterward?

  A chill crawled over her shoulders, as if someone had just walked over her grave. She could swear the temperature had suddenly dropped a few degrees.

  “Well, well, well.”

  Carlotta swung around to see Tracey Tully Lowenstein standing there, her eyes heavy lidded and her mouth tightened in a little knot. She was sheathed head to toe in St. John and sporting over-size Versace sunglasses. Carlotta armed herself with a smile.

  “Hi, Tracey. I take it you came in for our sale.”

  Tracey frowned. “I don’t shop sales.”

  “Okay. How can I help you?”

  “Actually, I’m here to help you.”

  Carlotta blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Tracey slowly removed her sunglasses. “Some of the members of the club are…concerned.”

  “Concerned?”

  “About your relationship with the woman on the waitstaff.”

  “Hannah?”

  “The tattooed one, yes.”

  “Hannah and I have been friends for a long time. She’s a good person.”

  “She’s a thief.”

  Carlotta set her jaw, then leaned in to speak in low tones. “You have no right to say that.”

  A smug expression settled on Tracey’s face. “Just because no one saw her take Bebe’s purse doesn’t mean she’s innocent.”

  Carlotta crossed her arms. “Actually, it does. And I resent you blaming her simply because you don’t like the way she looks.”

  Tracey made a dismissive gesture. “I didn’t come here to talk about your delinquent friend. I’ve already arranged for her to be fired.”

  Carlotta gasped as anger barbed through her. “You what? How dare you?”

  “You should know that your friend had worked every event where purses were stolen.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything!”

  Tracey’s mouth flattened into a hard line. “What’s done is done. I’m here because I was designated by some of the ladies of the club to talk to you about…your future.”

  “Designated? You and your friends have been discussing me?”

  “We just want what’s best for you,” Tracey insisted, her voice tinny. “And considering that your father bilked huge sums of money from several members of Bedford Manor, what’s best is if you don’t return to the club.”

  Carlotta’s jaw dropped. “Is this a joke? I’m not applying for membership at the club. I was Peter’s guest.”

  Tracey clucked. “The social committee doesn’t like to abuse its power, but we do have the authority to ban guests if we deem their presence to be injurious to members.”

  “Injurious?” Where was her stun baton when she needed it?

  “Before you take offense, Carlotta, you really should think about Peter.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “Peter has been through so much, I’d hate to see his club membership jeopardized because he was keeping the wrong company. And if he left the club, he’d lose social contact with so many of his clients, I can’t imagine what that might do to his career.”

  Carlotta’s face burned and her throat ached from pent-up rage.

  “I feel sorry for you, really I do,” Tracey cooed, pushing her sunglasses back in place. “First your father embezzles from his company and friends, then he abandons you and your brother, and now you find out that he might be a serial killer. I swear, how do you sleep at night?”

  Carlotta blinked back tears. She refused to let the woman get to her.

  “Ms. Wren, is this lady bothering you?”

  She looked up to see Herb peering at Tracey.

  “It’s you!” Tracey said. “No wonder you took Carlotta’s side at the club. You know each other!”

  “The lady was just leaving,” Carlotta assured Herb, then gave Tracey a pointed look.

  Thankfully from her jacket pocket Carlotta’s cell phone rang. Atlanta Police Department scrolled onto the display screen. Carlotta turned her back on Tracey and connected the call, craving the sound of Jack’s voice. “Hello?”

  “Carlotta, this is Maria Marquez.”

  Disappointment shot through her, but she inhaled to steady her voice. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I was told to call and give you the results of your polygraph.”

  Carlotta touched her forehead. “Lay it on me.”

  “The results were D.I.”

  “What does that mean, D.I.?”

  “It means…deception indicated.”

  17

  “Hand me that wrench,” Wesley said from the top of a ladder.

  Chance looked at the toolbox open at his feet and scratched his head. “Which one is that?”

  Wesley rolled his eyes. “The shiny silver thing on top.”

  Chance picked up the tool and handed it to Wesley. “Have you ever put in a security system before?”

  “No, but it’s just a lot of wiring, basic electrical stuff.”

  “Dude, why didn’t you hire it done?”

  “I barely had enough cash to pay for the system. I couldn’t afford to pay someone to install it, too.”

  “What happened to the ten grand you won in the card game the other night?”

  Wesley frowned. “The crazy fuck living in our guest room took it.”

  “Wow, that sucks.” Chance looked around the living room. “Damn, the police made a mess of your place, didn’t they?”

  “Well, it always looks this way, more or less. But yeah, the fingerprint dust doesn’t help.” But the CSI team must’ve been rattled by Einstein because the extra Oxy Wesley had stowed in his python’s aquarium hadn’t been touched.

  Chance nodded to the corner of the room. “What’s up with the scrappy Christmas tree?”

  Wesley glanced down at the sagging, metal fringe tree that kept vigil over the unopened gifts beneath its tarnished branches. He wasn’t about to admit that he’d pitched a fit every time his sister had wanted to take it down over the years. “My mom put up the tree a couple of weeks before she and Dad had to leave. Carlotta won’t take it down until they come home.”

  “So those gifts have been under the tree all this time?”
/>
  “Yep.”

  Chance whistled low. “Dude, your sister is one smokin’ hot babe, but that sounds a little wackadoodle, don’t you think?”

  Wesley frowned. “No. And it’s none of your business.” He tried to focus on the sensor he was trying to install, but the Oxy was messing with his concentration.

  “So for the love of God, when are you going to fix me up with your sister’s friend Hannah?”

  Wesley’s hand slipped and he dropped a bolt. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m just waiting for the right time. Be patient, all right?”

  “So with your lawyer out of town, who’s polishing your knob?”

  “Nobody.” Meg’s face popped into his mind, then detonated. She’d ignored him this morning at the office, while lavishing Ravi and Jeff with smiles and cleavage.

  “Dude, I heard that if men don’t get off at least three times a week, all that come backs up and leads to prostitutionitis. That’s an actual disease.”

  Wesley squinted. “I think you mean prostatitis. And if not getting off makes guys sick, the hospitals would be overflowing with horny losers.”

  “See, there you go again. Man, I wish I was smart like you. My dad would probably like me a lot more.”

  “At least your dad is around.” Wesley wiped his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt. “Hand me the bolt that fell, will you?”

  The theme of The Mickey Mouse Club chimed from his backpack on the floor. He winced inwardly—that would be Mouse calling. They weren’t collecting this afternoon because Mouse had to attend a “staff meeting.” Somehow Wesley doubted The Carver rallied his employees with motivational speeches. More likely, he stood at the end of a boardroom table wielding an ax.

  He ignored Chance’s raised eyebrows and climbed down to retrieve the red phone and connect the call. “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Hey, little man,” Mouse said. “I got some good news for you.”

  “You gonna make me guess?”

  “The boss is real happy with our collections. He said I could start cutting you in.”

  Surprised, Wesley pursed his mouth. “Great, I could use the cash.”

  “Yeah, and this way, you won’t have to keeping skimming off the top.”

  Wes almost swallowed his tongue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look, Wes, you can’t con a con. Don’t worry. I didn’t rat you out. But don’t be trying that shit now that you’re on the payroll, capiche?”

  “Capiche,” Wesley muttered.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Wes disconnected the call, a little shaken. The fathead was more astute than Wes realized. He’d have to be more careful on this undercover gig.

  “Did you get a new phone?” Chance asked, nodding to the red pay-as-you-go model.

  “It’s for my new job,” Wes said.

  “Another job? Dude, you work too hard.”

  From his backpack, Wes’s other phone rang. “Tell me about it,” he said, rummaging for his regular phone. It was Kendall Abrams. Wesley grimaced, but answered.

  “This is Wes.”

  “Wes, it’s me, Kendall. I got a couple of pickups iffen you can go.”

  Wes glanced up at the security system that was little more than naked wires coming out of the wall. The installation was turning into a bigger job than he’d planned and the Oxy was making him antsy…or was it the lack of Oxy? He couldn’t remember.

  Regardless, he could finish installing the system later. “Uh, sure.” He gave Kendall the town house address, then ended the call.

  “That’s it for the day,” Wes said to Chance.

  “Good, I need a nap. Who was that?”

  “My body-moving partner. Guy’s a full-on redneck.”

  “I thought you worked with your boss.”

  “He’s been busy lately,” Wesley muttered.

  Chance walked out with him and climbed into his black BMW. “Let me know when you need a hand finishing up the security system. I’ll bring my tool belt next time.”

  “Sure thing,” Wesley said with a wave. His friend meant well, but he was inept when it came to almost everything. Wesley sat down on the stoop to wait for Kendall and fought a groan when Mrs. Winningham emerged from the house next door, holding her fugly dog, Toofers.

  “Hi, Mrs. Winningham.”

  “Your yard needs to be mowed,” the woman announced.

  “I know. I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

  “There have been a lot of police officers going in and out of your house.”

  “We had a break-in.”

  The woman’s hand fluttered to her chest. “You were robbed?”

  “Yeah. It blows.”

  The woman frowned. “Did the police catch the robber?”

  “Not yet. I’m installing a security system. But in the meantime, my sister and I are staying with friends.”

  His neighbor shuddered. “What is the world coming to? That Charmed Killer is running around murdering women in their own homes.”

  He started to tell the woman that, because of her age, she was safe. But frankly, the serial killer hadn’t shown any kind of pattern in the selection of his victims other than the fact that they were all female. “Do you have a gun for protection?”

  The woman blanched. “I have my dead husband’s revolver in a trunk, but I’d never use it.”

  “Just keep your doors locked, Mrs. Winningham. Toofers will protect you.”

  Her expression softened. “Yes, he will.” The woman went back inside, nuzzling her teacup pet.

  He shook his head and when he looked back to the street, the black SUV with tinted windows was rolling by. He sprang to his feet and ran to the edge of the curb to get a look at the license plate. But the plate was obscured by mud…on an otherwise pristine vehicle. It disappeared around a corner, and Wesley cursed under his breath. What the hell was going on?

  A horn blared, nearly sending him out of his skin. He turned to see the morgue van and Kendall behind the wheel waving like a goober. Wesley jogged around the front and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Scare you, man?” Kendall said with a laugh.

  “Just drive,” Wesley said, picking up a clipboard from the dash. “What’s on the schedule?”

  “A residential call—a woman suffocated.”

  He swung his head around. “The Charmed Killer again?”

  “Nah. The M.E. says she was drunk and accidentally suffocated. After that, we have to go by a nursing home to pick up some old lady.” Kendall made a face. “That could be nasty.”

  “Not usually,” Wesley said. “With the older ones, it’s like they’re ready to go, you know? It’s more quiet.”

  Kendall gave a little laugh. “What are you, some kind of poet?”

  Wesley frowned. “Forget it.” He glanced at the side mirror to see if the black SUV was following them, but he didn’t see it.

  The residential pickup was unexpectedly rough. Wanda Alderman’s teenage son had found her facedown on the couch when he’d come home from school, an empty bottle of gin on the floor next to her. It looked as if she’d simply passed out and accidentally suffocated in the pile of pillows—adult SIDS.

  Seeing the face of the distraught boy flanked by some distant relative triggered flashbacks for Wesley. Fractured images of his mom “sleeping” on the chaise by the pool or on the settee in the den, always with an empty highball glass curled against her chest. He wondered briefly if his mother still drank…if she ever thought about him…if she was still alive.

  Medical Examiner Pennyman, a guy Wes recognized from previous scenes, nodded a greeting. The man shepherded the family into another room so the body could be removed in privacy, then returned. “She’s in full rigor—are you guys okay?”

  “We got it,” Wesley assured him. After the M.E. left, Wes directed Kendall every step of the way—the guy was eager enough, just clumsy as hell.

  “Easy, man,” Wesley said when the guy dropped his end of the body—for
the second time.

  “Sorry,” Kendall said. “This is totally different than moving a dead deer.”

  “You a hunter?”

  “No. I worked for the Department of Transportation, removing dead animals from the highway.”

  Wesley pursed his mouth, half-impressed, half-disgusted. “What’s the weirdest animal you ever had to scoop up?”

  “Armadillo.”

  “There are armadillos in Georgia?”

  “Freaky, huh?” Kendall grunted as they lifted the victim to the gurney. “She’s all stiff. Will they have to break her arms to get her in a casket?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Wesley said, carefully zipping the body bag. “The rigor will go away.”

  “Are you in med school?”

  Wesley smiled at that. “No.” He pulled the gurney straps securely over the bag.

  “You seem to know a lot about this stuff.”

  “Coop is a good teacher.”

  “I don’t think he likes me,” Kendall said.

  “Coop likes everyone.”

  “My uncle said Coop’s a drunk.”

  Wes bit down on the inside of his cheek and pushed the gurney toward the door. “He’s a recovering alcoholic. Big difference.”

  “All I know is somebody at the top pulled strings to get him back in the morgue lab, and not everybody’s happy about it.”

  “With The Charmed Killer case ongoing, I’d think that Dr. Abrams would be glad to have an extra pair of hands.”

  “That’s the point. He can’t afford any screwups on his watch. His words, not mine.”

  Wes bit his tongue to keep from saying something that might get back to Dr. Abrams. He was quiet as they loaded the body and drove to the morgue. His mind jumped around, but he couldn’t forget the face of the victim’s son. What a stupid way for the woman to die…What a cruel last memory to leave with one’s child. Addicts were selfishly blind to the hurt they caused loved ones.