Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

by Stephanie Bond

  The older woman shook her head. “Honey, you do seem to find trouble.”

  “Trouble finds me,” Carlotta corrected.

  June drew on her cigar and exhaled elegantly. “So what do you make of this woman who stole your identity and committed suicide?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know who it could be or why she picked me.”

  “Maybe because she resembled you.”

  Carlotta tapped ash into a glass ashtray. “So maybe she knew me?”

  “Could be. Maybe a customer? You must see hundreds of people every day, or should I say, they see you.”

  “The woman rented a P.O. box at the mall in my name, so there could be a connection to my job, I suppose.”

  June glanced up and smiled at someone through the window. “Speaking of long and strong.”

  Carlotta looked up to see Coop walking in, carrying a cigar box. His face lit up when he saw her and she was equally pleased to see him in a situation that didn’t involve a dead body. He looked handsome and appealing in a pair of worn jeans and a faded red T-shirt that molded to his buff chest and arms—who knew that lifting bodies could result in those kinds of guns? With his lean build, he was probably a runner, she decided.

  Which was good, considering he might have to outrun Hannah some day.

  “Carlotta was just filling me in on all the drama,” June said. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “I thought you and Wesley were working together today,” Carlotta said.

  Coop shook his head. “I wanted some time off and I thought he could use it too.”

  Carlotta smiled but wondered why Wesley had lied and where he’d gone today.

  So much for no more secrets.

  June set a cup of coffee in front of him and reclaimed her seat. “What do you have in the box?”

  “It’s for you,” he said, pushing it toward her. “For all the cigar boxes you’ve given me.”

  June opened the lid and gasped. “Oh, Cooper, it’s wonderful!”

  Carlotta peered inside, and her mouth fell open. “That’s this bar!”

  Inside the cigar box was a miniature replica of the first floor of Moody’s bar, down to the most minute detail—the horseshoe bar, the red and black checkerboard tile floor, the lettering on the windows, even tiny cigars in the tiny cigar boxes inside the tiny glass cabinets that lined the room.

  “It’s incredible,” Carlotta breathed. “How did you do this?”

  “One small piece at a time,” he said.

  “How long did it take?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been working on it for months, a few hours at a time.” He shrugged. “It keeps my hands busy.”

  “I love it,” June said. “Thank you, Cooper. I’ll always cherish it.” She gave him a hug and a kiss, and Carlotta wondered briefly if he reminded her of the son she said was in the army. They would probably be around the same age.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes,” June said, “I’ll see to those customers.”

  Carlotta looked at her watch. “Actually, I’m sorry—I should be going.”

  “Already?” Coop said, his disappointment clear.

  “This identity theft is wreaking havoc with my credit. I have a lot of paperwork at home.”

  “Do you have your car back?”

  “No, I’ll grab a cab.”

  “I’ll take you,” he offered. “It’s a nice day for a drive.”

  She smiled. “Okay. Thanks.”

  They said goodbye to June, then Carlotta followed Coop outside into the sunshine, wondering why she hadn’t noticed before now that it was indeed a beautiful summer day, with unusually balmy temperatures and a nice breeze.

  “Hope you don’t mind getting your hair messed up,” he said, stopping next to an immaculate white antique Corvette convertible with red leather interior.

  “Wow, are you kidding? Coop, this is magnificent. What model year is this?”

  “Seventy-two.”

  “I love convertibles.”

  He unlocked the door for her and opened it. “I know. I got a glimpse of your Miata inside your garage when I picked up Wesley a time or two.”

  She swung inside, delighting in the compact interior. “I adore that car, but it’s been out of commission for a while.”

  He closed her door, then walked around to the driver’s side and got in. “You don’t like the Monte Carlo? It has pretty good engine pickup, I’ll bet.”

  “Yeah, it’s a muscle car. And it’s my own fault that I’m stuck with it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I bought it when the manufacturer was having a twenty-four hour test drive offer.” She smiled wryly. “I needed something to drive for a special occasion and I had every intention of taking it back before the twenty-four hours expired.”

  Coop laughed and started the engine. “Uh-oh, I think I can guess the next part.”

  “I was arrested and the car was impounded and by the time I got it out, the car was officially mine.”

  He laughed harder and put the car into gear. “On second thought, I couldn’t have guessed the next part. You are one extreme woman, Carlotta Wren. Do you care if we take the long way home?”

  “Not at all.” She returned his grin and lowered her sunglasses as they pulled into traffic. Coop was full of surprises and all of them so far had been good. As they wound their way around the more picturesque back roads of the city, Carlotta sneaked a peek at his profile, enjoying the relaxed way he held his body and the play of his thigh muscles beneath his jeans when he mashed the clutch.

  The interior of the car was pristine down to the most tedious detail—not unlike the care he had put into the miniature vignette for June. She had heard of his exacting hobby, but hadn’t seen any of his work. Allegedly, it was the hobby to which he attributed his sobriety. Indeed, it looked as if it required a steady, patient hand.

  After being in the company of Jack Terry with his rough edge and unpredictable moods, being with Coop was a relaxing break from all the conflict in her life. Too soon, they were pulling into the town house driveway.

  She smoothed a hand over her ponytail and sighed with pleasure. “Thanks for the ride, Coop. That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

  “I’m glad.” He nodded toward the closed garage. “I’m pretty handy with cars. I’d be happy to take a look at the Miata some time.”

  “Would you? I’d be eternally grateful.”

  He grinned. “Yeah?”

  His flirting warmed her face, and she recalled her thought last night that she should be opening her heart to someone who seemed eager to embrace it. “Coop, why don’t you have a girl?”

  His eyes danced. “I’m working on it.”

  At the sound of a car slowing down on the street, Carlotta turned to see Peter’s Porsche pulling up next to the Corvette.

  “I’ll let you go,” Coop said with a wink.

  “Thanks again for the ride.” She climbed out and waved as he backed out of the driveway, nursing the odd feeling that something unidentifiable was floating just beyond her grasp.

  “Hi.” Peter climbed out of his car and removed his designer sunglasses.

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “Out for a ride?” he asked, watching Coop drive away.

  “I was at a cigar bar downtown and ran into Coop. He gave me a ride home.”

  Peter looked puzzled. “Are you smoking cigars now?”

  She angled her head, a little irritated that she felt as if she had to justify her actions. “Sometimes. The owner is a new friend who attended the service yesterday. I wanted to pay her a visit and try to explain what happened.”

  “Oh.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, frowning slightly, she realized, at the taste of cigar smoke on her breath. “It was a beautiful service, Carly. You would’ve loved it.”

  She hid a secret smile that he didn’t realize she’d been there—with him—in disg
uise. “I’ll bet I would have. What brings you here?”

  “I came to say goodbye,” he said ruefully. “I have a business trip to Manhattan, and I’ll be gone all week. I’m sorry—I feel like I should be here for you.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”

  “What if your father calls me again?”

  “Then call me at home. The wiretap is gone. And I, uh, haven’t replaced my cell phone yet.”

  “I figured as much,” he said, then reached inside his car and pulled out a small, slick phone, still in the package. “It’s on my service plan. You can use it for as long as you like.”

  “Peter, I can’t—”

  “Please, just for me. I want you to have it for emergencies.”

  She sighed. “Okay, just for emergencies. And only until I get a new phone. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll call you later this week.” He turned toward his car, then snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot.” A sly smile slid over his handsome face. “I have two tickets to the Elton John concert next Monday night at the Fox. Go with me. I might even be able to arrange for him to sign your autograph book.”

  She grinned. “It’s a date.”

  Peter blew her a kiss, then climbed into his car and backed out onto the street.

  Carlotta watched him drive away, thinking she could get used to Peter’s life of travel and entertainment. For him and his family, money was no object. Take the concert tickets, for instance—they were probably the best seats in the house.

  And not a bad way to keep her mind off Liz and Jack attending his awards dinner that night.

  34

  Liz lifted herself up on one elbow and lit a cigarette. “Want to share?”

  “Sure.” Wesley hated how his voice came out all squeaky. It wasn’t so much the sex—which had been great—that had him reeling. It was the fact that Liz would have sex with him.

  She took a drag off the cigarette and handed it to him. “That was great.”

  “Yeah,” he said, taking the smoke and thinking he was going to have to brush up on his aftersex talk. He hadn’t had that many occasions to practice. “So, do you do this with all your clients?”

  She recoiled. “Of course not!”

  “I didn’t think so,” he said quickly, giving himself points for a nice recovery. “You have great tits.”

  “Thanks. You have great stamina.”

  “Yeah? ’Cause I can go again if you want.”

  She took the cigarette from him. “Down boy. I need a drink before round three.” Liz pushed herself up from the bed and shrugged into a slinky robe. “Want one?”

  “Got a beer?”

  “I’ll see. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Watch some TV if you want.”

  “Okay.” He watched her leave the guesthouse through a set of French doors and walk across the lawn to the main house, her body perfectly outlined in the nearly transparent robe. Man, she was smokin’ hot. Chance would not believe this.

  Wesley got up and lit another cigarette, watching until she was inside the house. Then still naked, he went into her office and started opening drawers. She was a neat, organized woman, with her client files beautifully labeled and alphabetized. In the last drawer he found the W’s, then what he was looking for: Randolph Wren.

  After a long drag on the cigarette that got his heart pounding even faster, he opened the file and began to read.

  35

  Carlotta lifted her head and pulled down her beauty-sleep mask. Was that the doorbell? She squinted at the alarm clock that read 6:36. At this hour of the morning? Not again.

  She climbed out of bed and stumbled to the front door, noting wryly that at least Wesley had come home last night—his fan was running. She didn’t even want to think about what could’ve kept him out so late.

  Carlotta glanced out the side window and at the sight of Jack Terry standing on the stoop, groaned loudly. She surveyed her oversize pink T-shirt and one white sock and decided she didn’t care what she looked like. After fumbling with the deadbolt, she swung open the door.

  “What are you, my daily wake-up call?”

  He looked her up and down, then jammed his hands on his hips. “You’re needed at the morgue.”

  “Let me guess—I’m dead after all, and this is purgatory.”

  He looked heavenward, then back to her. “We have an ID on the body. Get dressed. I’ll make coffee.”

  She weighed her choices, which seemed to be few, then waved him in. When he closed the door, she noticed his suit was disheveled, his jaw shadowed. “You look worse than I do.”

  “I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  “Are you bragging?”

  “Hardly. Do you mind if I wash my face and hands at the kitchen sink?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  She scrubbed her face and teeth, ran a comb through her hair and dressed hurriedly. She rummaged until she found an unopened toothbrush that the dentist had given her and carried it to the kitchen along with a tube of toothpaste. The coffeemaker gurgled and Jack was wiping his face on a paper towel, his shirtsleeves rolled back to reveal his powerful arms.

  “Thought you might need these,” she said, setting the items on the counter.

  “Thanks.” He tore open the package and squeezed paste onto the brush.

  “So. The woman. Who is she?”

  “I don’t know yet. Abrams has the info.” He wet the loaded toothbrush and began vigorously scouring his teeth.

  Carlotta frowned. She and Jack had reached a disturbing level of casual domesticity. She could count on one finger the men she’d seen brush their teeth.

  On the other hand, after seeing him wearing her robe, there was no place else to go.

  “Was the identification made from the prints on the ATM card?”

  He nodded, then turned his back and spit into the running water. “Abrams was able to lift some partials from the body—or rather, Coop was.”

  “Coop? He’s allowed to work in the lab at the morgue?”

  “I think Abrams made an allowance in this case and brought him in as a consultant or something.” He resumed brushing.

  From the breakfast bar, she picked up a stack of credit-card statements. “I found two of the items that the woman was wearing in the photo on my statements—the sunglasses and the earrings.”

  Jack spat and rinsed. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Today,” she said irritably. “I was up until two this morning looking over these statements.”

  He wiped his mouth and hands and took the sheets from her. “This will definitely help to seal the case.”

  She pulled two mismatched travel mugs from the cabinet and poured coffee in them, adding a liberal amount of sugar to hers. “Ready?”

  He nodded, still scanning the statements. “I’ll make copies of these once we get to the morgue.”

  She picked up a scratch pad of paper. “I need to leave a note for Wesley.” Carlotta made a rueful noise. “He still wasn’t in when I went to bed. I hope he wasn’t out doing something stupid.”

  “Me, too,” Jack muttered as they went out the door.

  The city morgue was about the most unimpressive building imaginable, barely noticeable to anyone driving by. “Kind of depressing, isn’t it?” she said when they pulled up.

  “Guess it’s hard to justify great architecture on a building that people don’t really want to know is even here.”

  She climbed out and headed for the front door. “I’m not going to have to view the body, am I?”

  “No. I want you to look over the personal effects. We just need to tie up some loose ends so we can contact the family.”

  A receptionist directed them to Abrams’s office and to her surprise, Coop was there. He had a special smile for her, then made introductions and added for the coroner’s benefit that it was Carlotta’s brother who worked for him.

  Dr. Abrams was a slender, heavy-lidded man who looked as if he belonged in a morgue. Coop, on the other hand
, looked much like he had yesterday—cool and casual. Yet utterly competent. She reminded herself that he was a physician, albeit a discredited one. But from the way Dr. Abrams responded to him, she could tell he respected Coop, if begrudgingly.

  “The woman is Barbara Rook, age thirty-five,” Abrams extended a photocopy of an expired Tennessee driver’s license for a woman with long dark hair. “Last known address is Nashville. If she has a local residence, we haven’t been able to locate it.”

  She and Jack studied the photo. “Do you recognize her?” Jack asked.

  “No.”

  “But the two of you could be sisters.”

  “Except for the smile,” Carlotta said, tonguing the gap between her front teeth.

  “I like your smile,” Coop and Jack said in unison, then looked at each other.

  In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Coop lifted a cardboard box to the top of Abrams’s desk and removed the lid. “These are the items she had with her, Carlotta. Among them, a Social Security card with your name and number, a duplicate of your driver’s license and a health insurance card in your name.”

  Carlotta reached into the box and removed the woman’s purse—Burberry. The wallet was Chanel, the lipstick case Judith Leiber. “I wonder if I paid for all this stuff.”

  “I’d say that’s a safe bet,” Jack said. “We found a complete list of your credit-card numbers in her phone.”

  “How did she get that much information about me?”

  “Bought it online maybe. There’s a credit card theft ring in the Buckhead area that we can’t seem to crack.”

  From the bottom of the box, she pulled a tarnished keyring that looked cheap compared to the other belongings. It had some sort of symbol on it that tickled a memory chord.

  “What is it?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know, but it must have meant a lot to her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s cheap, yet she kept it.”

  Carlotta scrutinized the abstract symbol. “I’ve seen this before, but I can’t remember where.”

  “Is it a logo of some kind?”

  “Maybe…I just don’t know.”

  Jack’s phone rang and he walked out into the hallway to take the call.

  “We’re finished here,” Coop said. “We wanted to make sure you didn’t recognize the woman and that she wasn’t a relative. The personal information of yours that she had will be destroyed.”