8 Bodies is Enough--for Amazon

by Stephanie Bond

  “Your sisters I met at the wedding trade show seemed nice.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re not going to tell me anything about your family?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  Carlotta crossed her arms. “We need to talk about something for eight hours.”

  “Have you popped Peter’s cherry yet?”

  “Hannah,” she scolded, but she couldn’t help laughing.

  “I take that as a ‘no.’”

  “We’re working our way up to it,” Carlotta murmured. “We’ve both been preoccupied.”

  “Any word on the dead guy’s identity?”

  “Not yet. Jack and Coop are working on it.” She studied her cuticles. “Speaking of Jack…”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He and I talked. About the baby.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he was sorry he hurt me, that it was one night with Liz and it wasn’t supposed to be any more than that. He said something cryptic, that maybe he’d been trying to prove something to himself.”

  “Oh, no, he didn’t pull the non-apology-apology trick, did he?”

  “The what?”

  “In one breath, he said he was sorry, but in the next he tried to make you think he slept with Liz because he was trying to prove he’s not in love with you. So really it’s your fault Liz is pregnant.”

  Carlotta frowned. “Damn him. I can’t believe I fell for that. I actually felt sorry for him.” She banged her fist on the dashboard. “What an asshole. He even insinuated that Peter is a cold fish.”

  “Well, I have to agree with Detective Asshole on that one. Wait—we have a customer.”

  Carlotta yanked her binoculars back to her face to see a person opening the door of the shipping business. “It’s a woman. But we’re not sure who we’re looking for, so keep an eye on what she carries out.”

  “You keep watching,” Hannah said. “Someone just parked and is walking past the car, so I’m pretending I’m on my phone.”

  Carlotta tensed. “Do they look suspicious? Just because we didn’t see anyone following us doesn’t mean they didn’t.”

  “No. He looks like a tourist, probably trolling for drugs—or a hooker. We’re good, he didn’t even look this way.”

  “Phew—good.”

  “We were careful. The car’s in my name. And do you really think someone would make you leaving the hotel in that blond wig?”

  “I guess it depends on the sophistication of the people who might be watching me.”

  It occurred to her if Peter was reporting back to someone on her actions, he could report she was good at evading detection with costumes.

  A movement at the door caught her attention. “The customer’s leaving.” She trained the binoculars on the woman’s hands, then sighed. “But she’s carrying only a few envelopes.” She lowered the binoculars.

  “At least we know our system works,” Hannah said. “No way is someone getting out of there with your package without us seeing them. Here comes another customer. This one’s carrying a box.”

  And so it went for several hours—customers coming and leaving, each without the package. The girls ate snacks and made coffee runs and took bathroom breaks. They talked about everything from Hannah’s new loft apartment in Atlanta to shows they were watching to when and if Carlotta should tell Wes about what she was doing.

  “If I find our mother, then of course I’ll tell him,” she said.

  “And if you don’t find your mother?”

  “Then he doesn’t have to be subjected to yet another disappointment.”

  “Wes might be stronger than you give him credit for.”

  “I see glimpses of maturity,” Carlotta admitted. “But when it comes to our parents, I think he’s still a nine-year-old boy desperate for Mommy and Daddy to come home. I mean, that sad little Christmas tree in the living room says it all, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s a little messed up,” Hannah agreed.

  This exercise had resurrected a lot of memories of what life had been like after her parents had left—the initial panic, then slipping into survival mode, then the slow, sick realization she and Wes were on their own. Looking back, she didn’t know how they’d made it through. But they had—and they deserved answers.

  She’d never forgive Randolph if he died and took those answers to the grave.

  “At least Wes is trying to have some fun,” Carlotta said. “He said he and Chance were going to an amusement park today.”

  “At least they’re syncing their stories,” Hannah said dryly.

  Carlotta ignored the niggle of worry in her stomach where Wes was concerned. Instead she imagined the look on his face when she told him she’d found their mother.

  When the clock crept into the last hour, though, her energy was fading—along with her optimism. She had resigned herself to coming back the next day for more of the same, when a wave of customers arrived who must have left work at five. Both she and Hannah were scanning frantically to keep up with the activity.

  Suddenly, a brown package delivery truck pulled up in front of the door, blocking their view.

  “Shit. What do we do now?” Hannah asked.

  “You keep your eye on the customers who exit to the left, and I’ll watch the customers who exit to the right.”

  While the driver unloaded packages from the rear of his truck onto a hand cart, the girls were glued to the activity of the customers emerging from behind either side of the truck.

  “Wait,” Hannah said. “Guy in the blue shirt—I think he’s carrying your package.”

  Carlotta yanked her binoculars to the left, scanning for the person Hannah described. Man…wearing a blue shirt…and he was definitely carrying her package.

  “That’s it.” Carlotta’s heart raced.

  “Holy shit, he’s coming this way.”

  They lowered their binoculars and watched the man walk within a car’s length of the SUV. He was perhaps forty, fit and well-groomed, with neat brown hair. He wore dark sunglasses and moved with quiet authority. He stopped next to a white BMW sedan parked in the row behind them, and perused the package, even gave it a shake.

  “Do you recognize him?” Hannah whispered, as if he could hear them.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to confront him?’

  “No,” Carlotta said. “It would be too easy for him to say he doesn’t know Randolph or Valerie and simply leave. Let’s follow him.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Hannah said, yanking her seatbelt down for a click.

  Carlotta did the same. “Wait until he gets in his car before you turn over the engine so we don’t attract attention.”

  “Got it. This is so exciting!” Hannah whacked the steering wheel, blasting the horn.

  The man’s head whipped around to stare at their car.

  “Sorry,” Hannah whispered.

  “Just stay calm. No sudden movements.”

  After a few seconds, he unlocked his car and set the package in the back seat, then climbed behind the wheel. When the car backed out of the parking spot, Carlotta said, “Now.”

  Hannah turned over the engine and put both hands on the wheel like a driver’s ed student. “Go?”

  “Yes, go! He’s turning right. Try to put a car or two between us if you can.”

  They pulled out of the parking lot and followed the BMW at a respectable distance…to the grocery store where they waited for forty-five minutes for him to emerge. Then to the pharmacy, where they waited another thirty minutes.

  “He’s getting in all his errands,” Hannah grumbled.

  Next he drove to a casual sit-down restaurant chain.

  “Shoot,” Carlotta said. “How long will this take?”

  “No, look—he’s pulling into the takeout parking.”

  Sure enough, he emerged a few minutes later carrying two large bags.

  “You don’t think he’s noticed us, do you?” Hannah asked.

  “No.
You’re doing great, like you’ve been stalking people all of your life.”

  “Thanks,” Hannah said happily.

  When he left the restaurant, they followed him to a residential area of older neighborhoods and mid-size cookie-cutter houses. Since traffic was lighter, it was harder to keep him in sight without being too obvious. After a series of turns, the car veered down a street that frankly, looked like all the others around it.

  “Welcome to Stepfordville,” Hannah muttered.

  Dusk was starting to set when the BMW slowed and turned onto a concrete driveway in front of a small ranch house. The garage door opened, the car disappeared inside, then the door lowered.

  “Drive by the house,” Carlotta directed. But she could barely get the words out, her throat was so tight.

  The home looked well-kept but was otherwise unremarkable. There were two lights on in the house, and as they drove by, another one came on.

  “Turn around and go back.”

  Hannah maneuvered the SUV around a cul-de-sac, then headed back. When they reached the house again, Carlotta said, “Pull into the driveway.”

  “Okay.” Hannah sounded wary, but complied, then brought the car to a stop. “Now what?”

  “Now,” said Carlotta, opening the door, “I’m going to knock.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “No,” she said, then quietly closed the car door.

  From the driveway, a narrow rock path led to the front door of the house. She could barely hear her footsteps against the stones because the blood was roaring in her ears. Carlotta stepped up to the door, lifted her hand, and rang the doorbell.

  And waited.

  Chapter 11

  WES NURSED A RUSH OF ADRENALINE when the dealer slid the white button to the front of the sizable pile of chips he’d accumulated. The dealer button meant he’d act last on the deal, which is the position he liked best, especially at a four-hand table.

  Not that he needed the advantage—he’d pretty much been playing perfect poker in the room all day. He’d started slow the night before, buying only a few hundred dollars’ worth of chips, but as his luck and confidence had grown, he’d pulled more cash from his jacket to hand to the dealer in exchange for chips of larger denominations.

  He knew it was unlucky to count his chips before taking them to the cashier, but he guessed he’d already doubled his money.

  And it was only Tuesday.

  He wondered if other players in the room were talking about him yet—the new guy who couldn’t seem to lose. He couldn’t wait to tell Meg that not only did he play in one of the biggest poker rooms in Vegas, but he won big. His backpack vibrated and he checked to see if she or Carlotta were trying to reach him, but it was only Mouse’s phone again. Irritated, Wes powered it down.

  “Whatcha drinkin’?” a busty waitress asked.

  “Uh, Coke Zero.”

  “C’mon, it’s on the house,” she said with a wink. “Live a little.”

  “Okay. I’ll have a beer.” He pulled out his wallet to flash his fake driver’s license. “I’m twenty-six.”

  “So I see. But we don’t card in here—we know you were carded at the door.” She grinned and said she’d be right back.

  “I think she likes you,” Chance said from the next seat. “She didn’t offer me a free drink.”

  “You can have mine when she brings it.”

  “You’ve taken enough of my money,” Chance groused. “The least you can do is get me a beer. You’re on fire, man.”

  “Why don’t you find a black jack table?” He didn’t like taking his friend’s money—plus Chance was lousy at poker.

  “I might, after this hand. Dude, that five-hundred-dollar investment was worth it, huh?”

  “Yeah. I guess it passed the sniff test.”

  “Place your blinds,” the dealer announced.

  The two players to the right of Chance would act on the hand first, so they placed the small blind and big blind bets, five hundred and one thousand, consecutively.

  “Dealing,” the dealer announced.

  Two cards were dealt face-down to all four players. Wes curled up the corners of his cards—jack of spades and ten of hearts—and was satisfied. The first position player called to the big blind, the second player checked, and Chance folded—much to Wes’s relief. Wes called the big blind, and raised five hundred. Players one and two called his raise.

  “Burn,” the dealer announced, and put the top card from the deck under Chance’s folded cards. “Here comes the flop.”

  He dealt three cards face-down on the table, then flipped them over and spread them out: five of hearts, jack of hearts, and queen of diamonds. They were community cards each player could use to build a winning hand.

  Wes liked his pair of jacks. Player one bet another five hundred, player two called, Wes called and raised another five. Player one folded. Player two called his raise.

  The dealer burned another card. “Here’s the turn.”

  He dealt a fourth community card face-up—the jack of diamonds. Wes schooled his face so he didn’t betray his three of a kind.

  The other remaining player hesitated. His pile of chips was getting smaller and Wes knew he was trying to decide whether to walk away with rent money or maybe lose it all. Finally he bet one hundred. Wes called and raised five hundred. The guy squirmed, then called.

  The dealer burned another card. “There’s the river.”

  He dealt a fifth community card—queen of clubs.

  Bummer. With two queens showing, his opponent could have three or even four of a kind, both of which would beat his three jacks. But those were the only two hands that could beat him. The guy’s leg was jumping—his tell. He didn’t have it.

  The guy bet his last seven hundred. Wes called.

  “What do you have, sir?” the dealer asked Wes’s opponent. Since he placed the last bet, it was his game to lose.

  “Three of a kind.”

  Wes’s heart dropped, until the guy turned over two fives to go with the five in the flop.

  The dealer gave Wes a questioning look.

  “Three jacks,” Wes said, turning over his pocket cards.

  The other guy’s shoulders dropped and Chance whooped. “Man, you can’t lose!”

  Wes allowed himself a grin as the dealer pushed the pot to him—he had to admit it felt pretty good to be catching good cards at a high-limit table in a swanky poker room. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a Franklin, and handed it to the dealer with a wink. The guy thanked him for the tip and folded it into his pocket.

  The busty waitress was back. “Here’s that beer, honey.” She set it in front of him and gave him a panoramic view of her cleavage.

  “And here’s something for you,” Wes said, pulling out another hundred for her.

  “Thank you!” She beamed and tucked the bill in her little apron, then reached for his hand and turned it over. “This is my number—call me later if you want to hang out.”

  Wes stared at the phone number she’d written on his palm in black ink. “Okay.”

  She gave him a little wave before moving off.

  He watched her wiggle away and grunted. Meg who?

  “We oughtta move out here,” Chance said. “There’s so much freaking money floating around. And with your card skills, man, you’d be rich in no time.”

  Wes pursed his mouth and thought about Mouse accusing him of skipping town. The man was right—he didn’t have much keeping him in Atlanta. His dad might not make it and didn’t want anything to do with him anyway…Carlotta was engaged to Peter…and Meg wasn’t giving him any hope.

  “Let’s do it,” Wes said with a shrug. “In fact, why bother going home at all? I love this place!”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Wes turned around to see two security guards in a wide-legged stance. This couldn’t be good.

  “We need you to come with us.”

  “What—”

  Before he could get anothe
r word out, they had each grabbed an arm and were helping him along.

  “Get my chips,” he yelled back to Chance.

  “That won’t be happening,” one of the guards said. “Pick up your feet.”

  Since the alternative was to be dragged, Wes began to trot to keep up with the behemoths. His face burned as he was paraded through the casino while everyone stared and pointed.

  He was escorted down a long hallway to a grim chamber that was as intimidating as any police interrogation room. The security guards ordered him to sit in a chair behind a table and keep his hands in sight. They put his backpack in a wire cage as if it was an animal that might try to escape.

  “Slow crime day, guys?” he asked.

  “Shut up,” they said in unison.

  A few minutes later the door opened and a craggy-faced man wearing a gray sport coat walked in with a scowl and a swagger. “What’s your name, son?”

  Wes swallowed hard. “Wesley. Wren.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta, Georgia. Mighty hot there.”

  Wes pursed his mouth and nodded, then realized with a thud he should’ve told them the town on his fake ID—Ozark, Alabama. Crap.

  “I’m Captain Pace of the Las Vegas Police Department.”

  “Captain?” Wes gave a little laugh. “No offense, but don’t you think all of this is a little overkill?”

  “Overkill?”

  “I mean, there are no victims here. I spent a lot of money in this casino, and I won a lot of money. And I tipped really well—ask anybody. The way I see it, this is a win-win situation.”

  “Is that right?” the captain asked, seeming amused.

  Wes was glad the guy was lightening up. “In fact, I’ll forego my winnings if you’ll let me walk out of here with the money I brought with me.”

  “That sounds like a deal,” the man said with a nod.

  Wes exhaled in relief. “Just don’t tell my sister.”

  “Is your sister involved in this?”

  “No—not at all. And this has nothing to do with the dead guy that showed up in her hotel room.”

  The man frowned. “Dead guy?”

  A hot flush began to creep up Wes’s face. “Like I said—no connection.”