Her heart lodged in her throat as images of Wesley’s mangled body ran through her mind. He’d finally gotten himself killed on that damn motorcycle of his. She stabbed the Incoming Call button, missed, and tried again. “Hello?”
“Hi, sis,” Wesley said, his voice tentative—like at age ten when he had put sugar in their neighbor’s gas tank “just to see if it really would freeze up the engine.”
It had.
Her initial flood of relief that he was alive was immediately overridden with a different kind of anxiety. “What’s wrong?”
“Why do you assume something’s wrong?”
She glanced up to find Angela listening intently. Carlotta turned her back and walked a few steps to be—she hoped—out of earshot. “Because, Wesley, the police department came up on the caller ID.”
“Oh.”
“So…what happened?”
“Okay, don’t freak out, but I kind of got arrested.”
Carlotta felt faint. “What? You kind of got arrested, or you did get arrested?”
She could picture him on the other end of the line, stabbing at his glasses and weighing his answer. “I did get arrested.”
She closed her eyes and mouthed a curse.
“I heard that.”
Okay, minus ten points for swearing at her kid brother. She counted to three, then exhaled. “What were you arrested for?”
“Well, it’s kind of complicated. Maybe you’d better come down here.”
“Where is ‘here’?”
“The jail at City Hall East.”
Christ, what did it say for her that she knew exactly where the jail was? She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a migraine coming on. “What am I supposed to do once I get there?”
“Uh…ask for inmate Wren?”
She clenched her jaw and disconnected the call, then gave Angela a flat smile. “I have to go. Someone else will be happy to ring up your purchases.”
Angela’s face reddened. “But I don’t want someone else—I want you.”
“Don’t worry, Angela. I’m sure you’ll still get a gold star for your little good deed.” She swept by the woman, and when she passed Michael on the escalator, told him that she had an emergency and would return later if she could and would he take care of you-know-who?
Breaking into a jog, Carlotta retrieved her purse from her locker in the employee break room, fighting tears of frustration. What had Wesley gotten himself into now? Her feet moved automatically, carrying her to her car, which was a good thing because she couldn’t consciously remember where she’d parked.
As she careened out of the mall parking lot, she imagined Wesley’s mangled body again—only this time it was by her own hands.
2
C arlotta took a deep breath and made herself say the words. “I’m here to see i-inmate Wren.”
The uniformed woman behind the Plexiglas rolled her eyes upward to glance over her bifocals. “Spell the name, please.”
Carlotta did, glancing around the crowded waiting room nervously, hoping she didn’t run into anyone she knew—or anyone who knew her. The place held bad memories; she’d been arrested once a couple of years ago for taking a tire iron to one of Wesley’s bookies, but the charges had been dropped. And just before Christmas last year she’d been hauled in for questioning in a murder case. It turned out to be a big fat misunderstanding, but the experience had scared her straight. No more lying…no more pretending.
She frowned down at her outfit. One thing was certain—even in her last-season Diane von Furstenberg sun-dress and midi-jacket, she was a tad overdressed for the occasion.
The woman wrote down Wesley’s name. “And you are?”
Carlotta lowered her mouth to the little hole in the Plexiglas and whispered, “I’m his sister, Carlotta Wren. And there must be some mistake. My brother would never break the law. At least not a big law.”
The woman appeared to be unmoved. “Yeah. Have a seat and someone will be with you.”
Carlotta cut a glance to the waiting room and noted the sagging bodies, the yawns, the general restlessness of people who had been waiting for hours. She looked back and flashed an ingratiating smile at the woman. “Look—” She peeked at the woman’s name tag, then frowned. “Your parents named you Brooklyn?”
The woman smirked. “Everyone calls me Brook.”
“Okay…Brook, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I had to take a break from my job at Neiman Marcus to come down here, and I really need to get back ASAP.”
The woman blinked slowly. “I need a million dollars and a good man. Have a seat, Ms. Wren.”
Carlotta sighed—there went her overtime pay this week. As she turned toward the teeming waiting room, she made eye contact with a tall, striking man wearing a badge around his neck, pouring coffee from a corroded glass pot. A frown furrowed his brow.
“Did you say your name was Wren?” he drawled, hinting at his roots. South Georgia, she guessed, or maybe an Alabama boy. He was block-shouldered with black hair, a strong nose, fortyish, with bloodshot eyes, bad taste in ties and an apparent aversion to ironing. His haircut was rather good, she conceded, in her split-second scrutiny, reminiscent of George Clooney in his E.R. days. But this guy didn’t seem to have much of a bedside manner.
“Yes,” she said warily. “I’m Carlotta Wren.”
He drank from the cup, then winced. “I’m Detective Jack Terry. I brought your brother in,” he said and blew on the top of his coffee.
His nonchalance was beyond irritating. “May I ask why?”
He was still blowing. “I’ll let him tell you. Hey, are you two any relation to Randolph Wren?”
She clenched her jaw. “He’s our father. What does that have to do with this?”
“Nothing that I know of,” he admitted, then took a slurpy drink. “I just wondered.”
“When can I talk to my brother?”
“How about now?” He nodded at the woman behind the Plexiglas. “Brook, I’ll take care of Ms. Wren.”
Brook shook her finger. “Behave, Jack.”
He grinned and Carlotta frowned. Judging from the woman’s comment, some women apparently found his good-old-boy charm appealing. There was just no accounting for taste.
He waved his badge in front of a card reader, then opened a door that led to a noisy bullpen of cubicles. As he held the door for her, she stepped inside and was immediately engulfed by the clatter of conversation, the whir of machines and the drone of announcements over a public-address system.
Carlotta followed the detective through the obstacle course of overflowing desks, jutting legs and fast-moving bodies to an eight-foot-by-eight-foot cubicle marked with a nameplate that read, Det. J. Terry, Major Crimes.
Major crimes? Dread mushroomed in her stomach. This sounded serious.
Stacks of files and papers occupied every square inch of surface in the man’s cubicle. His trash can was spilling over. A bag from the Varsity, Atlanta’s famous fast-food joint on North Avenue, sat in a dusty corner on the floor, emitting iffy odors. The detective rummaged next to his computer, mumbling under his breath, until he found the phone, then yanked up the receiver, punched a button and said, “Janower, it’s Terry. Bring the skinny computer jock to interview room two, will you?” He hung up the phone and gave Carlotta a flat smile. “It’ll be a few minutes, if you want to have a seat. Here, let me clear a spot.”
He leaned over and dumped the stack of files sitting in his visitor’s chair on the floor, but at the sight of the dark stain on the dingy yellow upholstery, Carlotta swallowed. “Thanks, I’ll stand.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then he dropped into his own stained chair and took another drink from his coffee cup.
“So does my brother’s arrest have something to do with computers?” Wesley had been tinkering with them since he was ten. He’d begged for his own PC, and later, when Carlotta couldn’t afford to upgrade the machine, he’d rebuilt the old one himself. Over the years, he’d made spending mon
ey by upgrading computers for his friends and their parents, and had even helped some small companies with their software security. He had no less than six computers in his room at any given time, and sat rooted in front of them for the better part of every day, wearing headphones and generally oblivious to the outside world.
Possible scenarios whirled through her mind. Had he stolen computer components? Or could this have something to do with his gambling problem? He was supposed to be on the wagon, but maybe he was running a bookie service or an illegal poker site. She held her breath and steeled herself for the bad news.
The detective worked his mouth from side to side. “Guess it won’t hurt to tell you—it’ll be a matter of public record soon. Your brother was arrested for hacking into the database of the Atlanta city government, specifically, the courthouse.”
Panic blipped in her chest. “How much trouble is he in?”
“A lot,” he said, his voice sober. “We’re talking a felony here. And records tampering and identity theft is high on the department’s priority list. Hackers are vigorously pursued and prosecuted. Accessing the records is bad enough, but we think he might have changed some things while he was in there.”
Carlotta frowned. “Like what?”
“We’re still trying to determine the extent of the tampering.”
She stifled the spike of pride that Wesley was so damn smart—this wasn’t the time to gloat.
“We’re guessing that he might have been planning to sell the information.”
Carlotta’s jaw hardened. If money was involved, that damn Chance Hollander probably had something to do with it. That overgrown brat had been a friend of Wesley’s since they were boys and he’d made a lifestyle out of talking Wesley into doing things that always seemed to result in Wesley getting into trouble and Chance getting a good laugh.
“This isn’t like Wesley,” she murmured, swallowing her rising panic. “He’s mischievous, but he wouldn’t break the law.”
Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Wesley must have been a little fellow when your father, er—”
“Yes, he was.”
“That has to be rough on a kid.”
She nodded and averted her gaze. He had no right prying into their personal lives.
“Who raised your brother?”
“I did.”
He seemed surprised. “What do you do for a living, Ms. Wren?”
“I work for Neiman Marcus.”
He gave her a thorough once-over, his gaze lingering on her legs. The cad. “I hear that’s a nice place.”
She crossed her arms. “When and where was Wesley arrested?”
“This morning, at his residence. I assume it’s your home, actually, since your name is on the mortgage?”
Her heart accelerated. “You were in our home?”
He nodded. “We traced his online activity to the house. I arrested him there and confiscated his equipment.”
She covered her mouth. This couldn’t be happening.
He gave her a little smile. “Don’t worry—we didn’t trash your place. That only happens on TV.”
Carlotta narrowed her eyes. “You think this is funny?”
His smile vanished. “No. Sorry. Does your brother live with you full-time?”
She tingled under his scrutiny and felt her defenses rise. “Yes, it’s his home, too. And for all that Wesley’s been through, I think he’s turned into a pretty decent kid.”
He pursed his mouth. “He might still seem like a kid to you, Ms. Wren, but your brother is an adult in the eyes of the law. And no offense, but he’s making bad choices that are going to mess up his life, just like your father did.”
His words cut her to the quick. For the past ten years, her consuming goal had been to do what was best for Wesley, to teach him right from wrong, especially considering the criminal legacy their father had left behind. It seemed she had failed…miserably.
She blinked back sudden tears. “What do you know about my father?”
The detective’s face went stony. “I know that he made a living bilking people out of their hard-earned money while he lived like a king. And when he got caught, instead of facing his punishment like a man, he skipped bail and abandoned his children, one of whom seems on the verge of following in his footsteps.”
Carlotta’s defenses surged against his attack on her family. “What are you, a one-man judge and jury? You don’t know everything, Mr. Terry.”
“Detective Terry,” he corrected amiably.
“Detective Terry, why aren’t you out arresting real criminals instead of picking on my brother?”
His geniality fled. “Ms. Wren, your brother is a real criminal.”
She wanted to scream a denial, to flail and blame everything on her parents, to rail against the unfairness of it all. She had given up her twenties because her parents had bailed on their responsibility, but had always told herself it was worth it to be the best possible replacement for their parents to her little brother. Had it all been for nothing?
Suddenly she felt so powerless. She sank into the yellow chair, stain and all, and summoned strength. She didn’t have to like Detective Jack Terry, but right now he had the information she needed. “What will happen next?”
“He’ll need an attorney.”
“An attorney,” she repeated in a weak voice. Where would she get the money for an attorney?
He checked his watch. “If his attorney can get here this afternoon, he’ll probably have a bail hearing today.”
“Bail hearing,” she murmured.
“And since this is his first offense, he’ll probably be released on bail.”
Feeling like the most stupid person alive, she said, “How does that work exactly—bail? I…I don’t remember from…I don’t remember.” From when her father had been arrested.
His expression softened, as if he realized that she wasn’t nearly as street-smart as she tried to appear. “For a felony with no endangerment, the standard bail is five thousand. If you pay cash, you’ll get it back after the case is settled.”
She choked back a laugh. Where would she get five thousand dollars? If only their parents had left them a stash of ill-gotten gains to make up for the fact that they had abandoned their own children.
He coughed lightly. “If you don’t have cash, you’ll want to call a bail bondsman. That will cost you ten percent of the bail, which you won’t get back.”
Five hundred—she could probably scrape together that much, but it would be another expense that she didn’t need right now.
He opened a desk drawer, revealing more clutter, and rooted around, coming up with a curled business card. “If you need to, call this guy.”
She took the card of Brumbee’s Bail Bonds (“Call us anytime!”), a flush warming her cheeks. Had the detective guessed how deeply in debt they were, or had he already performed a credit check and confirmed it? At least her parents had left the house in her name. Although she suspected it was to shelter the property in case her parents’ assets were seized during the criminal case, it was the one thing that had given her a financial toehold after they had disappeared, and the means to secure custody of Wesley. “I’ve heard of people putting up the deed to their house for bail.”
“A property bond?” He splayed his big hands. “Yeah, people do that all the time. And then they get a lien placed on their home if the person doesn’t show up in court.” His lips flattened. “I wouldn’t advise it.”
She frowned. “Wesley would never skip bail.”
The detective didn’t say anything, but in the air hung the question Like your father wouldn’t skip bail?
Carlotta lowered her gaze, burning with shame. She refused to cry. When Detective Terry’s hand touched her arm, she could only stare at the blunt-tipped fingers, wishing it was the hand of someone she could rely on for the long haul rather than fleeting sympathy. They were, after all, on opposite sides of this issue. She inhaled to compose herself, then pulled her arm away and lifted h
er gaze to his. “After posting bail, then what?”
The detective looked contrite, then picked up his coffee cup with his errant hand. “Within a couple of days he’ll have to appear in court to be arraigned.”
“Arraigned,” she said, nodding stupidly.
“That’s where the charges against him will be read, and he’ll enter a plea. If his attorney and the district attorney reach an agreement on the charges and the sentence, he can plead out.” He hesitated, then added, “If not, his case will go to trial.”
“Trial,” she said like a sick parrot. She closed her eyes, thinking how sordid it all sounded—and how disturbingly familiar. It was all coming back to her, hearing the same terminology peppering her parents’ conversations after the grand jury had indicted her father, her mother weeping drunkenly, her father professing his innocence—unconvincingly. And now it was starting all over again.
When she opened her eyes, Detective Terry was studying her intently. Upon closer inspection, his bloodshot eyes were hazel, almost golden, unusually pale with his dark coloring. And…dangerous. Unbidden, the thought darted through her mind that any woman foolish enough to hook up with this man was destined for disappointment.
Suddenly he leaned toward her. “Look, I didn’t know about the connection between your brother and your father when I made the arrest this morning. Your brother will have to pay for his crime, but…well, off the record, I should warn you—the D.A., Kelvin Lucas, is the same man who had your father indicted.”
A slow drip of panic entered her bloodstream, as cool as menthol. “Are you saying that the D.A. might be harder on my brother because he didn’t get to prosecute my father?”
The detective’s gaze was unflinching. “Ms. Wren, in this city, and especially in the D.A.’s office, your father’s name is like a bad smell. All I’m saying is that you and your brother should prepare yourselves for the worst.”
3
W esley Wren whistled under his breath, a nameless tune that his father had always whistled when Wesley was a boy. He didn’t remember too many moments with his workaholic father, whose angular face was hazy in his mind, but he remembered that when Dad was in a good mood, he whistled. And, despite sitting in the corner of a musty jail cell and the fact that Hubert, one of the dozen other guys in holding, had forced him to trade his new brown suede Puma tennis shoes for Hubert’s worn-out no-name sneakers, Wesley was in a pretty good mood. It had taken him only a few weeks to find a way into the Atlanta courthouse records, and that wasn’t bad for a hobby hacker.
Body Movers Page 2