“I’m just happy that he’ll be free on bail.”
“Coop won’t be free on bail,” Jack corrected. “He’ll be under house arrest—big difference. He can’t leave his home, his calls will be monitored, and with that GPS bracelet on his ankle, the GBI will know when he goes to the john.”
“But he’ll be home.”
“And if he has a stash of liquor on hand, he’ll be able to drink himself into oblivion.”
“But he’ll be home,” she insisted.
“Yeah,” he said with a tired sigh. “Home sounds good right now.”
She guessed that meant he was sleeping at the station again. “Home sounds good to me, too,” she murmured, suddenly missing her childish white bed and the sound of Wesley whistling as he made breakfast in their cramped kitchen.
“Hang in there, darlin’. I’m still on the job.”
“I know. And I know deep down, Jack, you believe The Charmed Killer is still out there. Otherwise, you’d have given back my red panties,” she added lightly.
“You don’t think I’d give them back before you go to Vegas, do you?”
“You’d rather I go without?”
A strangled noise sounded over the line. “I gotta go. My burgers are getting cold.”
“Good night, Jack.”
20
Double vision, Wesley decided, wasn’t so bad if he could look at Meg all the time. She sat on one foot at their grubby shared workstation, bobbing her head to the music on her iPod. The tip of her ponytail swung in the air as she looked back and forth between her monitor and the printouts on her desk. His blurred vision exaggerated her movements and the bright colors she wore. He wanted to frame her.
Meg lifted her head from her work, looked at him and removed her earbuds. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“Maybe I like staring at you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe you’re stoned.”
“I’m getting clean.” And he felt like living hell. He’d been tasked to read a manual on database design, reading that would’ve blinded him on a good day, but was impossible with the sludge in his brain. As the hour approached noon, his body screamed for Oxy.
Meg gave him a wry smile. “Well, talk to me when you get clean.”
“Go out with me tonight,” he said impulsively. He wouldn’t be in top form, but he couldn’t get her off his mind. And he was afraid if he sat on his hands much longer, Mark the Metrosexual would plant his flag.
Meg frowned. “You’re seeing someone else—who reeks of bad perfume, by the way.”
A headache landed between his eyes like an axe. He grimaced, but forced himself to talk through the pain. “I’m…not…seeing…anyone. I stopped to see my attorney before I came to the party.”
“On a Saturday?”
“It’s complicated. She was my father’s attorney, so she’s more like a…friend of the family.”
“Liz Fischer. I remember her name from the court records data we went over.”
“Right. She asked me to come by because she’s representing my buddy Cooper Craft.”
“You mean, The Charmed Killer?”
He couldn’t bring himself to think about what Coop had done. “Whatever. Anyway, she wanted to ask me some questions about him. That’s why I was late.”
Meg angled her head. “So how did her perfume get on you?”
“She hugged me before I left. Like I said, Liz is a friend of the family.”
“Why didn’t you say so the night of the party?”
“Because I already had to explain about my probation officer. I was afraid you’d find it kind of…seedy. I know your father already doesn’t like me.”
She pursed her mouth and conceded his remark with a nod. “Lucky for you, I’m not my father.”
His heart lifted with hope, but she narrowed her eyes.
“If you think you’re getting laid, Wren, you’re not. If I decide to give you another chance, it’ll be starting over with a first date, seeing as how you abandoned me at my father’s reception, and the frat party was a bust.”
“Right,” he agreed, nodding like a trained dog.
“So about going out tonight—were you planning to pick me up on your bicycle?”
He flushed and pushed up his glasses. “Uh, I guess I didn’t think it through.”
“It’s okay,” she said with a sigh, then leveled her gaze on him. “I’m going to see an Italian film tonight at Landmark Theater, seven-thirty. If you can handle subtitles, I’ll meet you there.”
He blinked. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Meg glanced at her watch then stood and grabbed her purse. She leaned over as she walked by and murmured, “Bring a kiss.”
Her words lit him up like a bulb. He wanted to follow her out, but he wasn’t sure how his legs would perform once he stood. So he waited until the sound of her footsteps faded, then gingerly pushed to his feet and picked up his backpack. The effort had him sweating profusely, and his vision was still blurred. No way would he make it to his probation meeting with E. without driving his bike into the path of something much bigger and much faster.
He pulled out the empty ink pen where he stored his stash of Oxy. His hands shook so badly, he dropped the pills on the floor and had to scramble to recover them, losing one down the hole of an outlet. He was so rattled, he impulsively chewed an entire tablet, effectively blowing the tapering program he’d had himself on for the past two days. Carlotta’s threat reverberated in his head. His sister had been a lenient guardian for the most part, but he knew when she meant business.
He would start tapering again after his probation meeting, he promised himself, but gave thanks as the sweet, sweet drug zapped his headache instantly and stilled his trembling hands. He double-checked to make sure he had a packet of urine screen to dump into a sample if E. asked for one at the meeting, and by the time he exited the building and unlocked his bike, he was feeling good. Amazing, even. And the promise of seeing Meg that night had him humming dopey rock ballads on the ride to the probation office.
He didn’t even mind the sourpuss at the checkin desk, or the stale odor of the waiting room. He laid his head back and smiled to himself. Oxy was a panacea. The drug gave everything a rosy hue…made him feel as if everything in his life would work out. He’d get to be with Meg, someday play in the World Series of Poker, and his parents would come home. Coop would beat his murder rap, get his job back, and someday marry Carlotta.
It could happen.
“Wren!” the woman at the desk crowed. “You’re up.”
He sauntered back to E. Jones’s office, then rapped on her door.
“Come in,” she called.
When he walked in, E. was standing at a file cabinet. She flashed a quick smile over her shoulder. “Have a seat, Wes. I’ll be right with you.”
He swung into a chair, then straightened, reminding himself that E. had an eagle eye, so he needed to be on his best behavior.
She closed the file drawer and sat down at her desk. Her red hair was pulled back into a tight bun. E.’s movements were jerky and her eyes were red-rimmed. With a start, he also noticed her left hand was bare. Had she given Leonard’s ring back?
“How are you?” she asked with forced cheer.
“Good.”
“How’s your job?”
“My community service job? It’s fine.”
She looked up from the form she was writing on. “I meant your courier job.”
His cover for the work he was doing for the D.A. in The Carver’s organization—even E. didn’t know about it, which was all the better since the lughead she was engaged to also worked for the loan shark. “Oh…the courier job is fine, too.”
She looked over the papers in front of her. “I still need a note from your employer to put in your file. Can you bring it next Wednesday, please?”
He nodded, thinking Jack Terry could probably forge something that looked belie
vable. “I noticed you’re not wearing your engagement ring.”
E. glanced at her finger, then moved her hand to her lap. “It’s being cleaned. So, I hear that your former boss, Dr. Craft, is getting out on bail?”
He nodded. “He was supposed to be released this morning, last I heard.”
E. set down her pen. “How has all this affected you, Wes? Someone you looked up to being charged with such terrible crimes.”
“I…don’t like it. I thought I knew Coop, but I guess I was wrong.”
She looked sympathetic. “We can all be wrong about people.” Then she angled her head and her eyes narrowed. “Wes, are you…on something?”
“No,” he blurted.
“Take off your glasses.”
“Why?” he asked, stalling.
Her gazed was locked on him, her jaw firm. “Because I said so.”
He shifted in the chair, then took off his glasses.
“Look at me,” she demanded.
He lifted his gaze to hers. “I can pee in a cup if you want.”
She gave him a flat smile. “That won’t be necessary.”
He exhaled in relief.
E. picked up the phone on her desk and punched a couple of buttons. “Kathleen, I need you in my office with a kit. Thanks.”
Wesley started to get a bad vibe. “What was that all about?”
“Just sit tight,” she said, making more notes on his file.
“Did you and Leonard have an argument?”
E. didn’t look up, but her mouth tightened. “This isn’t a two-way street, Wesley. My personal life is none of your business.”
The door opened and a thin older woman wearing a scrub top walked in carrying a small bag. She nodded at Wesley. “Roll up your sleeve, please.”
Wes looked back to E. “What’s this?”
“Nurse Kathleen is going to draw blood for a drug test.”
He panicked. “I told you I’d leave a urine sample.”
“This is more accurate,” E. said. “Roll up your sleeve.”
Wes’s mind raced. He was sunk.
E. stood and crossed her arms. “Wesley, roll up your sleeve, or I’ll summon an officer to take you into custody. It’s your choice.”
Wes slowly unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the angry red scars left behind when The Carver had whittled the first three letters of his name into Wes’s flesh.
E. gasped. “What happened to your arm?”
“Paper cuts,” Wes muttered.
As he watched his blood going into the vial, he imagined it shimmering with the drug that made him feel like Superman…and would send him back to jail. Sweat trickled down his back. It was beyond dumb to have dosed before his meeting. After the nurse left, he slowly unrolled his sleeve.
“How soon will you have the results?” His high was plummeting.
“In a few days,” E. said, her mouth contracting downward. “I hope you haven’t been lying to me, Wes.”
He swallowed hard. “Are we finished?”
“Yes. I’ll see you next Wednesday…if not before.”
He got the hell out of there, bursting through the door of the building and into the sunshine to gulp fresh air. Except the summer air was hot and sticky, catching in his throat. He had to lean over to grasp his knees. His mind galloped.
Carlotta would be devastated if he went to jail…and Meg would never speak to him again. His date with her tonight might be the last time he’d get to spend with her—he’d better make the most of it.
“Hey, shithead!”
He turned to see the black Town Car sitting at the curb, with Mouse calling through the window.
“Get in.”
Wesley straightened, then trudged over to unlock his bike. By the time he made it back to the car, Mouse had popped the trunk. Wes stowed the bike inside, then walked around to the passenger side and climbed in.
Mouse grunted and steered the car away from the curb. The big man seemed to be nursing a bad mood, driving for several long minutes in silence. With no fast-food bags in sight, Wes wondered if he was on a diet and cranky from the lack of carbs. Meanwhile, Wes wiped at the sweat on his forehead, already craving another hit of Oxy, and feeling a little light-headed from the blood loss.
“Something wrong?” Mouse snapped, breaking the silence.
Giving in to the panic, Wes put his head down, his elbows on his knees. “Man, I’m screwed.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“My probation officer just drew blood for a drug test.”
“And?”
“And when it comes back positive, my probation will be revoked and my ass is going to jail.”
Mouse made a rueful noise. “Told you drugs would mess you up. What are you on?”
“Oxy,” Wes said. “But I’m trying to quit.”
“Too late for that shit.”
“I guess so,” Wesley said forlornly.
“Besides…you got bigger things to worry about.”
Wesley turned his head. “What?”
Mouse wiped his hand over his jowly face. “Jett Logan came to see The Carver.”
Wesley felt his blood drain to his feet. “I…I thought Logan left town.”
“Changed his mind.”
Panic wrapped around Wes’s lungs and squeezed like a vise. “What did he say about the money he owes?”
Mouse put on his blinker to make a turn, taking his time to respond. Finally, he swung his fat head around to look at Wesley. “Funny thing—he said you tracked him down last Saturday and got it. All ten gees.”
Wesley thought he was going to be sick.
“And then he said he told you about a card game he’d been planning to play in. Said he even gave you the address.”
Wes wet his lips. “I can explain.”
“How much did you lose?”
He wanted to cry. “All of it.”
Mouse spewed a creative combination of curse words that questioned Wesley’s parentage, wisdom, and longevity.
“I’ll pay it all back,” Wes said.
“That’s a given,” Mouse said. “But why the fuck did you lie to me?”
“I didn’t want to look like a screwup. I was high and played like an idiot.”
Mouse backhanded him across the face so hard Wes’s ears rang. “When you lie to me, it looks like I’m lying to The Carver. Now I look like the screwup.”
Holding his head, Wes glanced around and recognized his surroundings with a stabbing fear. The arm bearing The Carver’s scars twinged, reminding Wes of the last time he’d been in this part of town. Like a buffoon, he’d ridden right up to The Carver’s warehouse and offered to turn over a memory chip with incriminating photographs of The Carver that Wes had set up with a transvestite, in return for the loan shark not killing him.
The Carver hadn’t killed him, but he’d held him hostage for twenty-five thousand dollars, and carved a letter in Wesley’s arm for every call he had to make to raise the money—Chance, then Liz, then Peter Ashford. Chance hadn’t been able to get his hands on that much cash within the allotted time, and Liz had refused to be dragged into something unlawful. Peter had come through, though, because he was eager to cozy up to Carlotta’s family.
It had been their secret. Peter had agreed not to tell Carlotta if Wes would help to smooth the way for Peter and Carlotta to get back together. Wes had kept up his end of the deal, interfering when Coop and Carlotta had taken a road trip together, and telling Jack Terry to step back because he couldn’t make his sister happy. The fact that Carlotta had moved in with Peter meant that he’d done a pretty decent job.
But Wes suspected that Peter wouldn’t be able to buy his way out of this one.
To his credit, Mouse looked ill as he pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse. Wes panicked and reached for the door handle to escape.
But the handle had been removed.
“I was afraid you might try to run,” Mouse said with a heavy sigh. “I’m rea
lly sorry it has to be like this.” He parked the car, then heaved his big body out and came around to the passenger side.
Resigned to his fate, Wesley sat there sweating, knowing he was powerless to do anything to escape. And if he did manage to get away, he was only postponing the inevitable.
Mouse opened the door and the look on his face was almost parental—part anger, part disappointment. “Let’s go, little man. Where are your phones?”
“In my backpack.”
“Leave it.”
Too late, he remembered the GPS chip that Jack had inserted in the phone that Mouse had given to Wes, just in case he was ever in trouble. At least they’d be able to find his backpack, he thought hysterically. Maybe they’d put it in his coffin when they couldn’t find anything left of his body to bury.
Wes climbed out of the car, feeling drained. He knew The Carver’s knife waited for him, knew it would be worse this time than last, more creatively cruel.
Mouse patted him down, then grasped his arm in an iron grip and walked him toward the warehouse. The big man unlocked the door and opened it, then shoved Wes inside. It was pitch black, with no windows. Mouse flipped a couple of breakers on a box just inside the door and rows of fluorescent lights came on in grids. The scent of building materials infiltrated Wes’s lungs, along with other sour smells.
He remembered vomiting in the room where The Carver had had him tied to a chair, a room with lots of rust-colored stains on the concrete floor. It had been the drain in the floor that had scared him most, knowing that he could be killed and bled in that room, like an animal, his carcass then cut up and discarded. The Carver didn’t like to be crossed. Wes couldn’t imagine a scenario in which the man would let him live.
The walls were mostly studs, with a sheet of plywood and insulation here and there. A couple of rooms remained from some long ago use. The warehouse seemed to be empty, like the first time Mouse had brought him there. And once again, the big man led Wesley to a cramped little bathroom in the bowels of the building and shoved him inside. The door closed, then the deadbolt turned.
Wes slammed into a wall, then got his bearings and found a light switch. A naked bulb in the ceiling sent a dim glow over the hideous green bathroom. The rickety toilet and leaning sink were sickeningly familiar. Everything was corroded with dirt, and the place reeked of human waste. He lowered himself to the ledge of the nasty bathtub and put his head in his hands. He had no Oxy, no phone, no way out.
6 Killer Bodies Page 17