Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

by Stephanie Bond

  The hair on the back of Wesley’s neck stood up. Something was very wrong. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why.”

  The detective’s jaw hardened and Wesley realized suddenly that the big man was fighting emotion. “It’s Carlotta.”

  “What about Carlotta?” Wesley asked, his voice spiking in a squeak. Then he realized the detective was holding a driver’s license—a familiar driver’s license. Disbelief stabbed him even as he glanced up to the bridge to see the jumper’s abandoned car sitting amidst flashing squad cars.

  A dark blue Monte Carlo. Carlotta’s car.

  12

  June Moody handed Carlotta a second Blue Moon martini to go with the cigar she’d managed to smoke to half its original size. “So you have no idea what happened to your car?”

  Carlotta sipped the martini, grateful she’d had the presence of mind to seek out June at Moody’s Cigar Bar. The sixtyish woman was a brick wall disguised as a lacy curtain. “I simply don’t remember picking it up, but I must have. I probably parked it somewhere in the mall’s parking garage.”

  “It’ll turn up,” June said. “You wouldn’t be the first person to forget having done something. And with the stress you’ve been through, it’s understandable.”

  “Thanks.” Carlotta took a drag on the cigar. She could get used to these. They delivered a bigger punch than her ultra lights. And she hadn’t felt something this substantial in her hand in…a long damn time.

  “So what else is bothering you?” June asked, inhaling on her own stogie with the practiced ease of a woman who ran a cigar establishment.

  Carlotta barked a laugh. “The latest? I heard from my long-lost father.”

  June’s expression turned serious. “I thought he was—”

  “A fugitive? Yep. He called me on my cell phone this week, can you believe it? I was so stunned, I dropped my phone and hung up on him.”

  “Did you inform the police?”

  Carlotta shook her head, enjoying the way the alcohol made everything swimmy. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

  “That’s your decision, honey.”

  Carlotta took another drink. “I’m tired of making decisions. I’m tired of being responsible.”

  June nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re just going to let everything ride?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you going to tell your brother?”

  “I don’t know. Wesley doesn’t need another reason to misbehave.”

  “There you go, being responsible again.”

  Carlotta frowned. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

  “Okay.” June leisurely stirred her own martini. “So…you and Cooper Craft.”

  Carlotta frowned harder. “There is no ‘me and Cooper Craft.’”

  “That’s not what I observed the other day when you ran into him in here.”

  “He’s my brother’s boss. Do you know that the man moves bodies for a living?”

  “Someone has to. And Coop’s a good guy.” She winked. “Cute, too.”

  Carlotta blushed, remembering Cooper’s confession a couple of weeks ago that he was “crushing” on her. They had been in front of the town house, Coop waiting for Wesley. Caught off guard, Carlotta had protested that they didn’t have anything in common, that he was an intellectual. And Coop had insisted that she was smarter than she wanted people to believe. “Do you know him well?” she asked June.

  “I guess so. I knew him in the bad days.”

  “The bad days?”

  “His drinking days. When he was the chief medical examiner.”

  She squinted to recall what Jack Terry had told her about Coop’s past. “I heard he was fired.”

  “He was, and it got nasty. But he’s gotten his life back on track, and he seems happier now.”

  “He was a big help in solving Angela Ashford’s murder.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. I heard he was the best at what he did. So you’re not interested in Coop, huh? Is there someone else?”

  Carlotta squirmed as the images of two other men dodged in and out of her mind. “It’s complicated.”

  June laughed. “Honey, life is complicated.” She gestured to the slumped, bleary-eyed patrons around them in the upstairs smoking lounge. “And it’s a good thing, too, because otherwise we wouldn’t need vices and I’d be out of business.”

  Carlotta nodded, then drained the rest of her drink and stubbed out her cigar with an unfocused hand. “I’d better get home.” Then she gave a dry laugh. “Not that anyone is missing me.”

  “I’ll call you a cab,” June said. “And don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll find your car soon.”

  Carlotta tried to smile, but it took too much effort as she slid off the stool. Being vertical sent the alcohol zooming to her head, but June offered her arm gracefully, as if nothing was wrong.

  As they walked down the worn wooden steps, Carlotta caught a whiff of the woman’s exotic perfume and again marveled at the dichotomy of June Moody’s elegant pencil skirts and perfectly starched blouses over a pinup figure, the woman’s beautifully manicured hands holding a pungent stogie. She wondered what it would have been like to have the rock-solid woman for a mother instead of the weak-willed Valerie Wren.

  “Do you have any children, June?”

  June’s step faltered for a split second. “A son.”

  “Oh? Where does he live?”

  “As far away from me as he can get,” June said with a laugh. “He’s a career army man.”

  “Grandkids?”

  “None that I’m aware of. Here you go,” she said, holding the front door and ushering Carlotta toward the cab. “Cheer up, things will look better in the morning.”

  Carlotta hiccupped. “Promise?”

  “I promise,” June said, patting her hand.

  Carlotta dropped into the seat, gave the cab driver her address, and laid her head back, closing her eyes against the psychedelic blur of passing lights. She knew she would feel like hell in the morning, but for now she was grateful for the rosy blur the vodka had put on the day’s events. Despite June’s assurance, Carlotta didn’t want to think about tomorrow, about her physical and emotional to-do lists that kept growing like some kind of giant fungus. Or about the melancholy feeling that pulled at her, the nagging sense that her life wasn’t really her own—

  “Is this it?” the cab driver said over his shoulder. “Looks like a party.”

  Carlotta turned her head and squinted at the lights blazing from the town house. In the driveway sat Coop’s white van and a dark sedan that she recognized as Jack Terry’s. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Was Wesley in trouble again? Had her father called again or—she gulped—had he shown up?

  She handed the driver the last cash in her wallet and scrambled out of the cab in slow motion. She was still nursing a buzz, but adrenaline had a way of sobering a person quickly. After a few stumbles, Carlotta kicked off her shoes and carried them. With the help of the handrail, she made it up the steps to the front door and turned the handle. She practically fell into the small living room where Wesley sat with his head in his hands and Coop’s hand on his shoulder. Jack Terry stood a few feet away, in front of the big-ass television, his shoulders drooping.

  At her unladylike entrance, they all turned to look at her.

  “What happened?” Carlotta asked. “Is something wrong?”

  It took her a few seconds to realize the three men were staring at her as if they were seeing a ghost.

  13

  Carlotta looked from Wesley to Coop to Jack, from one stunned expression to another. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Before anyone could speak, the door opened behind her. Carlotta turned and couldn’t contain her surprise to see Peter standing there. But strangely, he looked equally surprised to see her.

  “Carlotta,” he breathed, then took her in his arms for a forceful embrace. “You’re okay.”

  While her blood surged at the fervent body-to-bod
y contact, she was still confused. And from the looks that Jack, Wesley and Coop gave her as Peter continued to cling to her, so were they.

  She pulled back and gave Peter a bemused smile. “Of course I’m okay.” She gave a little laugh. “Can’t a girl go out for a drink without everyone freaking out?”

  Wesley stood and the realization that he’d been crying sobered her further. “Wesley?”

  He strode forward, then past her and out the front door, letting it slam behind him, his footsteps pounding down the sidewalk. She turned back to Jack and Coop, who now stood next to each other. “One of you explain what just happened. Now.”

  They exchanged bewildered glances, then Jack ran a hand over his haggard face. “We all thought you were…dead.”

  She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out. “Dead? And here I thought I was the one going crazy.”

  Coop lifted his hands. “A woman jumped off the Seventeenth Street bridge. She had your driver’s license in her wallet and was driving your car.”

  Carlotta’s eyes bulged. “Driving my car?”

  “I was sent to the scene and Wesley was with me…”

  She blanched. “Wesley was called to the scene to move a body and was told the body was mine?”

  Jack nodded. “We all thought it was you.”

  Peter clasped her hand feverishly. “When Wesley called me, I almost went out of my mind.”

  “We were all concerned,” Coop said, eyeing Peter as if he were an interloper.

  Carlotta pulled her hand from Peter’s and touched her head, her sluggish mind churning. “But couldn’t you tell it wasn’t me?”

  Coop cleared his throat. “No. The woman was…in pretty bad shape.”

  Carlotta’s stomach lurched, sending the taste of vodka and acid to the back of her throat. She covered her mouth, and felt Peter’s hand at the small of her back, steering her toward the couch. She sat heavily, dropping her shoes and purse to the floor.

  “Do you know how this woman could have gotten your car?” Jack asked.

  She swallowed hard to regain her composure. “When I went to pick up my car today from the repair shop, the guy looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. He told me that I’d already picked it up. He showed me my credit card imprint and my signature.”

  Jack frowned. “Why didn’t you report the car stolen?”

  She shook her head. “Because I’ve been a little out of it lately and honestly, I wasn’t sure if…that is, I couldn’t remember…”

  They were all looking at her as if she did need to be committed.

  Jack stepped forward. “At any rate, it looks like someone was masquerading as you. Was your purse stolen recently?”

  She shook her head again.

  “There’ve been a rash of identity-theft cases in Buckhead,” he said. “Most of the victims are frequent shoppers or people working retail. Are you having credit problems?”

  Carlotta bit into her lip. She was, but what else was new?

  Then she snapped her fingers, or attempted to—her fingers didn’t quite connect. “I tried to replace my cell phone today and the woman told me an ungodly amount had accumulated on my account and that I had bought equipment that I’d never heard of.”

  Jack nodded. “Maybe someone has stolen your identity.”

  Coop made a thoughtful noise. “Someone suicidal.”

  She looked at Coop. “But you’ll be able to identify the body, won’t you?”

  Coop shifted from foot to foot. “A medical examiner will, yes. But meanwhile, I need to go and unwind a few things.”

  “Unwind?”

  Coop checked his watch, then looked as if he were weighing his words. “Chances are good that your demise was reported on the eleven o’clock news. I need to call the morgue and let the M.E. know we have a Jane Doe.” He walked toward the door, but stopped in front of Carlotta. “Are you going to be okay?”

  She nodded. “But Wesley…”

  “I doubt if Wesley got very far. I’ll see if I can find him and have a word. He was pretty shaken up.” He gave her a wry smile. “I guess we all were.”

  She was struck by the concern in his gentle eyes, glad that he’d been with Wesley during the ordeal. “Thank you, Coop. Whatever I can do to help you find out who the woman is, just let me know.”

  “I will.”

  He left and Jack Terry stepped forward. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Can’t it wait?” Peter asked, still hovering.

  “No. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Carlotta in private.”

  Peter’s mouth tightened. “As a matter of fact, I do mind.”

  Jack took one step closer to Carlotta, but leveled his gaze on Peter. “That might have sounded like a request, Ashford, but it wasn’t. This is a criminal investigation now.”

  Carlotta looked back and forth, feeling the testosterone boomeranging between the two men.

  “Uh, guys, I’m still in the room.”

  They both looked down at her, challenging her to choose one and send the other one walking. Jack’s black eyes flashed with authority, Peter’s blue ones were filled with possessiveness.

  “Peter,” she said, standing and turning toward him. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  He clasped her hands. “Promise? We have a lot to talk about.”

  Carlotta knew what he was referring to, but from the noise that Jack made in his throat, it was clear he thought Peter was referring to something more personal.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you for coming over.”

  He leaned forward and planted a kiss near her ear. “I love you,” he whispered, then pulled back, threw Jack Terry a parting glare and left.

  Carlotta turned around to face Jack Terry who looked at her intently in the expanding silence. “You gave everyone quite a scare.”

  “I didn’t mean to, Detective.”

  He lifted his hand and almost touched her arm before stopping and gesturing to the couch. “Why don’t you sit?”

  She rubbed her scratchy eyes and sighed. “Do you mind if I get something to drink?”

  “No offense, but it looks like you’ve already had plenty to drink.” He sniffed. “And to smoke. Do I smell a cigar?”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes. And I was talking about coffee.”

  “Wouldn’t mind a cup myself,” he said, jamming his hand into his hair. “It’s been one hell of a night.”

  She pointed. “The kitchen is that way. I’m sure your coffee is better than mine, and I need to find my brother.”

  Jack relented with a nod. “Don’t disappear again, okay?”

  The tone of his voice stopped her. Embedded in the sarcastic remark was a seed of concern that sounded almost personal. Before she could respond, he disappeared into the kitchen. Carlotta frowned after him, then pushed open the front door and stepped out into the circle of light shining on the stoop, in search of yet another man in her life who confounded her.

  Coop’s van was gone and for a moment she wondered if perhaps Wesley had gone with him, then she noticed a movement under the weeping willow tree near the sidewalk. Wesley’s thinking place. When he and the tree were small, he would hide beneath its drooping limbs that had reached to the ground. Later, when their parents had disappeared and the tree had lifted its canopy, he had taken to climbing its sturdy branches and staying there with a book for hours at a time. Once he’d climbed so high, she’d had to call the fire department to bring a cherry picker to get him down. When she’d chastised him, he’d said he’d thought if only he could get high enough, he would eventually see their parents coming back.

  Now he sat with his back against the tree, absently stripping the long narrow leaves from a bit of branch. His profile was barely discernible in the darkness. Carlotta walked barefoot through the dew-laden grass and sat down next to him. Neither of them said anything for a while, allowing her to soak up the night noises of insects and slow-moving cars. This time of night, this time of year, their neighborh
ood was almost pretty.

  Finally she inhaled deeply and puffed out her cheeks in an exhale. “I’m sorry about the scare, Wesley. If the tables were turned and I thought something had happened to you, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

  He gave a hoarse laugh. “Celebrated, probably.”

  “How can you say that?”

  Wesley sniffed. “Easy. Because I’ve been a big pain in the ass to you.”

  Her heart tugged sideways. “I wouldn’t say a big pain in the ass.”

  He laughed, then turned to look at her and his eyes clouded. “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d driven you to…” His voice broke off on a sob.

  She put her arm around his neck and rocked him toward her, her throat clogged with emotion. “I’m right here. And yes, you’ve caused me a few sleepless nights, but I can’t believe you’d think I would just leave you like—” She bit her tongue.

  “Like Mom and Dad?”

  She hesitated, then gave his shoulders another hug. “I’m not going anywhere, got it?”

  He nodded and she felt him exhale. No matter how many times she’d told him, he had no idea how much she loved him, how impossible it would be for her to abandon him. She felt sorry for her parents sometimes, that they hadn’t felt that kind of love for Wesley. Or for her.

  “Why don’t you come inside?” she asked softly. “Detective Terry is making coffee.”

  “Mighty friendly of him,” Wesley said, his voice drenched with suspicion.

  “He has to question me. He thinks someone might have stolen my identity.”

  Wesley laughed. “Why would anyone want your identity?”

  “Thanks a lot.” She punched his shoulder, but was glad to see him returning to his smart-ass self. “Are you coming in or not?”

  “Not. At least not yet. I’ll hang out here until he leaves.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, then pushed to her feet and brushed the grass off her skirt.

  When Carlotta climbed the steps again to the front door, fatigue pulled at her, but the aroma of strong coffee carried her to the kitchen. Jack had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and his dreadful tie lay on the counter. He stood next to the coffeemaker, pouring brew into two mismatched mugs.