5 Bodies to Die For

by Stephanie Bond

  A sudden headache flowed over his scalp. He needed a hit of Oxy.

  He glanced sideways at Kendall and when the guy was sufficiently distracted by the god-awful country music on the radio, Wesley slipped a tablet into his mouth and chewed. Nirvana seeped through him, erasing all the unpleasant thoughts about his mother and her weakness for alcohol. By the time they reached the morgue, he was feeling happy and magnanimous. His spirits were further lifted by the sight of Coop’s van in the parking lot. After dropping off the body at the crypt, he said to Kendall, “I’ll meet you back at the van in ten minutes.”

  “Cool. I’ll say hello to Uncle Bruce.”

  Wesley walked to the lab and pushed open the door. Coop was in a corner, studying a computer screen.

  The tall man looked up and smiled. “Hey, Wes, what’s shaking?”

  “Uh…just helping Kendall with a couple of pickups.”

  Coop looked back to the monitor. “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s okay, I guess. What are you doing?”

  “Experimenting with a program I found online.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Takes a blurred or faded image and uses an algorithm to try to recreate the original image.”

  “What’s the application?”

  “Still trying to identify our headless John Doe.”

  Wes tried not to react as he walked closer. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I found a spot on his shoulder where the guy used to have a tattoo, but had it lasered off. That’s what I’m trying to recreate. It might be an identifying marker that could be publicized. Stick around for a few minutes if you want and you can see the results.”

  “Has this kind of thing been done before?”

  “Somewhere, I’m sure. We’ve never had the tools or the time to follow up on stuff like this.”

  Wes tried to sound nonchalant. “Why are you so keen on identifying this guy?”

  Coop turned his head toward Wes. “Because even if he was the biggest lowlife on earth, somewhere, someone who cared about him is worried sick—his mother, a sister, a son. They deserve to know the truth.”

  Wesley nodded, then stopped when the scent of alcohol hit him. He looked at Coop and realized that the man’s eyes were a little glassy. “Have you been drinking?”

  Coop frowned and straightened. “What business is it of yours?”

  Wes lifted his hands. “I’m just saying you could get into a lot of trouble—”

  “How about you keep your mouth shut, and I don’t tell anyone that you’re high right now?”

  Wesley blinked. “Me, high?”

  “As a Chinese box kite.”

  They stared at each other and tension whipped through the air. Wesley wanted to come clean to Coop, but he didn’t want to concede to another mistake. Besides, he and Coop were going through the same thing. The Oxy, like the booze for Coop, was just a small indulgence to help ease him over a rough spot. A temporary prop. A helping hand.

  The phone in the lab rang and Coop strode away to answer it. Wesley looked to the computer screen where each pixel of the image was being filled in. A picture began to emerge. Wesley squinted. It looked like some kind of ornate cross with extra graphics out to the sides…angel wings maybe?

  A message popped up on the screen to indicate that the process was complete and asked, “Do you want to print the image?”

  He looked over his shoulder to see that Coop was still on the phone and flipping through records in a file cabinet. Wes turned back and hit Y on the keyboard. A few seconds later, a nearby laser printer hummed to life and churned out a piece of paper with the design printed on it. Wesley removed the paper, folded it and slipped it under his shirt.

  Across the room, Coop dropped the receiver back to its cradle. “Did the program finish?”

  “I think so,” Wes said, then gestured to the door. “But I gotta go, man.”

  “Okay. You take care of yourself,” Coop said, giving him a meaningful look.

  Wes dipped his chin. “You, too.”

  He walked out of the lab and exhaled. When it came to puzzles, Coop was like a hound with a scent. He’d keep digging until he found out who the guy was and dig even deeper to find out what had happened to him. But if Wes could identify the man first and call in an anonymous tip to the police along with some story about how the guy had died, it might be enough to convince the police and the M.E. to drop the case…Or at least, it could send them on a wild-goose chase that would drain their enthusiasm.

  Under his T-shirt the piece of paper crackled, and on the way to the parking lot, an idea came to him. Wes pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.

  “What do you want, shithead?” Hannah asked on the second ring. “Are you in trouble again?”

  “No,” Wes assured her. “Nothing like that. I was calling to see if you were ready to have that tattoo on your back finished. My buddy Chance is still willing to pick up the tab.”

  “I told you I’d think about it.”

  “Come on. My man is loaded and he wants to spend money on you. What’s to think about?”

  Hannah sighed. “Does doughboy still want to watch?”

  “Yeah. Is it okay if I come along, too?”

  “On one condition,” Hannah said finally. “If you tell Carlotta, I’ll tattoo your balls, got it?”

  Wes smiled into the phone. “My lips are sealed.”

  18

  Deception indicated.

  It meant, Detective Marquez had explained, that Carlotta couldn’t be cleared of involvement in The Charmed Killer case unless she wanted to retake the polygraph. If she elected not to retake the test, she would be under heightened scrutiny, even surveillance. Which, after Carlotta thought about it, wasn’t such a bad thing. She knew she was innocent. And if Michael Lane decided to come after her, she wanted as many eyes on her as possible.

  A horn sounded, jarring Carlotta back to the present. She goosed the gas on the scooter and zoomed ahead.

  Still…Detective Marquez could’ve at least told her which questions she’d failed.

  Never mind. She’d get it out of Jack…assuming he could get it out of Marquez.

  That made her frown.

  But if Jack had been spending most of his nights at the police precinct, he hadn’t been spending them with Maria.

  That made her smile.

  She spotted a grocery ahead and put on her blinker. Thirty minutes later her storage compartment was full of cat food, in case they couldn’t find the feline’s owner right away. On a whim, she’d also picked up a couple of salmon fillets, thinking she’d prepare dinner for Peter.

  Deception indicated.

  When she pulled up to the Martinique Estates security gate a few minutes later, she had a brain blip and couldn’t recall Peter’s access code. The harder she thought about it, the more clearly she saw Tracey Lowenstein’s face telling her that she was an embarrassment to Peter.

  “I got it, miss,” the guard called from the shack. “I recognize the scooter. Not many of those in this neighborhood.”

  She lifted her hand in a wave, but her face burned. Obviously, no other full-grown women in this neighborhood rode around on a pink scooter.

  As she wheeled toward Peter’s house, she glanced at the expansive homes on either side of the street and wondered if people were looking out their windows, watching her, laughing at her…laughing at Peter.

  A few minutes later, she pulled in to Peter’s garage, disappointed that he wasn’t home yet, and a little nervous about going into the house alone. The garage door hummed down as she lowered the Vespa kickstand. She loosened the chin strap on the helmet and climbed off the scooter, then stood back to look at it objectively.

  Maybe it was a little…youthful. And the color a little…frivolous.

  But God help her, she loved it.

  Carlotta gave the gas tank a little pat, then removed the bag of groceries and walked to the door leading into the mudroom.

  The cat had obv
iously heard her arrive and was meowing frantically. Carlotta opened the door and the Persian was instantly underfoot, making angry noises that sounded almost human.

  Carlotta turned off the security alarm, then shook her finger at the cranky cat. “You’d better be good to me, I brought you food.” She grimaced at the contents of the cardboard box, but took it as a further sign that the cat was house-trained.

  The Persian followed her into the main part of the house, the combination keeping room/kitchen/casual dining area. Carlotta was conscious of the echo of her footsteps as she walked into the spacious kitchen. The electrical whine of the commercial-grade appliances vibrated in the air. Everything felt very sterile, especially when she thought of her and Wesley’s cluttered, homey kitchen.

  She smiled as she stored the groceries. Was it possible she was a little bit homesick? Carlotta closed the refrigerator door and leaned into the counter, glancing around at the cavernous space. She could see how being alone in a house like this would be achingly lonely for Peter. And how Angela would have resented Peter working late or going to business dinners.

  She glanced over to see that the cat had either climbed or jumped onto the lowest bookshelf and was sniffing around the items placed there.

  “Get down,” Carlotta said, hurrying toward it. The last thing she needed was for the cat to break something of Peter’s. The Persian ignored her, rubbing her face on the corners of the framed black-and-white photo of Angela. The animal purred like a little engine, obviously happy to have an itch scratched.

  “You can’t be climbing on things,” Carlotta said, reaching for her.

  The cat’s ears slid back and it hissed at her.

  She retreated, hands up. “Okay.” Trying another tactic, she backtracked to the kitchen and noisily opened a can of the expensive cat food, emptied it onto a saucer and set it on the floor.

  The ploy worked. The cat jumped down and ran to the saucer. But instead of diving in, she sniffed the food, sat on her haunches and looked up at her. Meow.

  The cat sounded…disappointed. Carlotta frowned. “Okay, so it’s not sardines. But it’s what you’re supposed to eat.”

  Its whiskers twitched.

  “Or not,” Carlotta said, throwing up her hands. “It’s up to you, Miss Priss.”

  Her cell phone rang and she reached for her purse. A glance at the caller-ID screen revealed that Peter was calling. She smiled and connected the phone. “Hi.”

  “Hi, yourself. Are you home?”

  Home. “Uh…yeah. I’m feeding the cat. And I bought us salmon fillets for dinner.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but I’m afraid I’m going to be working late.”

  Carlotta frowned. Something in Peter’s tone sounded…off. Was the GBI there again, asking about Randolph? Had her failed polygraph triggered another round of questioning? “I can wait for you,” she offered.

  “No, go ahead and eat,” he said, his enthusiasm sounding forced. “But I don’t like the idea of you being there alone. I thought maybe you could call your friend Hannah to come over.”

  “Do you trust her to be in your house?”

  “Where’s that coming from?”

  She sighed. “Sorry, I’m not mad at you. Tracey Lowenstein came to see me today at work. She had Hannah fired from the catering company that services the country club.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Carly. Tracey is…well, we both know what she is. It’s not fair that your friend lost her job, but even if Hannah had stayed on, Tracey and her cronies would have made things difficult for her. She’s better off finding another gig.”

  “I suppose,” Carlotta muttered. “I think I will call Hannah and see if she’d like to come over for a swim.”

  “Good idea. There are extra swimsuits in the guest-house. Help yourself. Hannah can have my salmon. It might be late when I get home, so keep the alarm on.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. How did the polygraph go?”

  “Fine,” she lied…again.

  “Good. See you later.”

  She disconnected the call and looked down to see the cat staring up at her with…recrimination?

  Deception indicated.

  “Oh, go lick yourself,” she said to the beast, then dialed Hannah’s number. She was relieved when her friend answered.

  “Hey.”

  “I’m sorry that witch Tracey Lowenstein got you fired,” she said without preamble.

  “How did you know?”

  “She came in to the store to tell me. And to let me know that I’m not welcome back at the club.”

  Hannah snorted. “Can she bar you from the club?”

  “If she wants to.”

  “Just because you and I are friends and she thinks I’m a thief.”

  “That’s not the only reason. This goes way back and much deeper than anything you did or didn’t do.”

  “Didn’t,” Hannah said.

  Carlotta closed her eyes briefly. “I know you didn’t steal those purses.”

  “Plural?”

  “Apparently another purse was stolen last night besides Bebe Plank’s.”

  “Damn. Someone’s got a good gig going.”

  “And when another purse is stolen, they’ll know it wasn’t you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hannah said, but her voice sounded strained. “There are lots of other catering companies to work for.”

  “Why don’t you come over,” Carlotta asked.

  “To Peter’s?”

  “Yeah. He’s working late, and we’d have the pool to ourselves. I’ll make dinner.” She waited a beat. “Or not, whichever sounds more appealing.”

  There was silence on the other end for a moment. “I don’t think so,” Hannah said finally.

  Carlotta could’ve played the “I don’t want to be alone” card and her friend probably would’ve given in, but she understood how Hannah must be feeling. Right now, she hated Tracey Lowenstein and all the woman stood for. If she were Hannah, the thought of coming to Peter’s mansion would probably feel as if she were fraternizing with the enemy. “Maybe some other time?”

  “Sure,” Hannah said. “I gotta go.”

  Carlotta said goodbye and disconnected the call, nursing a pang of guilt. If it hadn’t been for Carlotta, Tracey probably wouldn’t have pursued Hannah so vigorously. She liked to think that people like Tracey would get theirs in the end, but she knew that wasn’t always the case. Some people just steamrolled through life getting what they wanted, and everyone else be damned.

  Carlotta sighed at the cat. “Looks like it’s you and me, kitty.”

  The cat, utterly disinterested in the cat food and in her, began exploring the room. Carlotta turned to the sliding glass door and looked out to the aquamarine pool, but conceded that swimming alone didn’t hold much appeal. She’d only be thinking about Angela the entire time. Besides, it read like the beginning of every horror movie she’d ever seen—the heroine knows a madman is on the loose, but decides to go skinny-dipping anyway.

  No, thanks.

  She unwrapped the coral-colored salmon fillets and bit her lip. Wesley made salmon all the time. Maybe she should’ve paid attention a time or two. She picked up her cell phone and dialed his number.

  “Hey, sis.”

  She frowned. His voice sounded a little slurred. “Are you busy?”

  “On a body run to the nursing home.”

  “With Coop?” she asked hopefully.

  “Uh, no, with Kendall. I saw Coop earlier, though, at the morgue lab.”

  “How did he seem to you?”

  “Fine. He’s busy working on cold cases.”

  “So he’s not involved in The Charmed Killer investigation?”

  Wesley cleared his throat, then lowered his voice. “I get the feeling he’s being kept away from high-profile cases.”

  “Oh. Abrams’s nephew is listening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you okay? You sound like you’ve been drinking.”


  “No…I’m just tired,” he said, but she could tell he was speaking with more deliberation. “Where are you?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  He laughed—too hard. “Good one. Seriously, where are you?”

  “I’m in Peter’s kitchen.”

  “Just to be sure…do you see a big metal box with fire coming out of it?”

  “Very funny. I called for advice on how to prepare salmon fillets.”

  “Ah, that’s easy. Season with a little lemon juice, salt and pepper, and sprinkle a little brown sugar on top. Add some oil to the pan and cook it on medium heat. You can’t mess it up.” He made a rueful noise. “I take that back—don’t undercook it.”

  “Sounds doable,” she said, then wet her lips. “How’s everything else?”

  “I started installing the security system in the town house.”

  “Where did you get the money?”

  “From my job.”

  “So your courier job must be going pretty well.”

  “Yeah. Listen, we just pulled up to the nursing home. Don’t burn the house down.”

  She gave a little laugh, then disconnected the call. Uneasiness curled in her stomach. Wesley didn’t sound right. Could he be high? She thought back to the pill she’d found in his bathroom floor—generic Oxy Contin. He’d told her that he’d taken only a few of the pain pills after that animal The Carver had used him as a whittling stick. Those and the two Percocet-tablet refills that he’d taken from her purse.

  But what if he’d lied?

  She chewed on her thumbnail until she remembered his probation meetings. The guidelines required him to stay drug free, and he had to supply urine samples on demand. She’d met Wesley’s probation officer—Eldora Jones seemed like the type to make him toe the line.

  She relaxed and turned on the flat-screen television mounted under the kitchen cabinets to listen to as she prepared dinner. No surprise, the local news was all about The Charmed Killer and his latest victim. But there were no official comments from the APD or the GBI, only a lot of conjecture and unsubstantiated rumors. Michael Lane’s photograph flashed onto the screen.

  Carlotta’s heart squeezed. Michael was a handsome guy, with charm to spare and a big personality. How had things gotten so twisted in his mind?