5 Bodies To Die For

Her eyes widened. “You have a basement?”

He grinned. “Where else would I put the game room and wine cellar?”

“Where else indeed?” Carlotta did a full turn in the center of the room, noticing that she had a veranda of her own, facing the front of the house, where the veranda off Peter’s room faced the rear. “It’s positively lovely, Peter. I feel like a princess.”

“Good,” he said, then picked up a lock of her hair. “You deserve to feel like a princess. Take your time settling in. When you come down, I’ll show you the alarm system so you’ll feel safe when you’re here alone.”

“Okay.” When he closed the door behind him, she fell backward on the luxurious bed, enjoying the bounce of the mattress. She gazed up at a skylight that was lined with prisms, turning the sun’s waning light into a thousand shimmering rainbows. Her life up until now seemed a thousand miles away.

“Oh,” Carlotta sighed, “I could so get used to this.”

4

Wesley waited until the Town Car pulled away, then walked up to the front door of the Fulton County Morgue, a building so nondescript that most people driving by didn’t notice it. He’d never been through the front door before—as a body mover for Coop, he’d always entered through a side or rear delivery door with their solemn cargo. He walked up to a reception desk and flashed his body-hauler ID, then asked for Coop.

“Dr. Craft is in the lab,” the woman at the desk told him. “Sign in and go on back. It’s next to the crypt.”

“Got it,” he said, then signed his name and sauntered back, whistling under his breath. The Oxy seemed to be wearing off more quickly than before—a headache sparkled in his temples and his eyes felt itchy. But he didn’t want to dose before seeing Coop, not when he was trying to prove to the man that he could be trusted again.

He shivered as he walked down the wide, harshly lit hallways—the expression “as cold as a morgue” was no exaggeration. The place was forty fucking degrees. Good for dead people, not so good for people with a pulse.

He found the lab and pushed open the door to the sound of raised voices. On the other side of the room, two men squared off. Tall and shaggy Dr. Cooper Craft, former chief medical examiner, wore a lab coat over jeans and black Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Short and owlish Dr. Bruce Abrams, current chief medical examiner, wore slacks and a sport coat. The slighter, older man was bristling, his birdlike neck stretched forward.

“Cooper, I’ve come to terms with you being here in the lab. But I can’t have you undermining my authority with the other M.E.s.”

Coop shrugged, unfazed. “Then tell your people to stop coming into the lab to ask me questions.”

“They’re accustomed to seeking your approval,” Abrams said. “It’s up to you to remind them that you’re not their boss anymore, that—” The man wiped his hand over his mouth.

“That I’m just a lab rat and a body mover,” Coop supplied. “No problem, Bruce. I didn’t mean to cause you extra trouble. I know you’re swamped with this Charmed Killer business.”

The other man nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Between the police and the media, I’m feeling the pressure.”

“Let me know if can help,” Coop said.

The man jammed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Just stay out of my way.”

Abrams turned and stalked toward the door, flicking his gaze over Wesley before walking past him, out of the room.

Coop lifted his hand to Wes. “Come on in. Sorry about that.”

Wes walked in. “If Abrams doesn’t want you here, how did you get the job in the lab?”

Coop made a rueful noise. “The State Coroner’s Office asked me to come in and tackle the backlog of unsolved cases. It was meant to lighten Abrams’s load, but he doesn’t see it that way.”

Coop moved toward a microscope, as if he’d already dismissed the matter. “Hand me that tray of slides on the table, will you?”

Wes hustled and carried the slides carefully, concentrating in order to control the shaking of his hands.

“Thanks,” Coop said, taking them from him.

He watched as Coop removed a slide, put it under the microscope and adjusted the focus. “Whatcha looking at?”

“DNA samples,” Coop said without raising his head.

“Cool. I thought they had computers to do that stuff.”

Coop gave a little laugh. “Call me old-fashioned. Besides, the morgue doesn’t have the budget of a network television show.”

“Can I take a look?”

Coop shrugged and stepped back. “Sure.” Wesley removed his glasses, then leaned over to press his eye against the eyepiece and turn the smaller fine-focus knob.

“I see you know your way around a microscope,” Coop said.

“I was pretty good in biology. What kind of DNA sample am I looking at?”

“Basic blood sample.”

“What’s it for?”

“I’m trying to identify a body.”

“And this is the only way?”

“It is when there’s no head.”

Wesley jerked up, his mouth suddenly devoid of moisture. “No head?”

Coop walked across the room to a slab where a sheet-draped body lay. He pulled back the sheet and Wesley was able to cover his dismay over the sight of the decapitated, decomposing body by recoiling from the stench.

“Here,” Coop said, handing him an open jar of Vicks VapoRub. “Wipe this under your nose.”

Wesley did, and while the ointment overpowered the stench of decaying flesh, it also went straight to the sensitized nerve endings in his face. His eyes watered and his nose ran like a faucet.

“This guy was found in Piedmont Park, no head and a missing finger,” Coop said, pointing to the missing digit. “I’m hoping his DNA will match something in the system. The computer can do that.”

“What about fingerprints?” Wesley croaked.

“Burned off, probably with acid. Somebody didn’t want this guy identified.”

Bile backed up in Wesley’s throat.

“You okay?” Coop said, then covered the body. “Didn’t mean to shake you up. I thought you were immune to this by now.”

“I’m okay,” Wesley said. “Just out of practice, I guess.” He wiped at his eyes and nose. “I was wondering if I could come back to work with you.”

Coop pulled off his gloves. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Come on, Coop. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t screw up again.”

“I already have another guy working with me. Abrams’s nephew.”

“Is he as good as I am?”

Coop frowned. “No.”

Wes smiled. “There you go. I’m good at this—you said so yourself.”

Coop shook his head, but Wesley could tell he was wavering.

“Will you give me another chance? I could really use the cash to pay on my court fee.”

“Carlotta told me you got a job as a bike courier.”

His cover for working with Mouse and The Carver. “Uh, yeah. But it’s only part-time. I need something in the evenings, and I know that’s when you’re busiest.”

Coop pressed his mouth together, then sighed. “Okay, I’ll give you another chance.”

Wes grinned in relief. “Great. You won’t regret it.”

“I doubt that,” Coop said, then began to store trays of slides. “Beat it, I gotta get out of here.”

“Any chance I could get you to drop me at the police station?”

“You in trouble again?”

“Nah, I just need to talk to Jack about something. No big deal.”

“Okay, let me finish up here.”

“What can I do to help?” Wes hurried to follow Coop’s directions to get the lab back in order. It was the best he’d felt all day. Knowing he was going to work with Coop again gave him something to look forward to.

Now that he and Meg Vincent were on the outs.

Not that they’d ever been on the ins…or anything. His coworker just liked messing with his head.

He used a paper towel to remove the Vicks ointment, then followed Coop to his van, hoping he didn’t look as shaky as he felt. He needed another hit, but he wasn’t going to risk it around Coop.

The interior of Coop’s van was cluttered, which was unusual. Paper coffee cups and crumpled napkins littered the console, as well as several parking receipts from Piedmont Hospital. That was strange. When Coop made pickups from the hospital morgue, he pulled the van around to the rear loading entrance. There were no parking receipts involved.

“So how’s the community service going?” Coop asked when they got underway.

“At ASS?” Atlanta Systems Services. “Fine, I guess. I was off today because they’re doing some construction in the building.” Maybe Meg would miss him, the little tease.

“And your probation meetings?”

“Fine.” Except for the fact that, unbeknownst to his probation officer, her boyfriend was a thug who had it in for him.

Coop shifted in his seat. “How’s Carlotta?”

Wes grinned. “What took you so long? She’s okay. Did you hear that lunatic Michael Lane, the one who tried to throw her over the balcony at the Fox Theater, has been living in our parents’ room and we didn’t even know it?”

“What?”

“Yeah, crazy stuff. They thought he was dead when he jumped off the bridge into the Hooch, but he must’ve survived. Dude sneaked into our place and he’s been living there ever since.”

Coop inadvertently applied the brake. “Did he hurt Carlotta?”

“No. That’s the kicker—he just did a few chores around the house, stole some money and took off. She found his clothes this afternoon and figured it all out.”

“It must’ve been after the memorial service for the A.D.A. I saw her there and she didn’t mention it.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Do they think Lane is The Charmed Killer?”

“I don’t know—maybe. She said that our entire house is a freaking crime scene.”

“Where is she?”

Wesley pressed his lips together. He knew Coop was crazy about his sister. And they might be together now if Wesley hadn’t stowed away on their trip to Florida a few weeks ago and sabotaged their romantic weekend. But prior to that, Peter had gotten Wesley out of a serious jam and he’d promised the man he’d do what he could to keep Coop and Jack away from Carlotta.

“Wes?”

He exhaled. “Carlotta is at Peter’s.”

Coop’s eyes widened. “She moved in with him?”

“More like staying with him, she said. You remember how big the dude’s place is.”

“Not big enough,” Coop muttered as they pulled up to the midtown police precinct.

“I’m staying with my buddy Chance, so call my cell when you need me,” Wes said, opening the van door to swing down. “Thanks for the ride.”

Coop gave him a little salute, but Wes could tell he was preoccupied, thinking about Carlotta staying at Peter’s house. No doubt about it, Coop had it bad for her.

Wes watched the van pull away, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong with Coop. Carlotta was afraid that he was drinking again, and maybe she was right. Or maybe it was the pressure of being back inside the morgue that he had once run. Regardless, Coop seemed a little off his game, and it worried Wes to see him that way.

As Wes turned, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—the black SUV with tinted windows that had been haunting the curb of the town house on and off for weeks. The occupants had never made themselves known, but with the spectrum of trouble he and Carlotta had been in over the past few months, it could be anyone from a testy loan shark to a vengeful murder suspect to a pissed-off mall customer. The SUV pulled away and although Wes craned to see the plate, the vehicle was too far away and moving too fast to make it out.

But since no one was shooting at him, really, how bad could it be?

He strolled into the police station, flirted with Carlotta’s friend Brooklyn who thought he was cute, then got her to call Jack. She buzzed him through a secure door, and when he walked inside, he spotted Jack getting a Coke out of a vending machine.

Jack waved. “Want one?”

“Nah, thanks. You look like hell, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” Jack fed in coins, then retrieved his can and cracked it open. “What’s up?”

Wes held up the red phone that Mouse had given him. “You told me you could have a GPS chip installed in case I got in a jam.” Mouse’s “chore” for him this morning made him nervous about what might be on the horizon. He wanted the security of a panic button.

“Let me get somebody on it,” Jack said, taking the phone. “It’ll take about thirty minutes. Wait here, I need to talk to you.”

Jack disappeared, then returned a couple of minutes later. “Have you talked to Carlotta?”

“Yeah, I know about Michael Lane. That’s some jacked-up shit.”

“Yeah.” Jack’s expression revealed how angry he was that Carlotta had been in danger. Wes couldn’t tell if Jack really liked his sister, or just liked his role of self-appointed protector. “Can you add anything to the story? Do you remember anything strange?”

“Just that little things were getting done around the house. I thought Carlotta was nesting or something.”

Jack frowned. “She said you had some cash in the house that was stolen.”

“Yeah, about ten grand. If you catch the dude, I want it back.”

“Don’t hold your breath. And do I need to remind you that you’re on probation? Gambling is not on the menu.”

“It was just a friendly card game,” Wes said.

“Uh-huh. Listen, about this work you’re doing for The Carver…”

Wesley swallowed past a dry throat, suddenly regretting not taking that Coke. “Yeah?”

“Well, this Charmed Killer case is taking all my time right now, so don’t rush anything. Just network and keep your eyes and ears open, especially when it comes to Hollis Carver’s son, Dillon.”

“Okay, but so far, the only person I’m networking with is Mouse.”

“So chat him up. See what he knows.”

Wesley shifted from foot to foot, not at all sure he wanted to get to know Mouse better. “Did you know that Carlotta moved in with Peter?” he blurted to change the subject.

Jack scowled. “She’s staying with him until this maniac is off the streets.”

Wesley arched an eyebrow. “Is that what she told you?”

A muscle worked in the big man’s jaw. “I’ll go see if your phone is ready.”

5

After several blissful moments of daydreaming, Carlotta pushed herself off the feathery guest bed and unpacked. The few clothes that she’d brought looked pitiful hanging in the expansive closet that also featured a steam-iron press, but it was a treat having so much space. She walked around the suite, exploring every inch.

The room was meticulously clean, but showed signs of having been lived in. Carlotta stepped on something imbedded in the carpet and unearthed a small broken silver pin shaped like a cat, no doubt left behind by a houseguest or perhaps a housekeeper.

She set the pin on the counter in the lavish bathroom and ran her hand along the pale granite flecked with gold. Luxury bath products lined the vanity shelves. Spa-quality towels and a white robe lay folded on the edge of the jet garden tub. She wondered idly if Angela had ever come in here for privacy, sinking up to her neck in bubbles when she had the chance.

And then a realization sunk in—this had been Angela’s room. She and Peter had apparently spent at least some of their marriage sleeping in separate beds. Carlotta felt a pang for the dead woman, sorry that Angela’s life—and death—hadn’t turned out as she’d planned. Carlotta and Angela hadn’t been best friends in high school or afterward when their social paths had diverged, but Carlotta had never wished the woman ill, not even after Angela had married Peter. To be here and uncovering all her secrets…it felt intrusive, almost an insult to the woman’s memory.

The troubling thoughts pushed her out of the room. As she closed the door, she glanced across the hall. While she was appreciative that Peter hadn’t tried to persuade her to share his room, the proximity alone worried her. On top of the nagging sense of betrayal she felt staying in his dead wife’s room, she knew that close quarters had a way of escalating intimacy.

But wasn’t part of her decision to be here with Peter to give them the chance to explore their chemistry?

With her heart and head clicking, Carlotta descended the stairs, once again awestruck over the sheer size of the house. If Michael Lane could live in the town house without her and Wesley knowing about it, a family of five could live hidden in this place without anyone being the wiser.

Through a set of open sliding glass doors leading out onto the pool area, she heard the telltale noises of grill-wrangling. When she stepped outside, she spotted Peter at the far end of the patio, in the outdoor-kitchen area. Mingled scents of chlorine and spices filled the humid air.

He waved her over and, after slipping off her shoes, she made her way across the stone lanai surrounding the breathtaking pool. Crystalline blue water slapped gently against the sides. The memory of Angela lying near the pool’s edge dressed in a black trench coat and boots, her eyes open and staring, rose in Carlotta’s mind. She gave herself a mental shake and walked toward Peter.

She’d forgotten the lavishness of the outside living area—a recent addition, Peter had hinted, that Angela had wanted more than he had. Besides the pool, there was an in-ground hot tub and a waterfall. The landscaping was magnificent, with huge potted trees and urns making it feel like a European villa. And behind the alfresco kitchen that featured commercial-grade appliances and a firebrick oven sat a small building separate from the house—a guest-house-slash-pool house. Allegedly, it’s where Angela had entertained her paying customers.

Carlotta marveled that Peter hadn’t sold the entire property after the whole ordeal, but she rationalized that he must have his own reasons for staying put.

“I forgave her,” he said, as if he could read her mind. He glanced up from the grill where he turned thick steaks and brightly colored vegetables with a pair of tongs. “That’s why I didn’t sell the house…or burn it to the ground.”

Two glasses of red wine sat on the bar. Carlotta slowly climbed onto a stool and reached for one. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

“Everyone else has—my friends, coworkers, my parents, even Angela’s parents. No one can imagine why I’d want to live here after everything that happened.”

“This is your home,” she murmured. “Besides, I’m sure you have good memories here, too.”

He nodded, reaching for the other glass of wine. “A few. But the truth is, Angie and I led separate lives, even when we were both here. I don’t feel bound up in memories because we didn’t make many.” He made a rueful noise. “That probably sounds cold.”

“No, I understand what you’re saying.”

He took a drink from his glass. “Still, even though our marriage wasn’t good for her or for me, I feel obligated to do right by her. And part of that is keeping the house she loved. Plus, I couldn’t stand the thought of ghouls coming round to tour the place, just to see where she’d been murdered. They would’ve, you know. Even her so-called friends were vultures. After she died, they brought food and gifts of condolence, but sooner or later, they were all demanding the gory details. It was sickening.”

Carlotta’s heart squeezed for what he had endured at the hands of people who pretended to be his friends. “I know what that feels like to some degree. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, then smiled. “That’s all behind us now. We can’t change the past…only the future.” He lifted his glass of wine. “To the future.”

She clinked her glass to his and drank deeply, glancing at him over the rim. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair tousled and his face flushed with heat, he looked incredibly handsome. Awareness curled in her stomach—Peter had been her first lover. At one time, they’d known each other’s bodies intimately, couldn’t get enough of each other. She could feel his body pulling on hers now, calling her home.

Sleeping across the hall from him might be harder than she’d anticipated.

“Did you get unpacked?” he asked, then took a drink from his glass.

She nodded. “Yes, the closet is wonderful, the room is wonderful and the house is…wonderful. Thank you for having me as your guest, Peter.”

His eyes glowed with a banked fire. “You can stay as long as you want.”

The way he looked at her fueled her own curiosity. She expected him to flirt with her—over dinner and as the evening wore on and the wine went down. But he was the perfect gentleman, keeping the conversation light, even steering clear of talking about their recent agreement to start looking into her father’s assertions that someone within his old firm had framed him.

Instead, they laughed and teased and discussed movies and nonsensical things, as if he sensed that she was happy to avoid talking about The Charmed Killer and the panic unleashed on the city. To avoid thinking Michael Lane was the sicko they were looking for. The only time Peter hinted at the danger she was in was later in the evening, when he showed her how to operate the alarm system.

“I have an early breakfast meeting,” he said. “But when I leave, I’ll reactivate the alarm. When you get up, you’ll need to turn off the motion detector before going downstairs, by pushing this button.”

He demonstrated and she nodded. Simple enough.

“The alarm will still be on for the doors and windows on the first floor, so if you want to go outside, push this button. At that point, the entire system is off. But I don’t recommend you do that.”

She nodded. “I understand.” The house might be wired for bear, but if the alarm was off and someone made it past the guardhouse, a person would be a sitting duck. The neighbors were too far away to be of much help.

“When you leave the house, there’s a panel next to the door leading to the garage. Push the button to reactivate the motion detector and close the door behind you. There’s no alarm on the garage door, so you have all the time you need to get into the Porsche and out of the garage.”

She nodded, mentally reviewing things in her head. “This thing isn’t going to go off if I get up in the middle of the night, is it?”

He smiled. “Not if you stay upstairs. The motion detectors are just for the first floor.”

She bit her lip. “And if I set off the alarm by mistake?”

“Within a few seconds, the monitoring service will call to see if everything is okay. They’ll reset the alarm if you need them to.”

“Okay.” Carlotta smiled. “If you don’t mind, I think I might go ahead and turn in. I need to check in with Wes, and let Hannah know where I am.”

“I’m tired myself,” Peter said, then winked. “It’s not every day I get shot with a Taser.”

As they climbed the stairs together, her heart rate accelerated and her hand felt slippery on the railing. Suddenly the palatial house seemed small, the air claustrophobic. When they reached the landing, Peter turned to her and lowered a very nice kiss on her mouth. She kissed him back, surprised at her all-over reaction. He raised his head and studied her face. The air sizzled. She wondered if Peter was going to ask her to spend the night with him, and what she would say if he did.

Then he smiled. “Good night, sleep tight.” He disappeared into his room and closed the door.

Carlotta stood there for a few seconds, then retreated to her own room, blaming her response on the wine. And wondering why Peter hadn’t tried to take advantage of her.

Inside the guest suite, she picked up her cell phone and her purse and headed for the veranda. Outside in the muggy night air, she glanced over the scattered lights of the neighborhood and lit up a cigarette. She inhaled it greedily while dialing Wesley’s cell number.

“Hey, sis,” he answered. “How do you like being back in the ’hood?”

She smiled. “I can’t lie—Peter’s house is nice.”

“What’s that sound? Are you smoking?”

She turned her head to exhale. “What? No, I’m not smoking.”

“The Surgeon General says smoking is bad for your health.”