5 Bodies to Die For

by Stephanie Bond

  “Fugitive Michael Lane,” the anchor said solemnly, “is the most wanted man in the state of Georgia. Aside from his involvement in the deaths of two women in an identity-theft ring, Lane is reportedly the number-one suspect in The Charmed Killer case. The public is advised that Lane could be armed and is considered extremely dangerous. If you see him, do not approach him. Repeat—do not approach him. Call 911 immediately.”

  Fear washed over her as the extent of what Michael might have done began to sink in. Five more lives lost…that they knew of. What if Peter was right? What if Michael was killing these women out of some perverted game he was playing with Carlotta?

  The lights around the pool kicked on, sending alarm stabbing through her. Then she realized they were on the timer Peter had told her about. Still, she was suddenly aware of how open the house was, especially on the side that faced the pool. She hurried to close the blinds, then switched the TV channel to a sitcom.

  The scent of salmon caught the attention of the cat, who made a pest of herself underfoot as Carlotta stood at the stove cooking the fillets in a pan, one seasoned for her, one unseasoned for the cat. She pulled ingredients for a small salad from the refrigerator, but acknowledged that she didn’t have much of an appetite when she sat down at the table…alone.

  It was just her and the cat, who seemed more pleased with the cooked salmon than with the plate of cat food that sat uneaten on the floor. The feline gobbled it down, then jumped up on the table.

  “Get down,” Carlotta admonished.

  But the cat ignored her, seemingly fascinated by the lidded Oriental-design vase that sat in the center of the table. While Carlotta ate, she idly wondered what Peter had done with the much-hated designer silk flower arrangement that had once sat here, the one that seemed to represent everything that was wrong with his and Angela’s relationship. Maybe he’d put it on Angela’s grave, she mused. Or maybe he’d simply tossed it, along with the bad memories. Regardless, she was in agreement that the tasteful vase was a better choice for a centerpiece.

  The cat purred and rubbed itself against the raised surface of the vase until Carlotta waved her hand and shooed the animal off the table. The cat swiped at her and even though she missed, Carlotta snapped.

  “That’s it,” she said, pushing to her feet. She carried her empty plate to the dishwasher. “I’m making up flyers tonight to find your owner, the sooner the better. That’s assuming someone wants you back, you hateful beast.”

  The cat came to stand at her feet, meowing at her as if in rebuttal. Carlotta squinted at the animal, again struck by the sense that she was trying to communicate her mutual dislike of her. Then suddenly the cat started hacking, its mouth jerking open in spasms.

  Carlotta’s eyes widened—maybe she’d poisoned her. Weren’t cats supposed to eat fish? Maybe not that much. She watched in horror as the cat looked to be lapsing into some kind of seizure. “Omigod, omigod, omigod.”

  Then with a wrenching heave, the cat expelled something from its throat and walked away as if nothing had happened, its tail held high.

  Carlotta looked down to see a wet, blond hairball on the toe of her favorite Mui Mui cream-colored slides.

  She grimaced in disgust. Minus twenty.

  19

  Carlotta typed as she spoke aloud. “Found…one ill-tempered female Persian cat, blond hair, green eyes.”

  She turned to glare at the cat who had curled up on top of a pair of Peter’s house shoes, looking deliriously content.

  “Maybe I should offer a reward, just to make sure someone claims you,” Carlotta said.

  The Persian gave her a slow blink and looked away as if to stay, “Please stop talking.”

  Carlotta frowned and looked back to the computer screen. It had taken a while to figure it out, but she’d managed to download the picture of the cat she’d taken with her phone into a word-processing document. To the tart description she added her cell-phone number as the contact, then printed twenty-five flyers.

  While the machine churned out pages, she sat back and glanced around the home office. It was another beautifully furnished room, this time equipped with a state-of-the-art computer and accessories. It was a luxury to have access to a computer again. When Wesley had been arrested for hacking, all of his equipment had been confiscated. Under the conditions of his probation, they weren’t permitted to have a computer in the house. She’d resorted to going to the public library to look up things when she needed to.

  It was on a research trip at the library that she’d discovered that the first presumed victim, Shawna Whitt, had posted info to the Charmers Web site community, a site established for the fans of the charm bracelets promoted by Olympian Eva McCoy. Charmers could post first-person accounts about their experiences with their own charm bracelets and whatever bits about their lives they wanted to share. It was possible that Shawna Whitt had shared too much, posting that she lived alone and had joined an online-dating service.

  Carlotta had given the contents of the postings to Jack and Maria, but she hadn’t heard any more about it. Both detectives had been skeptical, simply because at the time, they weren’t convinced that Shawna Whitt had been murdered. It was true that the autopsy results had indicated death by natural causes, but that had been before the next victim had been found with a charm in her mouth. By that time, Shawna Whitt’s body had been cremated, rendering a more in-depth autopsy impossible.

  Carlotta had been confident that Jack would follow up on the Web site connection, but he’d been taken off the case. And how much credence would the GBI agents give to clues that she’d found when they considered her father to be a suspect, and her to be a liar?

  But sitting in front of the hi-res, flat-screen computer monitor, it occurred to her that she could do a lot of investigating in the privacy of her own home.

  Er, make that Peter’s home. And he probably wouldn’t be too thrilled to know she was using his computer to delve deeper into The Charmed Killer case. But considering that she, as Agent Wick had pointed out, had a direct or indirect connection with most of the victims, didn’t she owe it to them to try to figure out if she was simply in the wrong place at the right time, or if the killer was trying to communicate with her? If it was Michael, maybe she could figure out what he wanted, or what his next move might be.

  And if it was her father—

  Carlotta stopped and blinked back sudden tears. How could she even think such a thing?

  Because he abandoned you, and took your mother…

  Because he chose himself over his family…

  Because he threw you to the sharks to fend for yourself…

  Maria had described the perfect psychopath as a narcissist to the nth degree, a person who discarded those who didn’t suit him and would destroy anyone who stood between him and what he wanted.

  A narcissist to the nth degree…that was Randolph Wren.

  A coldness seeped over her. She’d been trying to make up for her father’s sins her entire life. If Randolph was responsible for these horrible acts, if he was The Charmed Killer, then it was up to her to reveal him for the murderer he was.

  She found a notebook and began to write down all the details she could remember about each victim, every conversation she’d had with Jack, Maria, Coop, the agents. Then she pulled up a search engine.

  Since she’d tracked down Shawna Whitt through the Charmers Web site community, it seemed like the obvious place to start looking for the names of other victims.

  Except the Web site had been suspended…no doubt because of the publicity surrounding The Charmed Killer case and the rumors circulating that he was picking his victims based on the fact that they were wearing charm bracelets.

  She sighed in frustration at the quick dead end. But she rolled up her sleeves and tried again…and again…and again. There were thousands of repetitive entries about the killing spree, most of them regional, but not all. She waded through entry after entry, noting any new detail she could find, but it was a tedious
, imprecise process.

  The theories concerning the charms themselves ranged from reasonable to ridiculous—that the killer was a jeweler, that he was dismantling the charm bracelet of a woman he’d lost, that he was a frustrated cross-dresser. Jack had mentioned at one point that charms could be clues to the killer’s identity, or to his motive.

  She made a list of the charms that had been recovered: a chicken/bird, a cigar, a car, a gun, and most recently, a pair of handcuffs.

  Only one matched the M.O. of the murder—the gun found in the mouth of A.D.A. Cheryl Meriwether, who had been shot. To her knowledge, Randolph hadn’t owned a gun. But the unidentified couple who had robbed the hotel in Florida where her father’s fingerprints had been found had used a gun.

  The bird charm had already been linked to her father by virtue of his nickname, The Bird. As far as the cigar charm, Randolph had certainly enjoyed his stogies. The car was pretty generic and could apply to almost anyone. And the handcuffs…well, the image of her father being led away in handcuffs was branded on her brain. It had been a widely publicized photo in the AJC.

  While the charms could loosely fit her father, they skewed masculine in general. And it was highly possible that the charms meant nothing whatsoever.

  The cat suddenly jumped up and shot out the door. Carlotta froze, then realized the distant sound of a door closing, then opening, meant that Peter was home. She glanced at her watch, shocked that the entire evening had disappeared.

  “Carly?” he called. “Where are you?”

  “I’m coming.” She hurriedly shut down the computer and closed the notebook, then put the flyers on top and stood up just as he appeared in the doorway. The cat rubbed against his legs, energized.

  Peter smiled. “Using the computer?”

  She patted the papers she held. “I made flyers for our runaway.”

  He leaned in and dropped a kiss on her mouth. “Where’s Hannah?”

  “Uh…she had other plans.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been alone all evening.”

  “Oh, no, it was fine, really. Other than the hair ball.”

  “Hair ball?”

  She gave a dismissive wave. “Never mind. Did you get everything done at the office?”

  Peter’s expression changed and he nodded toward the great room. “Carly, can we talk?”

  Her stomach clenched. “Sure…what’s going on?”

  He clasped her hand and led her into the den, then pulled her down to sit next to him on the couch.

  “Does this have something to do with my father?”

  “As a matter of fact, it does. When the GBI agent interviewed me yesterday about Randolph, something stuck in my mind.”

  “What?”

  “When we were dating, your father took me to work with him one day. Do you remember that?”

  She squinted. “Vaguely.”

  “It was my senior year. He knew I wanted to be a broker, and he was nice enough to give me a glimpse of what it was like.”

  “Okay. Where is this going?”

  Peter pressed his lips together. “When I was in his office, a woman came in who delivered mail for several companies in the building. I remember her because she was really pretty and she had a great figure…”

  “And?”

  “And she seemed…familiar with your father.”

  “In what way?”

  He looked uncomfortable.

  “Oh.” She flushed with shame.

  “Anyway, the circumstances were awkward enough that I remembered her first name. I stayed late tonight to go back through old security records to confirm my suspicions. Her name was Alicia. Alicia Sills.”

  Her burning cheeks cooled as the blood drained from her face. Alicia Sills—The Charmed Killer’s second victim. And apparently, one of her father’s old flings.

  20

  “You’re awful quiet, little man.”

  Wesley winced against the pain pulsating between his ears. “Headache.”

  Mouse gave a little laugh. “Why don’t you just pop one of those little pills of yours?”

  “Why don’t you be quiet for two minutes?” Wesley barked. Then he exhaled and held up his hand. “Sorry, man. That was out of line.”

  “I don’t mind the attitude when it brings in the kind of cash you collected today.”

  Wesley turned to look out the window. Today was the first day he’d hit something with the baseball bat other than appliances. It had felt good at the time to work out some of the frustration that had him on edge. Meg had barely spoken to him this morning, but she’d smirked at his shaking hand when he’d handed her a highlighter. He gritted his teeth. She was so self-righteous. He wanted so bad to prove her wrong, that he could kick the Oxy anytime. His body screamed for a hit right now, but he was trying to resist…and the baseball bat was helping.

  “It’s gotta be a woman,” Mouse said.

  Wesley started to protest, then caught sight of the black SUV in his side mirror. “Do me a favor, man. Pull over to the curb before you get to the light.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Just do it.”

  Mouse did what he asked. Wesley waited until the black SUV passed, then tried to get a look at the license plate. It was covered with mud. Which meant that this was the same fucker who’d been tailing him for weeks.

  “Cover me,” Wes said. Then he pulled the baseball bat out of the backseat and jumped out of the passenger-side door. Adrenaline pumped through him as he strode up to the SUV, now stopped at a red light. He swung fast and hard, bashing in the driver’s side window. Glass showered him, but the driver got the worst of it.

  The stocky man on the inside was holding his hands over his head. “What the fuck, man?”

  Wesley pushed the bat against the man’s throat. “What the fuck is right. What the fuck are you doing following me?”

  “Whoa, whoa. No harm, no foul.”

  Wesley swung the bat again and bashed in the windshield.

  “Hey! Not my windshield!” the man yelled.

  “Start talking, dude.”

  Horns were starting to sound from cars backed up behind the SUV.

  “We’ve met before,” the man said. “I’m a private investigator—Gregory Young. I worked on the Kiki Deerling case.”

  “That case is over. Why are you following me?”

  “Someone hired me to…watch you.”

  Wesley frowned. “Who?”

  The man’s mouth turned down.

  Wesley swung again and took out the rest of the windshield.

  “Okay, okay! Jesus. The guy’s name is Harold Vincent.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “That’s all I know. Dude’s a doctor. He asked me to find out where you go, what you do, who you hang out with.”

  Vincent…Meg’s last name was Vincent…and her father was a doctor.

  “You must’ve done something to piss the guy off,” Young offered.

  His mind raced. Why would Meg’s dad have him followed? Unless…he thought his little princess was interested in Wesley?

  Wes didn’t have time to revel in the moment because sirens sounded in the distance. He looked at Young. “You know what kind of people I hang out with, so if you know what’s good for you, you won’t report this—to the police or to Vincent.”

  Young lifted his hands. “You got it.”

  Wesley sprinted back to the Town Car and jumped in. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Mouse didn’t ask questions. He drove the Town Car up on the sidewalk to bypass traffic and made a right down a side street. It was only after they were several blocks away that Mouse said, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” Wesley said. “But I’m going to find out.”

  21

  Carlotta was numb. Oh, she was conscious of the air hitting her face as she steered the Vespa up a hill, but she didn’t feel it. Because if she felt the really good sensations so acutely, she’d have to feel the really bad sensations
just as acutely. And she didn’t want to go there.

  She was still reeling over the fact that her father had not only known Alicia Sills, but he’d probably had a fling with her, if Peter’s long-term memory could be trusted. And she certainly trusted a high-school senior boy to sense when sex was in the air.

  Peter had said it was her decision whether or not he reported what he remembered to the GBI. On the one hand, it could be a harmless coincidence. On the other hand…

  It was a good thing she had the day off because she’d gotten next to no sleep. In addition to tossing and turning over yet one more dilemma her father had managed to implicate her in, the cat who hated her also insisted on sleeping with her.

  On her head, on her stomach, on her feet.

  She stifled a yawn and stopped the scooter. After lowering the kickstand, she removed the stapler and one of the remaining flyers from the storage compartment. She walked over to a tree next to the sidewalk to attach the Found Cat ad. When she got back to the scooter, her phone was ringing. She checked it to see if it might be someone calling already about the cat, pleasedear God. But instead, it was Jack.

  She closed her eyes briefly, then hit the silence button and restowed the phone. She’d avoided his call last night because she hadn’t been in the mood to be flirted to sleep…Not while she’d debated whether or not to rat out her ratty father.

  Within another twenty minutes, she’d posted all but one of the flyers. The last one she’d saved for the community center so she could eat a late lunch at the café inside. She parked her scooter outside the sprawling white building that served as the hub of the neighborhood—an enormous community pool, loads of tennis courts, meeting facilities and a day care. It was busy on a Friday summer day, with the kids out of school and moms getting an early start on the weekend. She felt like an outsider, but the activity made her feel safe. It was a welcome distraction from her own thoughts.