8 Bodies Is Enough

by Stephanie Bond

  There they were, the three men in her life. Carlotta flashed back to playing the Mystery Date board game with girlfriends as a pre-teen, opening the little plastic door to different types of men. Peter was dressed in crisp chinos, golf shirt, and loafers. Jack wore jeans, leather jacket, and boots. Coop wore cargo pants, a pullover, and sneakers. All handsome and sexy, each in his own way.

  “Look, Carly—Officer Terry and Mr. Craft came all the way out here to investigate your stalker.” Peter seemed less than pleased.

  “Detective,” Jack corrected sourly.

  “Doctor,” Coop amended good-naturedly.

  “You didn’t mention you’d called the detective,” Peter said lightly.

  “I’m sure I did,” Carlotta lied.

  “Maybe,” Peter conceded. “It was rather late by the time we went to bed. Together.”

  That was subtle. “Hi, Jack…Coop.”

  “Hi,” they chorused.

  When she realized they were staring, she remembered what she was wearing. The awkward intimacy of the other men being in a room she was sharing with Peter seemed tangible. A flush warmed her face as she pulled the robe tighter. “Sorry—I thought you were Wes. Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

  Carlotta fled to her room-sized closet and hastily pulled on a casual jersey sheath. She combed out her long hair and wound it, still wet, into a low knot at the nape of her neck. For makeup, she only took time to apply lip gloss and mascara. After grabbing a cross-body bag and her phone, she pushed her feet into sandals and hurried back to the men, primarily because she was worried what they’d talk about in her absence.

  “So,” Jack said when she walked up, lifting a glass of dark liquid in her direction, “you and Peter are engaged.”

  Her smile froze.

  “Congratulations,” Coop offered congenially. The liquid in his glass was clear—probably club soda in deference to his recovery.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “I see Peter shared our good news.”

  “I did,” Peter said, beaming.

  “Can I have some of whatever that is,” she asked, gesturing to Jack’s glass.

  “Of course,” Peter said, pouring her a drink from a decanter. “It’s aged bourbon,” he said when he handed it to her. “So you might want to sip it.”

  Carlotta tossed back a generous mouthful, taking perverse pleasure in the burn down her throat and into her empty stomach. “How was your trip out?”

  “Good,” Jack said.

  “Uneventful,” Coop added. “Unlike your trip so far.”

  She took another drink. “What all did Peter tell you? About the dead man, I mean.”

  “That you came back to your room after he proposed,” Jack said, with the merest lift of an eyebrow.

  “And when you opened the safe to put your ring inside,” Coop continued, “the body fell out.”

  “That must be some ring,” Jack added mildly.

  “It is,” Peter confirmed. “In fact, when we left the restaurant, a couple of shady-looking men followed us. I think they intended to rob us.” Then he smiled and put an arm around Carlotta’s shoulder. “But we outsmarted them.”

  “Really?” Jack asked, sounding amused. “How’s that?”

  “We ducked into a costume shop—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Carlotta cut in with a dismissive wave. “The point is, we lost them.”

  Peter’s phone rang. He pulled it from his belt clip and checked the screen. “Excuse me, I need to take this.” He gave her an apologetic look, then moved toward his dressing room as he answered the call.

  Carlotta gave Jack and Coop a grateful smile. “Thank you both for coming.”

  “No problem,” Coop said.

  Jack looked at Coop. “What was it Wesley said? That when Carlotta crooks her finger, we come running?”

  Coop gave a little laugh. “I think that was a joke, Jack.”

  “The joke is the room you and I got stuck with compared to this one,” Jack said, nodding to the view the corner windows afforded. He briefly swung his gaze to the gigantic mussed bed that sat on a raised portion of the room, like a stage, complete with spotlights.

  “The hotel gave us an upgrade,” she murmured, irritated. Her sleeping accommodations were none of Jack’s concern. “So Wes was on the same flight?”

  “And his roommate,” Coop said.

  Carlotta made a face. “Chance came, too?”

  “And Hannah.”

  She grinned. “Hannah is here?”

  “She’s back to that Goth getup,” Jack said.

  “Yeah, what happened to Uptown Hannah?” Coop asked.

  “You might not want to mention her other, um, persona,” Carlotta said. “She doesn’t want Chance to know. They’re kind of…dating.”

  Coop’s eyebrows rose. “Hannah is dating Wes’s chubby roommate?”

  “I know,” Carlotta said. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  “You said it,” Jack remarked in a way that made her think he was talking about her and Peter.

  “Speaking of congratulations,” Carlotta said to Coop. “Did Jack tell you he’s going to be a father?”

  Coop blinked his eyes wide. “What?” He looked at Jack. “That’s huge. Who—I mean…wow.”

  Jack’s smile was tight. “Liz Fischer.”

  “Oh?” Coop extended his hand. “That’s great, man.”

  Jack accepted his handshake. “Thanks.”

  But Carlotta regretted saying anything—it wasn’t her news to share, and it sounded spiteful. And hadn’t Jack come all this way to help her? “Jack—”

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Jack said, then drained his glass. “I talked to the local police and they gave me copies of their files, but I want to take a look at the crime scene myself. Mind if I use your room phone to call hotel security to meet us there?”

  He was already moving toward a phone on the wall next to the bar, so she didn’t respond. She set down her unfinished drink and pushed it away, feeling contrite.

  Coop gave her a little smile. “Last night had to be quite a scare.” He caught himself. “Finding the body, I mean.”

  “Yes.” She cast about for a way to relieve the tension that shrouded the fussy room. “I wonder what happened to Wes. Peter said he was on his way up.”

  “That’s my fault,” Coop said. “I saw an Atari arcade and showed him how to play some of the classic games. When I left he was still going.”

  “That sounds harmless enough.”

  “Is he staying out of trouble?”

  “Barely,” Carlotta said. But she’d take that. Heaven knew she didn’t need any more trouble this week.

  Chapter 5

  WES PLAYED THE VIDEO GAME for a few minutes more after Coop walked away. When he was sure Coop wasn’t coming back, he sent a text, then turned and strolled through the lobby and out the door, past the fountains and the terraced flower garden, past the flamingo pond and a giant stone sculpture of a tiger, to the taxi drop-off area marked with international flags. As instructed, he stood in front of the flagpole flying the Switzerland flag.

  He people-watched to pass the time. Vegas definitely attracted an oddball assortment of residents and visitors. It was almost as if everyone who didn’t fit in anywhere else on the planet, came here to fit in with other misfits.

  Present company included, he thought wryly.

  Taxis were running nonstop, depositing wave after wave of people returning from the dinner hour. A muscle head wearing a skullcap emerging from a cab caused Wes to do a double-take. From a distance, the guy looked like Leonard, his probation officer’s boyfriend. Then he shook it off—Leonard was on his mind because of his conversation with Mouse yesterday about who’d offed the headless guy in the morgue.

  Unbeknownst to the luscious redhead E. Jones, Leonard ran drugs between the Carver’s son Dillon and Chance, and Wes was sure the steroid-riddled thug had once robbed a poker den at gunpoint, depriving Wes of a sizable pot he’d won. B
ut was the guy capable of such a grisly murder?

  A burgundy van pulled up next to Wes and braked abruptly. The passenger side window zoomed down.

  The driver was bald and skinny, with poppy eyes. “Wesley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get in.”

  When he hesitated, the van started to pull away.

  “Wait!” He opened the door and swung up into the seat before the van was moving again.

  “I’m Nick,” the driver said, wrangling the large steering wheel. The area behind the front seats was an organized office, with built-in cabinets and computer equipment. A heavy-set guy with glasses sat behind a desk typing on a keyboard.

  “Chance said you need an ID?” Nick asked, pulling into traffic.

  “Yeah. One good enough to pass muster in the casino.”

  “That’s all we do, man. You got the cash?”

  “Three hundred, like you told my buddy.”

  “With that baby face, it’ll be five.”

  Like he had a choice. “Okay.”

  He’d had the forethought to transfer ten of the two hundred fifty Franklins from the Velcro’d lining of his jacket to his wallet. He pulled out five of the bills and handed them to Nick, reveling in the heady feeling. Money was power—he understood why his dad had gone into investment banking.

  Nick used a thin piece of wood to push the bills into the slot of a padlocked metal box that was bolted to the floor, then jerked his thumb toward the back. “Mister will take care of everything. Go on back.”

  Wes duck-walked into the rear of the swaying van and sat where Mister pointed, in front of a screen. Two printers the size of washing machines took up a good portion of the floor space. The cabinets were stocked with plastic cards, seals, and various inked stamps. This was a high-tech operation.

  “Did you bring your real driver’s license?”

  Wes removed the card from his wallet and handed it over.

  “Atlanta, Georgia. I suggest a driver’s license from a southern state to go with your accent. How about Alabama?”

  “That works,” Wes said.

  The guy tapped a few keys, and a template for an Alabama driver’s license appeared on one of the flat screens. He started typing in Wes’s name.

  “Shouldn’t I use a fake name?”

  “It’s up to you, but it’s better to use your own name in case someone asks to see a credit card or something else with your name on it to corroborate your ID.”

  Wes pursed his mouth and nodded.

  “Age.” The guy looked at him over top of his glasses. “I wouldn’t go more than twenty-six.”

  “Okay.”

  “Give me a street address you can remember, but doesn’t belong to anyone you know.”

  He could remember something relating to Meg. “Sixty-nine Vincent Street.”

  The guy frowned. “Sixty-nine is the most commonly used street number on fake ID’s. Give me another number you can remember, Casanova.”

  “Thirty-six.” Meg’s bra size.

  “Thirty-six Vincent Street. What town? Should be a real town in Alabama, smaller is better.”

  “Ozark.”

  “Ozark, Alabama,” Mister said, typing and nodding. “Not bad.” He pulled out a drawer full of folded T-shirts in all colors and designs. “Take off your jacket and put on one of these shirts.”

  “Why?” Wes asked, panicked.

  “It’s really better if you’re wearing something different in your ID picture than what you’re wearing when you present it.”

  “Oh.” They’d thought of everything. He slipped off the jacket and pulled a plain brown T-shirt over the gray Skrillex T-shirt he wore.

  Mister pointed. “Look into that camera and give me an expression like you’ve been standing at the DMV all afternoon.”

  He heard a click.

  “Okay, now sign your name on this digital pad.”

  Wes did.

  “Take off the T-shirt, and sit tight for ten.”

  “You’re sure this will fool the casino?” Wes asked.

  “If you get banned from a casino,” Mister said, “it’s something you did, not me.”

  Fascinated, Wes watched as the man created the fake driver’s license layer by layer. He’d prided himself on creating authentic-looking fake tickets back when Carlotta was party-crashing, but this was hardcore. When the license came out of the printer, Wes couldn’t believe it. “It looks perfect.”

  “Which you don’t want,” Mister said. “The issue date is over a year ago, so we need to make this look like a year-old driver’s license.” He dropped it on the dirty black floor of the van and stepped on it a couple of times, ran a piece of sandpaper over the edges, then used a curling iron to put a bend in it like Wes’s real driver’s license.

  “That way it looks like it’s been in your wallet. By the way, always keep your fake ID in your wallet—flags go up when people pull their ID out of a pocket. It’s too convenient. And keep your real driver’s license in a separate place so you don’t accidentally flash both licenses.”

  “Got it,” Wes said, feeling a rush of adrenaline.

  “Also, this is important—you can’t use it for twenty-four hours.”

  Wes’s shoulders fell. “Twenty-four hours?”

  “It’s the smell,” Mister said. “The heated plastic has a distinctive odor that’s a dead giveaway to the bouncers, but it wears off in twenty-four hours. Do not try to use it before then, capiche?”

  “Yeah,” Wes groused.

  Mister handed over the fake license like the gift it was. “You’re all set. You can go back up front.”

  “Thanks, man.” Wes awkwardly made his way back to the front seat just as Nick was pulling the van to a stop at the same place where he’d picked Wes up. They had been moving the entire transaction.

  “So long,” Nick said. “Tell Chance thanks for the referral.”

  “Will do.” Wes opened the door, climbed out, and closed the door behind him. The van wasted no time in pulling away.

  Wes turned to walk back toward the hotel entrance with a spring in his step. Even faced with a twenty-four-hour ban, the excitement of being in a poker game began to bubble in his chest. His hands itched for cards to hold. He’d been waiting for this—the chance to sit in a real Vegas poker game, with real money to back him up.

  He stopped so abruptly, he got a headache. He pulled his hand down his Skrillex T-shirt as a blinding realization hit him. He’d left his jacket in the van—and all the money.

  Wes spun around, sick with panic. Now what?

  As he stood there trying to decide whether to shit his pants or puke on the sidewalk, the burgundy van reappeared next to him. “Forget something?” Nick called.

  His jacket came flying out the window, landing on his head. By the time he clawed his way to daylight, the van was gone again. He frantically examined the jacket lining—still intact, ditto for the cash. Despite the heat, he put it on, weak with relief.

  That was close.

  Chapter 6

  “WES SEEMED ON EDGE at the airport.”

  Carlotta pulled her gaze from Jack, who was phoning hotel security to meet them at the crime scene, back to Coop, who was sipping on his club soda.

  “I’m not surprised,” she said. “It’s one of the reasons I invited him to come with us. He’s been through a lot lately. And he’s upset because Randolph hasn’t let us visit him in jail. I thought a change of scenery would help.”

  “So you still haven’t talked to your dad?”

  The brief conversation they’d had when she and Hannah had infiltrated the prison didn’t really count, but she hedged with a shake of her head. “We still don’t have an explanation of why my parents left, or what happened to our mother.”

  “I’m sorry. You must be going a little crazy. And now this stalker situation, too.”

  “It doesn’t help,” she agreed. “But enough about me—how are things at the morgue?”

  He shrugged. “Same. We’re sup
posed to get a new chief M.E. soon.”

  “And how is Rainie?” Rainie Stephens was a pretty reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution Coop sometimes kept company with.

  “Rainie’s good,” Coop said with a smile. “Rainie’s always good. She’s…easy.”

  As opposed to always being mired in drama, Carlotta thought dryly. Touché.

  Jack hung up the phone and motioned toward the door. “They’ll meet us at the room.”

  Carlotta went around the corner to let Peter know. He had stepped into his dressing room to take the phone call, and his back was to her.

  “—she hasn’t talked to Randolph.”

  Carlotta stepped back, out of sight, her ears piqued.

  “To my knowledge, the son hasn’t talked to him either.”

  Her heart pounded. Who was Peter talking to? And why was he reporting back on her and Wes?

  Peter grunted. “The plan is to be here all week. Do whatever you have to do.”

  She blinked—what did that mean?

  “I need to hang up,” Peter said. “I’ll call you if there are any updates.”

  She backtracked quietly, then tossed, “Let me tell Peter” over her shoulder as if she was just going to fetch him. When she stepped to the door of the dressing room, Peter turned with a smile, his hand over the phone’s mike. He must’ve made another call.

  “Who are you talking to?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Oh…it’s the office.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “Everyone is working overtime to get ready for an audit,” he said in a rush. “Do you need something?”

  “We’re going to do a walk-through of the other room,” she said, sounding amazingly normal. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Should I go, too?”

  “No need,” she assured him. “It’s routine.”

  “When you get back, we’ll go do something fun, just the two of us,” he promised.

  “Sounds good.” She smiled, then turned and headed back to where Jack and Coop were waiting.

  Carlotta put her hand over her mouth to suppress nauseating fear. Flashing dots danced before her eyes. She’d been right to withhold information from Peter about talking to her father and why she wanted to go to Vegas.