Body Movers Books 1-3

“We have another call after this one,” Wesley said to Carlotta. “Coop said he’d give me a ride home.”

“Okay.” She turned to walk up the steep driveway, eager to be away from death and all this talk about the morgue.

“Ms. Wren,” the detective said, catching up to her easily, “how exactly are you acquainted with Peter Ashford?”

Her skin tingled as she pumped her arms to manage the climb in her high-heeled Mary Janes. “Peter and I used to date, ages ago, when we were kids. He’s older and when he went to college, we broke up, just like a million other teenagers.” She was proud of herself for how nonchalant her voice sounded.

“He seemed pretty eager to rekindle your friendship. When was the last time you saw him?”

In another few steps they were at the top of the incline in front of their vehicles. She stopped and turned to face him, breathing hard and blinking into the glare of a street-light. “I’ve seen him twice in the past ten years, Detective, once at the mall when he wasn’t aware of it, and once at a cocktail party.”

“When?”

“Three nights ago.”

His eyebrows climbed. “Is that so?”

“There’s nothing going on between me and Peter Ashford, Detective.”

He studied her as if trying to determine whether she was telling the truth. Then suddenly he leaned forward and she had the insane notion that he was going to kiss her. She jerked back. “What are you doing?”

“What happened to your neck?” he asked, squinting.

She raised her hand to the welts on her skin that still felt raw and tender. Panic bolted through her chest that she bore marks left upon her by a woman who was now dead. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.” She turned and walked to her car, fumbling in her pockets for her keys before remembering she’d left them in the ignition.

He followed her, wearing a dubious expression. She fisted her hand that hid the marks from his prying eyes. “Detective, would you please stop staring at my chest?”

He lifted his gaze, but took his time. “Yes, ma’am. Good night, Ms. Wren. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Stop spying on us. You’re making my neighbor paranoid.”

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d cooperate.”

She glanced at the purse that she’d left on the car seat and thought of the postcard from her parents tucked inside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” he said, then turned and walked toward his own car.

Carlotta stuck her tongue out at his back, then glanced down at the house just as Coop turned the white van around. When he pulled away, the open garage was fully lit, revealing a dark sedan sitting inside. Carlotta recalled the morbid conversation about checking Angela’s car for a suicide note, and grimaced.

But as she stared at the loaner car, a memory chord strummed in the back of her mind. She couldn’t be sure, but the car looked like the one that had nearly run her down in the parking garage today.

She jerked her attention away and hurriedly swung into her car, frantic to be gone. In her haste she nearly flooded the engine, but finally the ignition caught and she pulled away from the house, her hands clammy, her mind ringing with one truth: It was a good decision to have kept her mouth shut about her run-in with Angela, or that pesky Detective Terry might try to implicate her in the woman’s death by pointing out that she had plenty of motivation for wanting Angela dead.

Carlotta rubbed at her temple where a headache had settled. As if she didn’t already have enough problems to deal with.

15

From his seat in the van, Wesley watched his sister careen out of the neighborhood and shook his head.

“She’s in a hurry,” Coop observed wryly.

“I guess this scene shook her up. She was engaged to that Ashford guy.”

“Hmm.”

“Kind of weird that she ran into him just a couple of days ago, then again tonight, huh?”

“Hmm.”

“And now his wife is dead.”

“Hmm.”

Wesley looked at his boss. “Are the husbands usually that calm in a situation like this?”

Coop took his time answering. “Not usually, but sometimes. Ashford looked drunk to me.”

Wesley stabbed at his glasses. “Well, I didn’t like the way he cozied up to Carlotta, seeing as how his wife isn’t even in the ground.”

“It’s good that you watch out for your sister,” Coop said with a little smile, “but I have the feeling that she can take care of herself.”

His mind flew to the disheveled state of Carlotta’s clothing when she’d arrived home. What had she said? That she’d walked out in front of a car when she’d left work and had decided to sacrifice her outfit.

No way would Carlotta sacrifice her outfit unless she truly thought she was going to bite a car grill.

And even though it was probably some soccer mom from Alpharetta trying to beat rush-hour traffic, there was the possibility that it had been someone who’d targeted her, someone who wanted to scare her, to send a message…to him. A sour taste backed up in his mouth. He’d heard rumors about The Carver running people down, and the bumper on his black Caddy did look as if a few objects had bounced off it.

“Say, Coop, do you know where I could get a gun?”

Coop’s head pivoted. “Why on earth do you need a gun?”

Wesley shrugged. “You know—for protection.”

“You’re on probation, chief, or have you forgotten? Besides, I think you’re overreacting on the protective-brother thing.”

He chewed on his response for a while, then decided to talk to Coop man-to-man. “Look, I owe money to some bad dudes. One of them keeps showing up at the house and hassling my sister. I just want to be able to protect her, if necessary.”

Coop scowled. “Maybe you should call the police.”

“Yeah, right. And the next body-moving call you get will be me.”

Coop didn’t respond and Wesley wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. His buddy Chance would probably know where he could get a gun with no questions asked. “That detective back there, he’s the guy who arrested me. Jerk.”

“Jack Terry? We don’t always see eye to eye, but he’s usually just doing his job.”

“He called you doctor, just like that lady at the nursing home.”

“Uh-huh.”