Body Movers

by Stephanie Bond

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  She looked up, expecting to see a smug look in the detective’s eyes. Instead she saw…compassion? Maybe there was a heart hanging behind those hideous ties. She nodded.

  “I’ll need for you to come down to the station and make a statement. Are you okay to drive, or do you want to ride down with me?”

  Her gaze darted to his car. Peter sat in the rear seat with his head leaning back, a man in total surrender. It was heartbreaking.

  “I’ll drive.”

  “Okay,” he said, his expression solemn. “Carlotta, you did right by Angela Ashford, in spite of your feelings for her husband. I know it cost you.” He gave her a little smile, then walked back to his own car and climbed inside.

  Carlotta watched as the detective backed up, then pulled away. Peter turned his head and looked at her, his face beseeching.

  Her heart twisted in her chest as the detective’s words of praise rang in her head.

  If she’d done the right thing, why did she feel so damn lousy?

  39

  “B reakfast,” Wesley announced from the doorway of Carlotta’s bedroom.

  She groaned and threw back the covers. “It’s too hot to eat.”

  He leaned on the door frame and gestured to her Betty Boop pajamas. “So why don’t you wear something to sleep in that’s less wall to wall?”

  She frowned, remembering what had happened the last time she’d worn something other than full-coverage jammies to bed. She sat up and shook her finger at him. “If that snake of yours gets out again, both of you can get a new address.”

  He laughed. “What does Einstein getting out of his cage have to do with your pajamas?”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “None of your business.”

  “Hey,” he said quietly, “how are you doing?”

  Twenty-four hours since Peter had been taken into custody, and she was still a little numb. “I’ll be okay,” she said, her voice more confident than she felt.

  “Sis, I’m sorry that Peter isn’t the man you thought he was. You can’t blame yourself for not realizing how much someone could change. All you can do is put it behind you and move on.”

  A bittersweet pang stabbed her chest. “Well, listen to you, Dr. Phil.” Then she angled her head. “Thanks.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Breakfast on the deck in ten minutes.”

  “That nasty pile of wood? What will we sit on?”

  “Don’t worry. I got it covered.”

  Curious, she pushed to her feet and shuffled toward the bathroom. Her body felt leaden, burdened with guilt and shame and disappointment over the events of the past couple of weeks…over the last couple of decades…but like she’d told Wesley, she’d get through it.

  History had taught her there was no other choice.

  She washed her puffy face, holding a cold cloth against her eyes until her fiery skin felt soothed. Then she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and donned shorts and a T-shirt. She padded through the house barefoot, stopping at the front door long enough to pick up the newspaper, dreading the inevitable details inside.

  She walked through the kitchen, opened the back door and exclaimed in surprise. The wood of the deck had been restored to its natural yellow color. A new gas grill sat in the corner, and the flowerpots were filled with blooms and grasses. A children’s plastic wading pool filled with water sat between two orange beach chairs draped with brightly colored towels. Plates of fresh fruit and yogurt and tall glasses of orange juice sat on TV trays. Clad in shorts, Wesley reclined in one of the chairs, his face tipped up to the sun, his feet in the water up to his shins. “It’s not exactly an in-ground pool but it feels pretty good.”

  She sank her teeth into her lip. He’d remembered her comment about the luxurious life she might have had if she’d married Peter. Her heart expanded with love for her little brother, who was not so little anymore. And that was okay because she felt privileged to be able to watch him turn into a man.

  See what you missed, Mom and Dad.

  She smiled wide. “Plus ten points.”

  He grinned.

  Settling in the opposite chair, she stuck her feet into the cool water, snagged a chunk of fresh pineapple and opened the newspaper.

  “I’ll take the sports page,” Wesley said.

  She handed it to him, her thoughts wandering briefly to Dennis Lagerfeld and his connection to the dead women—had he been a john? It would explain why he’d acted so strangely. And what about Dr. Suarez? He also could have had a relationship with Angela or Lisa or both of them. And either man could have left that cigar in the jacket. Her money was on Lagerfeld, but it didn’t matter. The women had exposed themselves to all sorts of dangerous men by opening themselves and their homes to strangers. Yet Angela’s husband had proved to be the most dangerous man of all. And the question still remained if Peter was the father of Lisa Bolton’s baby.

  The story was on page two. The police had arrested Peter Ashford for the murder of his wife, Angela, and were questioning Ashford about the murder of a neighbor, Lisa Bolton. Meanwhile, an anonymous source reported that an accomplice might be linked to a cigar found in the possession of one of the victims.

  Carlotta frowned. An anonymous source? The only people who knew about the cigar were her, Detective Terry, Hannah, June, Coop…

  And Liz Fischer.

  Carlotta fumed. Liz was probably also the person who had “leaked” the story of Wesley’s arrest to the paper…maybe in an attempt to flush out their father? She was probably sleeping with a news reporter, too. Carlotta shook her head, vowing never to trust the woman again. How her father and Jack Terry both had been taken in by that manipulative ho, she didn’t know.

  Then Carlotta frowned. Who was she to talk? She had been taken in by a murderer, hadn’t she? But in her head she could still hear Peter say, This is all a big mistake, and see his pleading face from the back of Detective Terry’s car.

  She looked up from the paper. “Wesley, about the information you gave to Detective Terry concerning Angela Ashford…”

  He turned his head. “Yeah?”

  “Well, I assumed that was from Chance Hollander.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Did you ever…”

  His eyes widened. “Me? No, I’m not into hookers.”

  “Oh. Good.” She looked back to the newspaper, then back to him. “So, what are you into?”

  He thought a minute then said, “Redheads.”

  “Oh.”

  From the kitchen she heard her cell phone ring. “Wonder who that could be.”

  “Probably Hannah. She’s called you, like, six times this morning. I have to warn you, I think she’s wearing Coop down on the body-moving thing.”

  “Oh, please don’t tell me that,” she said, stepping out of the water.

  Wesley shrugged. “He needs another crew member—people are dying faster than we can pick them up. I told him we need a double-decker hearse.”

  She winced and went in to get her phone. A local number flashed across the screen, but it wasn’t Hannah’s. Curious, she punched the call button. “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this Carlotta?”

  “Yes.”

  “Carlotta, this is Amy Lin at Designer Consigner. I’m calling because I found something in one of the Coach purses that you brought in and wondered if you need it back.”

  Her pulse picked up—cash, she hoped. “What is it?”

  “It’s a cigar in a plastic bag. I didn’t open it—it looks expensive.”

  Carlotta groaned inwardly. She’d emptied her purse on the bed, then taken it to the consignment shop, apparently with the cigar still inside. The cigar probably wouldn’t have any bearing on the case now except perhaps to help identify one of Angela’s johns, but she’d turn it over to Detective Terry. “Yes, Amy, I’d like to have it back. And thanks for not opening it. I’ll be by to pick it up on my way to work, in about an hour.”

  “Fin
e, I’ll be here. By the way,” Amy said, her voice raising an octave, “did you ever find that big, strong man to protect you? The danger is still with you, I’m afraid.”

  Unbidden, an image came into her head of Detective Terry hauling Peter off her the day before. She’d probably never know if Peter would have hurt her, but he hadn’t been in a clear state of mind, so who knew what he was capable of? But as far as Detective Terry being the man that Amy had envisioned—well, he’d really only been doing his job, hadn’t he?

  “I’m not sure,” she said cheerfully. “But I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Good,” Amy said. “I’ll see you later.”

  Carlotta disconnected the call, then turned over her hand and studied it. She smirked. The only danger she saw was the slight stain of nicotine between her forefinger and middle finger.

  She dismissed the woman’s words and went to get ready for work, deciding to dress to the nines. It always made her feel better.

  40

  “D etective Terry, please,” Carlotta said into her cell phone as she walked toward the parking garage, wondering if he was on duty, or if he had hooked up with Liz Fischer for a Saturday-night special.

  The operator told her to hold and after a couple of rings, he answered with a curt, “Terry here.”

  “This is Carlotta,” she said, then added, “Wren.”

  “Carlotta,” he said with a sigh, “I know who you are—you’re the woman who has single-handedly doubled my workload into the foreseeable future. What kind of trouble are you in now?”

  “None,” she said hotly. “I thought you’d like to know that I found the cigar that was in the jacket that Angela Ashford returned. I’m leaving work, so I could bring it by—unless you’re too busy with your workload.”

  “Still trying to clear your boyfriend of murder?” he asked wryly.

  She scowled. Insensitive brute. “I just don’t want to be accused of destroying evidence again. Do you want it or not?” She stabbed the button for the elevator.

  “Of course I want it. Call me when you get here.”

  She disconnected, muttering under her breath. The elevator doors opened and she walked on, her Miu Miu pump–pinched feet dragging with fatigue. The muscles in her arms ached from carrying clothes to and from dressing rooms. Her prized Judith Leiber necklace, a gold-plated breastplate, had grown heavier and heavier as the hours had worn on. It had been a long day, but at least her sales had been good. She’d stayed late to make sure her paperwork was in order and now a glance at her watch told her the time was closing in on ten o’clock. A yawn overtook her as the elevator began to descend. She was thinking past dropping off the cigar to lying in bed watching What Not To Wear when the bell dinged and the doors opened again.

  Akin Frasier stood smiling at her. “Hello, Ms. Wren.” He puffed out his chest as he walked on, trying to fill the overlarge jacket he wore.

  “Hi, Mr. Frasier,” she said, too tired to be annoyed or amused by his marching-band pomposity.

  “I guess you’re feeling better now that Peter Ashford is in jail.”

  “Um, yes,” she murmured.

  “He’s about the same caliber as that wife of his,” the man said. “She was some stuck-up woman.” He sniffed. “Some of those women who come in think they’re too good to talk to the likes of me.”

  Unease pricked the back of her neck. It sounded like Frasier was harboring a lot of resentment toward people like the Ashfords.

  “I’m sure it’s unintentional,” she said mildly.

  “Maybe,” he said, then cracked his knuckles.

  She looked down and noticed he was clenching and unclenching his fists, and a tickle of panic stirred in her chest. He began to rock back and forth on his heels and that’s when she smelled the faint scent of cigar smoke waft from his uniform.

  When the implication hit her, terror wasn’t far behind. She fumbled for her cell phone and dropped her purse, spilling its contents on the floor. The cigar went flying to a far corner.

  “Let me help you,” Frasier said, grasping her arm.

  She screamed and yanked free just as the elevator doors slid open. She ran through the doors, smacking into a big body and bouncing off.

  The person steadied her and she looked up, blinking in recognition at Patrick Forman, Dennis Lagerfeld’s agent.

  “Help me,” she gasped. “I’m afraid for my life.”

  “You should be,” Patrick said, then calmly removed a gun with a silencer from his jacket, leveled it at a shocked Akin Frasier and pulled the trigger.

  Carlotta jumped at the pinging noise, and horror washed over her when Akin Frasier slumped to the floor of the elevator just before the doors closed.

  She gaped at Patrick Forman. “It was you.”

  A cruel smile spread over his face. “It was me.”

  41

  C arlotta stared into the barrel of the gun and lifted her hands high. “You were Angela Ashford’s john, not Dennis.”

  He nodded, proud of himself. “That’s right. For once, I got the beautiful woman, instead of whatever hag happened to be with the girl that Dennis wanted. And I wasn’t just Angela’s john—the stupid woman was in love with me.”

  Carlotta’s mind raced. Perspiration trickled down her back.

  “Until you got Lisa Bolton pregnant?” she prompted.

  He nodded. “That shouldn’t have happened. That bitch tricked me. She told Angela about the baby, and Angela was furious. We had a big fight, and she broke it off.”

  Her heart thrashed in her chest.

  “And returned the expensive jacket she’d bought you.” Dennis had recognized the jacket all right, as one his agent had been wearing. “With a cigar inside that Dennis had given you.”

  He smiled. “A cigar that has my fingerprints on it, which is why I need it back. Peter Ashford will take the fall and no one need ever know I was connected to Angela or Lisa.”

  She swallowed hard and decided to stall, hoping someone with a bigger gun would happen by. “Wh-what makes you think I have the cigar?”

  “You show up at Moody’s asking questions, talking about how you knew Angela. Then Dennis confronts me about the jacket and tells me that Angela returned it to you. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why you were snooping around. Dennis I don’t have to worry about—I got so much shit on him, he’d never turn me in. But you…you need to learn to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

  “You tried to run me off the road,” she said.

  “Yes, but you can’t seem to take a hint.”

  The fact that he didn’t bother denying his crimes made her realize with cold clarity that he planned for her to take his confessions to her grave.

  He shoved the gun so close to her face that she went cross-eyed. “Where’s the damn cigar?”

  She wet her trembling lips. “Why do you think I still have it?”

  “If the police had it, they would’ve already traced it back to me.” He shrugged and made a rueful noise in his throat. “My fingerprints are on file. I’m afraid I have a bit of a history with women that I’d rather keep under wraps.”

  Her blood curdled thinking about the women he might have killed in his lifetime, and how grateful she was that he hadn’t latched on to Hannah that day at the cigar bar—although she’d bet that Hannah would have held her own with the psychopath.

  She, on the other hand, was at a decided disadvantage. “Why did you have to kill them?” she whispered.

  “They were no longer useful,” he replied simply. “And they were trivial, insipid women—I honestly didn’t think anyone would notice or care that they were gone. You, in particular, should’ve been glad, since Angela’s husband was in love with you. And Angela told me she tried to run you down in this very parking garage.”

  Carlotta’s throat constricted.

  “The day she died, Angela was drunk and out of control—she kept saying that I had betrayed her with Lisa just as her husband had betrayed her with you. When she stu
mbled into the pool, I reached for her and actually considered saving her. Then I realized how much better it would be if she just…died. But I did have feelings for her. I held her under so she would suffer less.”

  Carlotta’s eyes filled with tears. Poor Angela.

  “Why you kept stirring things up, I don’t know, but now you’ll have to pay.” He touched the cold tip of the barrel to her nose, and she wondered hysterically if he noticed the hump there. “For the last time, where is the cigar?”

  “I-it’s on the elevator,” she said. “It fell out of my purse.”

  “Get it,” he ordered.

  She turned around and punched the elevator button, dreading to see Akin Frasier’s bloodied body. But when the doors opened, a big hand reached out and yanked her inside and behind him. “Freeze,” Detective Terry shouted, pointing his weapon at Patrick Forman. Forman shot into the elevator and Carlotta screamed, covering her head, feeling a jolt to her chest before the chink, chink of ricocheting sounds stopped. She heard the detective fire twice and looked up in time to see Forman jerk back, then fall to the ground in a way that convinced her he wasn’t getting up again.

  Detective Terry put his arm around her and the elevator doors closed, cocooning them inside. “Are you okay?”

  She patted herself down, feeling for spurting blood. “I think so.” Then she looked down at her chest and gasped at the dent in her gold breastplate—the necklace had probably saved her life—oh, along with the detective. “How did you know what was happening?”

  “Akin Frasier managed to call 911. I got here as soon as I could.” He shook his head and puffed out his cheeks in an exhale. “Lady, you need your own security force.”

  She managed a grin. “Are you volunteering?”

  He pursed his mouth. “I don’t know. What are the fringe benefits?”

  An unexpected surge of gratitude and desire warmed her. She looked up into his golden eyes and searched for something to tell her whether he was just doing his job or whether he had developed a soft spot for her. For a split second, she thought she saw the promise of something special, but then he looked away.