5 Bodies To Die For

She glanced around her room with an eye toward what the police would find that might make her uncomfortable.

Her teenage diaries.

Carlotta moved toward the dresser. She’d found them when she’d unearthed the charm bracelet that her father had given her. She couldn’t remember the exact contents of the diaries, but since they’d encompassed her burgeoning relationship with Peter and the time immediately after her parents’ disappearance, she didn’t want strangers analyzing her personal drama for their own entertainment.

She pulled out the diaries—one for each year of high school—and stowed them under clothes in her suitcase. When she started to close the dresser drawer, she suddenly noticed the corner of a file—her father’s client file that Wesley had stolen from Randolph’s attorney, Liz Fischer. She didn’t want it to wind up in the wrong hands. So she slipped in the file, then closed the bag and zipped it shut. Moving in with Peter was the right decision, Carlotta told herself. She desperately needed a change of venue.

Carlotta picked up her cell phone to check for messages and frowned. Meanwhile, where was her brother and why wasn’t he returning her calls?

2

Wesley was valiantly trying not to throw up. He’d passed on a drive-through lunch in anticipation of the job that he’d spent hours working up his nerve for, and it was a good thing, too.

The severed head at his feet looked like a prop for a haunted house. The edges of the neck skin were black with dried blood and curled, like a macabre ruffle. Red and white strings of sinew dangled out of the gaping hole that had once connected the head to a torso. The head’s eyes were partially open, and the skin was dark in places, hinting of a beating the man had received before he’d taken his last breath. The sparse, dark hair was a matted mess, caked with dirt and blood.

Wesley stood holding pliers, giving himself a pep talk. Mouse had ordered him to remove the head’s teeth, which would make it harder for the cops to identify the head if it was found. This wasn’t what Wesley’d had in mind when he’d agreed to go undercover in The Carver’s loan-shark organization in exchange for having charges of attempted body snatching downgraded to a misdemeanor and additional hours added to his community service. By offering his services to Mouse to help him collect on overdue accounts, he’d hoped to kill two birds with one stone—fulfill the D.A.’s demands while clearing his own debt to The Carver. When he’d balked at performing the grotesque act, Mouse had told him he had Wesley’s jacket with the dead man’s blood on it. Wesley believed him. When he’d tried to recover his confiscated jacket from Mouse’s trunk, he’d found a severed finger inside.

“Just do it,” Mouse yelled. He stood nearby eating a Big Mac and fries.

They were on an abandoned construction site in east Atlanta where the city leaders’ overly optimistic projections of growth had led to lots of digging, followed by lots of reneging. The site was deserted, hemmed in by a few trees, but there were no people or houses within sight. Just baked dirt, tinged red with Georgia clay, as far as the eye could see.

“Have you done this before?” Wesley asked his companion.

“Oh, yeah. You get used to it.”

Wesley gagged.

“You’re thinking about it too much, little man. Fucking do it already.”

Wesley took a deep breath and lowered the safety glasses over his eyes. Then he knelt on the ground, averted his gaze and felt for the man’s mouth. The dead flesh was cold and pulpy and the head reeked, like a rancid piece of meat. Wesley groped until he found the mouth, then pried open the stiff lips. He glanced down and grew light-headed at the sight of his hands in the mouth of the disembodied head.

“Start with the front ones,” Mouse advised, chewing on his burger. “They snap off like dried corn.”

Wes swallowed hard and positioned the pliers with a shaking hand around one of the big square front teeth. The stretching and pulling had made the man’s eyelids pop open, revealing his cloudy irises. Wesley squeezed the pliers, but when he pulled up, the head slid against the ground and spun out of his grasp, rolling like a melon.

Mouse belly laughed, obviously enjoying the show.

Wesley wrestled the head back in position, then put it between his knees to hold it still. Panicky and sickened, he repositioned the pliers and pulled as hard as he could. Something pinged against his safety glasses, and when he looked down, half of the tooth was gone. Bile backed up in his throat, but before he could change his mind, he broke off the other half of the tooth and dropped it in the Micky D’s disposable cup that Mouse had conveniently provided.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Mouse urged him on.

One by one, Wes rid the head of its teeth. Some of them broke off, and some of them came out root and all. There was no blood, thank God, but plenty of flying gum tissue to muck up the safety glasses. Mr. Dead Man had spent a lot of money on his choppers, because he had caps, and two in the back were gold.

“I’ll take those,” Mouse said, extending a handkerchief for Wesley to drop them into.

“What will you do with them?”

“Sell them.”

“Who the heck buys gold teeth?”

“Well, most of our sources have dried up because it’s gotten too risky, but now those companies that buy gold through the mail make it real easy. They send me a postage-paid envelope, I drop in the gold teeth, and a couple of weeks later, I get a check, easy-peasy.”

Wesley’s eyes bulged. “They don’t wonder where you got an envelope full of gold teeth?”

He shrugged. “They don’t care. Ain’t America grand?”

The molars and the wisdom teeth presented the greatest challenge, but by then, Wesley had gotten the hang of it and twisted them out like pulling stumps out of the ground. When he dropped the last tooth into the cup, he sat back on his heels and tore off the safety glasses. The head rolled a quarter turn, its mouth a snaggly hole. Wesley stumbled to his feet, walked to the nearest bush and threw up.

Mouse chuckled, then picked up the cup of teeth and headed back to the Town Car. “When you’re finished, let’s go.”

Wes wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What about the head?”

“Leave it. It’s supposed to be a hundred degrees today—the bugs and the birds will take care of it.”

“What about the skull?”

“Hell, if someone does find it, they’ll probably take it home and put it on their bookshelf.”

Wesley walked back to the car to put the tools and gloves in a bucket in the trunk. He stopped for a moment and let the reality of what he’d done wash over him, then he slammed down the lid with revulsion.

“Hey, take it easy,” Mouse called. “Get in.”

Wes crawled into the front seat, hot and sweaty, the stink of rotting flesh in his nostrils.

“Moist towelette?” Mouse asked, extending one of those little foil packets that barbecue joints pass out to customers.

He took it and tore it open, then unfolded the disposable towel and held it against his face, breathing in the antiseptic smell. God, that was the worst thing he’d ever done. He had a feeling he’d be having nightmares about it for a while. He needed a hit of Oxy, bad. He reached for his backpack just as his phone rang from inside. Wes pulled it out and frowned. The screen said he had eight messages and the incoming call was from Carlotta—something was wrong.

“I need to get this,” he said to Mouse, then flipped up the phone. “Yeah?”

“Wes, where are you? I’ve left you a half-dozen messages.”

“Um, I’ve been working. Is something wrong, sis?”

He listened with incredulity as she told him how she’d discovered that Michael Lane had been living in their parents’ bedroom. He shook his head, his mind racing at the implication—the psycho had been roaming around their house at all hours, doing chores? “That’s crazy. For how long?”

“We think since Friday.”

“Jesus Christ, why aren’t we dead?”

“Good question. Michael obviously had ample opportunity to do whatever he wanted.”

He hated hearing the fear in his sister’s voice. “They don’t know where Lane is?”

“Not yet. But at least Jack knows he’s on the run again, so they have an APB out on him.”

“I’m going to install a security system in the town house,” he said. Guilt tightened his chest. He should’ve done it before now, considering all the trouble the pair had been in lately. He wasn’t doing a very good job of taking care of his sister after years of her taking care of him.

“I think that’s a good idea. But meanwhile, Peter invited me to stay at his house until the dust settles.”

He frowned. “You’re moving in with Peter?”

“I’m staying at his house,” she corrected. “And Jack is having a CSI team go over the town house, so you should come, too. Peter has plenty of room.”

He remembered the man’s huge home from when he and Coop had gone there to remove the body of Peter’s wife after she’d drowned in the pool. “Thanks, but I’ll probably crash with Chance.”

“Okay,” she said, although he could feel her disapproval vibrating over the line. Carlotta didn’t like his buddy Chance Hollander—she thought Chance was a bad influence on him. Little did she know that he’d just performed oral surgery on a severed head while Chance was probably watching cartoons.

“Wes, there’s something else. It looks like Michael stole your money before he left.”

His stomach fell. “No…no…. no. Are you sure?”

“I didn’t touch it, so if it’s gone, that only leaves Michael.”

He leaned his head back and groaned.

“I’m sorry, I know you had plans for that money. But in the scheme of things, we’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah, I know. But still.”

“So, how’s the courier job going?” she asked cheerfully.

He glanced down at the cup of teeth in the console and his intestines cramped. “Fine and dandy.”

“Good. I’ll have my cell phone with me, and here’s the number at Peter’s.”

“Okay,” he said, taking down the information. “Later.”

He disconnected the call and sighed.

“Trouble at home?” Mouse asked.

“You know it.” Now he really needed a hit of Oxy. Reaching into his backpack, he palmed a pill into his mouth and chewed.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Whatever you just put in your mouth, smart-ass.”

Wesley frowned. “What do you care?”

“Didn’t take you for a druggie,” Mouse said, looking almost disappointed.

“Don’t sweat it, man. It’s just something to take the edge off.” He wrapped his fingers around the section of his arm where The Carver had lived up to his nickname by etching the first three letters of his name into Wesley’s forearm after Wesley had humiliated The Carver in a stunt at a strip club. “My arm still hurts, dude.”

“Maybe so, but drugs’ll mess you up.”

Wesley lifted an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’m just saying, little man, watch yourself.”

The cool pleasure of the Oxy coursed through his system, making the day’s events a rosy haze. Still, high or not, he realized that he needed cash, and Mouse wasn’t the kind of guy to pass out bonuses. “Are we through for the day?”

“Yeah. I have to go to my niece’s dance recital. Where can I drop you?”

“Not at the house—the police are there.” Wes lifted his hand. “Don’t ask, man, it’s a long story.” On impulse, he pulled out his phone and brought up Coop’s cell number. After a few rings, Coop answered.

“Hey, Wes, what’s up?”

He wet his lips, suddenly nervous to talk to the man he’d let down by conspiring to steal a body they’d been transporting. “I was wondering if you had any work for me tonight?”

The silence on the other end indicated that Coop wasn’t going to be easily persuaded to trust Wesley again. “I don’t know. We need to talk.”

“Okay, where are you?”

“At the morgue, working in the lab.”

“Can I come by?”

Coop sighed into the phone, then made a frustrated noise. “Uh, sure.”

“Great. See ya.” He closed the phone and glanced at Mouse. “Can you drop me at the morgue?”

Mouse nodded. “Sure.”

“Turn at the next street.”

Mouse laughed and put on his signal. “I know the way, little man. I know the way.”

Wesley swallowed, picturing Mouse driving by the morgue and pitching out bodies like apple cores. He leaned his head back on the headrest. What had he gotten himself into?

3

“When you pull up to the gate,” Peter said, “just enter my code—four three nine nine.” He demonstrated. “And the gates will open.”

They did, swinging back like great black wings, welcoming Carlotta into the privileged neighborhood of Martinique Estates. Peter’s Porsche two-seater surged forward, like a giant cougar. The guard at the pristinely designed gatehouse waved as they drove by.

Cruising past palatial custom homes, Carlotta was struck with a sense of déjà vu. She and her family had once lived in a private subdivision like this one. They’d belonged to the neighborhood pool and volleyed on the neighborhood tennis courts. But these days, in addition to the multiple pools and other shared amenities, individual home owners, like Peter, were likely to have their own pool and their own private add-ons.

Each home was its own little estate.

When he pulled in to the downward-sloping driveway of his sprawling brick home, Carlotta had to catch her breath. She had seen it before, of course, but not in daylight, and not through the eyes of someone who would be living there. The house was impressive, with a paved circular driveway in front that featured a huge fountain, with wide steps leading to the two-story entryway. Palladium windows and gleaming white trim gave the eye a pleasing break from the intimidating mass of brick. The landscaping was lush and flawlessly manicured.

To the right of the house was the pool. Carlotta was glad it was daylight. The memory of seeing Peter’s wife, Angela, lying under night-lights next to the pool where she’d drowned was branded onto Carlotta’s brain. But in the brightness of day, with the sun high and the trees full, it was tempting to believe that the tragedy hadn’t happened in this perfect neighborhood.

Peter touched a button on his visor and one of the doors to a four-car garage opened, revealing his other vehicle, an SUV. She assumed he’d sold Angela’s Jaguar.

“My insurance company is sending a rental car tomorrow,” she murmured, remembering her own transportation situation. As much as she’d hated the blue Monte Carlo, she hadn’t wanted to see it blown to smithereens, not when she owed more on it than it was worth.

“Nonsense,” Peter said. “You can drive the convertible, or the SUV, whichever you prefer.”

“Peter, I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Otherwise one of them will just be sitting in the garage while you drive a rental. That doesn’t make sense.”

She hesitated. “It just doesn’t seem right. People will talk.”

“People are going to talk anyway.” He gestured to another house before pulling in to the garage. “My next-door neighbor is in the Junior League, so I figure Tracey Lowenstein will know about our situation in less than twenty-four hours.”

Tracey Tully Lowenstein, renowned socialite and daughter to Walt Tully, Carlotta’s godfather and her father’s former partner at what used to be Mashburn, Tully & Wren Investments. When Carlotta’s father had been indicted for fraud, the name Wren had been removed from the firm’s letterhead, and from the Buckhead social register. Tracey seemed single-handedly determined that Carlotta would not be readmitted to the upper echelon.

“And I don’t care,” Peter added, putting the car into Park and turning off the engine.

“I have to buy a car soon, or get the Miata fixed.” Although one would probably cost as much as the other. And with her wrecked credit still on the mend, she probably wouldn’t qualify for a new car loan—or for financing to get the Miata repaired.

“You don’t have to rush into anything,” he said. “While you’re here, use the extra car.”

Carlotta pressed her lips together. His argument seemed logical, but Peter always seemed logical. It was how he had talked her into accepting a cell phone on his plan, because the incremental cost to him was negligible, while she couldn’t get a new one until her credit mess was straightened out.

He reached over to cover her hand with his. “Let me spoil you, Carly.”

His blue eyes were so sincere. Shortly before Angela’s death, she had run into Peter at a cocktail party she’d crashed and thought she would die from wanting him. He had turned out to be everything they had planned he would be—successful and wealthy. Married and living in a world that had shunned her, he had seemed so far out of her reach. But he’d kissed her that night, had told her that his marriage to Angela wasn’t good, and that he wanted Carlotta back in his life. When Angela had died a violent death and Peter had been blamed, it seemed that once again, all was lost…especially when Peter had confessed to his wife’s murder. But in the end, it was revealed that Angela had been living the double life of a Buckhead housewife and a high-class call girl. Peter had confessed to protect the reputation of a woman he felt he’d driven to reckless behavior with his indifference.

The experience had endeared him to Carlotta, and even though he came out of it a free man, she had felt that it was too soon, that they were both too raw to resume their relationship. And then there was Jack…and Coop…

“Drive the Porsche,” he said, gesturing to the interior of the luxurious car. “Have fun.”

“What if I do something to it?”

“That’s what insurance is for.” Then he winked. “Besides, if I can’t get you to fall in love with me again, maybe you’ll fall in love with my car.”

She laughed and stroked the armrest. “It is beautiful.” Then she smiled. “Okay, but only until I get the Miata fixed.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go inside. I’ll get your suitcase.”

Carlotta stepped out of the car and glanced around the garage that was nearly as big as the town house she and Wesley shared.

“I’m starved,” Peter said, energetically pulling her bulky bag out of the small car trunk. “I think that zap you gave me stirred my appetite. I was thinking of grilling out by the pool. How does that sound?”

Her mouth parted in surprise, then she chided herself. Peter couldn’t very well live in this house and forever avoid the place where Angela had drowned. “That sounds fine. Do you grill?”

He looked sheepish as he moved toward the door leading to the house. “I’m learning, if you don’t mind being a test subject.”

She laughed. “I don’t mind. Wesley does all the cooking in our house.” She hesitated before following him inside, feeling self-conscious. She stepped into what appeared to be a mudroom that contained a door to a powder room and a wide closet.

“The laundry room is behind those doors,” he said, pointing. “My housekeeper, Flaur, will take care of your clothes.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she said quickly. Except for the clothes that Michael Lane had inexplicably washed, dried and folded while she and Wesley were away from the house, she was accustomed to taking care of her own laundry.

In the mudroom, several of Peter’s jackets hung on a Peg-Board and a couple of pairs of knockabout shoes sat on the floor. They walked through another door to enter a spacious great room, which brought back more memories of that night. Straight ahead was a jaw-dropping kitchen, to her right, a den and sunroom with an eating area, flanked by sliding glass doors that led out to the pool area.

The long wood table in the sunroom was where she’d sat with Peter, consoling him after Angela’s body had been found. The garish “designer” silk flower arrangement that had sat on the table, the one Peter said he and Angela had argued over because of the expense, was gone, replaced by a demure lidded vase. The wall of cherrywood bookshelves in the den above the fireplace were studded with bric-a-brac, but seemed more streamlined than before. Peter had obviously removed some of Angela’s possessions from his home, yet her influence remained in splashes of feminine color and the occasional designer collectible. And in a single framed black-and-white picture of Angela taken in happier times.

Wood-lined ceilings soared overhead, with more wood at their feet, polished to a shine. The first floor also featured a formal living room, a formal dining room, an office, a butler’s pantry and a home theater.

“Wesley would love this,” she said, gesturing to the plasma TV and surround-sound speakers.

“He’s welcome to come over anytime and use it,” Peter offered. “My house could use some living.”

“It’s such a lovely home, Peter,” she said, running her hand over the curved moldings of a chair rail. Every element of every room was finely designed and crafted. “Did you and Angela build it?”

“Yes. Angie selected all the finishing details and the decor.”

The implication hung in the air between them—if they’d married instead, Carlotta would’ve been the one sorting through Italian-tile samples and choosing custom-cabinet hardware. She knew that Peter was wealthy in his own right, and would inherit another fortune when his parents passed, but seeing firsthand how he lived—how she might’ve lived—left her feeling a little light-headed.

“Angela had good taste,” she said finally.

He nodded, then retrieved her suitcase and gestured toward the stairs—one of two staircases, she’d learned during the tour. “I’ll show you your room and you can unpack while I get dinner started.”

She followed him, holding on to the handrail as she climbed the wide staircase. Ahead of her, Peter was animated as he pointed out different rooms and some of the pieces of art that he particularly liked. He seemed almost giddy to have her there, but Carlotta felt a heaviness all around her, as if there was a presence in the house…Angela’s aura.

Then she gave herself a mental shake at her absurdity. Angela was gone, and Peter was ready to move on.

Still…it felt eerie to be given full run of the woman’s house, especially in light of Angela’s outright dislike of her. Carlotta couldn’t blame her, though. During the investigation of the woman’s death, it was revealed that Peter carried a picture of Carlotta in his wallet. Angela must have known, and it had to have eaten at her.

“This is my room,” he said, stopping to allow Carlotta to peek inside. The room was enormous, with an elaborately trayed ceiling and skylight. At the end of the room was a sitting area, with a fireplace and flat-screen TV, with a veranda beyond sets of French doors.

Near the bed, she saw a dressing room through a doorway that she assumed serviced his-and-her walk-in closets. Through another doorway she glimpsed the bathroom and a waterfall shower.

The bedroom furniture was dark and heavy and of the highest quality—the king-size bed alone had probably cost as much as his Porsche, she surmised, picturing Peter’s long frame stretched out on its length. The linens and curtains were earth toned and sumptuous, the inlaid designs in the wood floor a masterpiece. She wondered if he kept the Cartier engagement ring he was “holding” for her somewhere in this room.

“It’s…wonderful,” she murmured, but shrank a little inside, mortified at what he must think of her housing situation. When she moved back to the town house, things had to change.

“I’m glad you like it,” Peter said. “The room I had in mind for you is across the hall.”

She followed him to a set of double doors that opened into a suite that was as light as his was dark. The furniture was maple, the linens fresh and airy, the area rugs plush. It was feminine in every sense, including the enormous closet and the spalike bathroom. Angela’s influence was apparent in every corner of this space. “It’s wonderful,” Carlotta murmured.

“There are three other guest rooms if this one doesn’t suit you, including one in the basement.”