Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body

Wesley resisted, but could only look away. It took more strokes to carve an A into his skin, more finesse, more blood. He screamed like a girl.

The Carver used a white handkerchief to wipe the blood off his knife. “I hope for your sake your next call is more productive.” He retracted the blade and left the room.

Mouse held up the phone. “Who now?”

Wesley couldn’t think for the pain. His blood was everywhere.

“Come on, kid. We all want to go home. Give me a name.”

“Liz Fischer. The number is in there.”

Mouse dialed it, then held the phone up to Wesley’s mouth.

Liz had been his father’s attorney and had gotten Wesley off on probation when he’d been busted for hacking into the courthouse database. Recently they’d started banging—everything that Chance had told him about older chicks was true. Carlotta would have an aneurysm if she knew.

Liz answered on the first ring. “Wes? Are you okay? Jack Terry called me asking if I’d seen you.”

So Carlotta was beating the bushes. “Uh, I’m fine … for now. But I have a situation here and I need some cash. A lot of it.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five grand.”

She gasped. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“The expensive kind.”

“Wesley, you know I adore you. But I can’t get involved in whatever mess you’re in. I have my career and reputation to think about.”

He tried to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t help you. Maybe you should call the police—”

Mouse flipped the phone shut, then sighed. “I should’ve worn a dark suit.” He went to the door, opened it and shook his head.

The Carver reappeared, a paper napkin tucked in his collar like a bib. Wesley considered making a run for it, but he was having trouble even holding his head up. Besides, he was still wearing only one shoe. And he wouldn’t get far with his hands cuffed. Mouse held him for the next carving, but Wesley didn’t put up much resistance as an R was engraved on his arm. He didn’t even have the strength to squeal. The Carver left with no conversation.

Wesley was on the verge of passing out.

“You’re killing me, kid,” Mouse said. “Give me a name—a good one.”

With what little strength he had left, Wesley considered his options—all of them bad, but one of them viable. Objectionable, but viable.

He gave Mouse the name and hoped for the best.

5

Carlotta stood in her living room and glared up at Jack. “Why are you just standing there? Do something!”

Jack seemed to struggle for patience. “Carlotta, we can’t just send in a SWAT team to storm the place. We need a warrant, and I can’t get one without probable cause. I need some kind of proof that Hollis Carver kidnapped Wesley or—” He broke off. “Or that he’s holding him.”

“You were going to say proof that he’s killed him, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“So that’s the guy’s real name—Hollis Carver?”

Jack nodded.

She threw her hands in the air, and cringed when pain zipped up her left arm. “If you’re on first-name basis with this criminal, why don’t you call him up and ask him if he has Wesley?”

He hesitated. “With Hollis Carver, the communication is one-way.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Hannah interjected, her eyes narrowed at Jack, “The Carver is a narc. And the police leave him alone, right?”

Carlotta looked back to Jack. “Is that true?”

He scratched the back of his neck—she was starting to learn his “tells.” He didn’t want to say.

“Jack?”

“I can’t divulge anything that might impact open and future investigations. But Hollis Carver has been helpful to the APD in cleaning up the city.”

“Cleaning it up?”

He jammed his hands on his hips, feet wide. “Yes. Believe it or not, Carlotta, there are a lot worse criminals in this city than The Carver. People selling poison crack cocaine. Sickos running pedophile rings. Serial killers—as if I have to remind you. Hollis Carver lends money to foolish, desperate people. Unless he starts killing off nonpaying customers, it’s his business, not the police department’s.”

She stepped as close to him as she could get without touching him, and lifted her chin. “So he has to kill Wesley before you’ll get involved, is that what you’re saying?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I sent a couple of uniforms to Carver’s warehouse to take a look around. If we find something that might have belonged to Wesley—his bike, for instance—then we’ll have something to work with. Until then, you need to calm down.” He glanced at Hannah, who was parked on the couch. “Help me out here.”

Hannah scoffed. “You’re on your own, Starsky.” She continued flipping through TV channels.

Carlotta looked up at him, changing tack. “I’m scared, Jack.”

He sighed. “Carlotta, you’re not responsible for the decisions made by the men in your family.”

“Why are you bringing up my father?” Her throat constricted and she self-consciously rubbed her arm over the area where the note was tucked into her bra. Her heart beat faster, then she relaxed a little—Jack couldn’t possibly know about the note.

He glanced away. Another tell. He was keeping something from her.

But then, she was keeping something from him, too.

He looked back, his expression akin to pity. “I just hate to see you keep getting dragged down by other people’s mistakes.”

Carlotta set her jaw. “Wesley isn’t ‘people,’ he’s my brother.”

Jack’s phone rang and he stepped away to take the call. Her chest ached with frustration and a clump of emotions she couldn’t identify. Jack’s attitude was a timely reminder that they were too different, that too many obstacles lay between them. And that he had a very low opinion of her family.

“Hey,” Hannah said from the couch. “You know that Kiki chick we were watching on TV the other day? She’s fucking dead.”

Carlotta turned, grateful for the distraction, even if the news was disturbing. She walked over to glance at the warped picture on the TV screen flashing Breaking News: Kiki Deerling Dead At 21. “Turn it up.”

“As we first reported earlier today, Kiki Deerling was pronounced dead at a Boca Raton, Florida, hospital around three this morning, after being found unconscious by her publicist at a club during a birthday party in honor of Deerling herself. So far, authorities are being very hush-hush as to the circumstances surrounding the starlet’s death. Stay tuned for more details as they are available.”

Carlotta made a mournful noise for the loss of a young, vibrant life. She had never met the woman, but like millions of people, felt as if she knew her just from the hundreds of TV impressions. And maybe Kiki didn’t deserve her celebrity, but neither did she deserve an abbreviated life.

“Probably drugs,” Hannah said matter-of-factly. “Otherwise, why wouldn’t they say?”

“Maybe the truth isn’t titillating enough,” Carlotta said.

Hannah glanced in Jack’s direction, then lowered her voice. “Listen, considering you and the brooding detective have a history, maybe you should request that someone else work Wesley’s case.”

Carlotta surveyed Jack’s broad back and her anger intensified. He obviously believed that whatever happened to Wesley, her brother deserved it. “Jack does seem a little too invested in the other side.”

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway drew her attention. She walked to the window and her frustration spiked at the sight of the man climbing out of the luxury SUV. Just what she didn’t need right now—a visit from Peter. Although it was strange to see him driving something other than his little two-seater sports car.

Then the passenger side door opened and she shrieked. “Wesley!” She brushed past Jack, who was also staring out the window, and closing his phone.

“Guess I can call off the nationwide search,” he said dryly.

She shot him a hateful look, then bounded out the door as fast as her cast would allow her to move. Jack and Hannah were right behind her.

Wesley was wearing clothes she’d never seen and pulling his bike out of the back of the SUV. He looked drawn, but safe. Beneath his long-sleeved shirt, his arm seemed stiff. “Hey, sis.”

“Is that all you have to say? ‘Hey, sis’? Are you okay? Why haven’t you called? Where have you been? Why are you with Peter?” she demanded in a rush, then gasped, seeing the cuts and bruises on his face. “What happened?”

“Relax,” he said, lifting his arm to deflect her attention. “I’m fine. I had an accident on my bike and got a little scraped up, that’s all. I didn’t call because my phone battery died. I was close to Peter’s neighborhood when it happened, so I went to his place. He let me clean up, and gave me a ride home.” He tugged at the hem of the overlong shirt. “I owe him for the clothes.”

“No, you don’t,” Peter interjected with a flat little smile. With his blond good looks and impeccable wardrobe, he could’ve held his own on the cover of Hamptons magazine. Carlotta gave him a grateful smile, then looked back to her brother. She wanted to believe his explanation but … “What were you doing all the way up in Peter’s neighborhood?”

Wesley looked pained. “I rode up there to get in a card game. Sorry. The good news is that after playing all night, I broke even.”

Carlotta pursed her mouth, even more suspicious now that he so readily admitted to going back on his promise to her not to gamble. She looked at Peter, who seemed to be looking everywhere but at her. She glanced at Jack, whose expression told her he didn’t believe Wesley’s story any more than she did. Then he shrugged, obviously willing to forget the entire incident.

She was irritated with the lot of them. “We’ll talk later,” she muttered to Wesley. “Meanwhile, you need to call Coop, who was out all night hunting for you, and your probation officer.”

“Okay,” he said. Then he went over to shake Peter’s hand. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.”

Okay, now she was really suspicious. Peter and her brother barely knew each other, but Wesley had never bothered to hide his disdain for Peter’s actions when their parents left, dumping her and leaving her in the lurch. On the other hand, she had told him about their father calling Peter, so maybe Wesley had warmed toward her former fiancé. Or maybe he’d ridden to Peter’s house to talk about the phone call….

Wesley disappeared into the house, taking his secrets with him for the time being. Hannah gave them a group wave. “Since the prodigal son has returned, I’m outta here.”

“Thanks, Hannah, for staying with me,” Carlotta said to her friend. “I’ll call you.”

After Hannah pulled away in her van, Carlotta was left standing between Jack and Peter, each of whom seemed to be waiting for the other to leave.

“I need to talk to you,” Jack said to her pointedly. When Peter gave him a hard look, he added, “It’s business.”

“Can’t it wait?” she asked, not in the mood for more sparring.

“No.”

Peter shuffled his feet. “I guess I’ll be going.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Carlotta said, then followed him around to the driver’s side of the SUV, giving them some privacy from Jack.

“Peter,” she said quietly. “What really happened?”

“It happened just the way Wesley explained.” But his blue eyes were evasive, his tone practiced.

Her heart swelled with gratitude. “I have a feeling that I owe you a great debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Peter said, taking her good hand and lifting it to his mouth for a kiss that conjured up images of other things he used to do to her when they were younger. “I’ll always be here for you, Carly, and for Wesley.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. When Wesley had gone missing, it hadn’t even occurred to her to call Peter. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to conceal most of the Wren family doings from him. She didn’t want him to know that the warning his parents had given him ten years ago—that her family would go to the dogs—had pretty much happened.

“Don’t forget that I’m holding something for you.”

The ring. “I won’t forget.” And her heart was so full of good memories and goodwill toward Peter for helping Wesley, she would have agreed to marry him at that moment if he’d asked.

Instead he honored her previous request not to rush her, and climbed in his vehicle. She waved until the car disappeared, then turned back to Jack, whose disposition seemed to have further soured.

“What did you need to talk about?” she asked. “If it’s about Wesley, I don’t believe his story for a minute—”

“It’s about your father,” he interrupted.

Her heart stuttered. “What about him?”

“A Holiday Inn in Daytona Beach, Florida, was robbed at gunpoint a few days ago. When all the fingerprints were run, one set matched up to Randolph Wren.”

Her entire body tingled. She shook her head in confusion. “What are you saying? That my dad robbed this hotel?”

“No. All I’m saying is that sometime recently, your dad was there. He could’ve been a guest, or visiting a guest …”

“Or he could’ve robbed the place,” she finished.

Jack’s face told her that it was a distinct possibility. “I’m driving down to take a look, but I wanted you to know. I’ll let you decide whether you want to tell Wesley.”

“I’ll go with you,” she offered.

“Absolutely not.”

“But I’m off work right now—it’s perfect timing.”

“What part of ‘absolutely not’ don’t you understand? Carlotta, you can’t get involved in your father’s case! I can’t spend all my time saving you from the scrapes you get yourself into.”

“But that’s the beauty of it. I’ll already be with you.”

“No. No. No.”

“Are you taking your girlfriend, Liz?”

He puffed up, meaning she’d hit a nerve. “She’s not my girlfriend. But … I thought I might ask her to ride along in case I bump into her client while I’m there.”

“So they can have a tumble for old times’ sake? That’s nice of you.” She squinted. “Why don’t you have a partner for these kinds of things, Jack?”

“I’m on the waiting list, but the department is short of manpower.”

“So when are you leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

She shook her head, frustrated with the whole situation. “Don’t mention this to Wesley. And let me know if you bump into dear old Dad.” Carlotta turned and walked stiffly toward the house.

“Carlotta, don’t be like this. I didn’t have to tell you, you know.”

But she didn’t look back because she didn’t want him to see the abject humiliation coursing through her. Her father had left a stink on the family that they couldn’t seem to get away from. It was mortifying to think that of all the policemen who could capture her fugitive father, it would probably be Jack who ultimately brought him down.

6

Carlotta gave the new living room window one last swipe, then stood back to admire the shine. But instead of crystal-clear sparkle, the glass was smeared with cloudy streaks.

“You have to use newspaper to get the best shine,” Wesley said from behind her.

She turned and frowned. “You don’t say? I see you decided to grace the world with your presence today. It’s almost noon.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was up most of the night before.”

Seeing the dark circles under his brown eyes, she nursed a pang of remorse. He looked so much like their father—lean, with sharp features a male model would kill for. But he didn’t have their father’s confidence, the ability to win over a room. Wesley was more cerebral. He preferred his books to people. She was sure he had no idea how handsome he was. “Are you ever going to tell me what you were doing?”

“I told you. I was playing cards.”

“Uh-huh.” She eyed his clothing. “It’s pretty warm today for long sleeves, don’t you think?”

He shrugged, but she could see the bulk of a bandage beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“You must have scraped your arm pretty badly,” she said, fishing.

“Man against asphalt, asphalt always wins.”

“Hmm. Did Peter bandage you up?”

“Yep.”

Wesley still wasn’t looking at her. His reluctance to talk about what had really happened cemented her decision not to mention what Jack had told her about their father. After all, the robbery in Daytona Beach could be a dead end, a mistaken identification.

“Mrs. Winningham said she gave you a get-well card for me.”

“She did, but I lost it.”

“When you had the accident on your bicycle?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He was so lying about the bicycle accident. “That’s okay, I’ll tell her I got it anyway. Are you working with Coop later?”

“Not today. I have to check in with my probation officer.”

“She sounded pretty worried about you yesterday.”

“Really?”

It was the closest thing she’d seen to a smile on his face since he’d arrived home. “Really. And she said that you impressed the city computer guy you interviewed with. You start your community service Monday?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Are you going to be able to work with Coop and do your community service, too?”

“Yeah. Coop is cutting back on body retrievals for a while. He said he was doing special projects for the morgue.”

“The morgue has special projects?”

Wesley shrugged and walked into the kitchen. “Want a sandwich?”

“No, thanks.” But she followed him. “I’m sure Coop was relieved to hear from you last night.”

“I guess.”

“Wesley, he was worried. He spent the entire night driving around looking for you.”

“He shouldn’t have. Besides, he did that for you, not for me.”

“That’s not true. He’s very fond of you.”

“Maybe, but he’s got it bad for you.”

A flush climbed her neck. “Coop is … nice.”

“Yeah, but he’s not loaded like Peter.”

Carlotta arched an eyebrow. “Is that an endorsement for Peter?”

He turned back to the refrigerator. “Are we out of milk?”

“Look in the back.” Carlotta wondered about his sudden attachment to Peter. Something illicit had definitely transpired. She could think of only one reason Wesley would call Peter—money. What had Wesley gotten her former fiancé in the middle of?

And how would she ever be able to repay the man?

“What are you doing after you meet with your probation officer?” she asked quietly.

Another shrug. “I’ll probably go hang out with Chance.”

She frowned. “I don’t like you spending time with that derelict.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Wesley, he told me what the two of you did to your loan shark at the strip club.”

He paused in the door of the refrigerator for just a second. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“Hannah and I kind of beat it out of him.”

“It was just a prank.”

“It could’ve gotten you killed! He said you did it to protect me?”

Her brother shrugged again.

“You don’t have to protect me, Wesley.”

He closed the refrigerator door, his eyes wide. “These men are dangerous, Carlotta. You don’t know.”

“So stop doing business with them. Get your life together. Think about college.”

He looked anguished for a few seconds, then angry. “I changed my mind about the sandwich. See you later.”

She knew better than to try to stop him. He was through talking. The front door banged, and she only hoped that whatever had happened the night he was gone had scared him straight.

She turned her attention back to the streaked window, attacking it with cleaner and a page of newspaper fished out of the mail basket. When she stood back, the sun shining through the spotless window was almost blinding. “You were right, you little shit,” she mumbled.

Guilt plucked at her for not telling him about the note their father had left and the development in Daytona Beach. She pulled the piece of paper out of her bra and read it again. Randolph had been within arm’s length of her. He could have pulled her aside, revealed his identity … given her a hug and a kiss … and an explanation. Why hadn’t he?

Because he didn’t trust her. He knew she’d gone along with the fake funeral to lure her parents out of hiding. Had he felt betrayed?

Anger whipped through her—he had betrayed them first. He and her mother, Valerie. Her father had left town to escape a trial and, presumably, jail time. But her mother, who always maintained a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other, didn’t even have an excuse. She had simply chosen her husband over her children. Carlotta had gotten past being angry for herself, but she would never forgive their mom for abandoning Wesley at the age of nine.

He’d slept in Carlotta’s bed for a year, clinging to her, crying for his mother every night until he was too exhausted to stay awake.

Carlotta’s eyes watered just remembering. No one but she knew how Wesley had suffered. He’d been a slight kid, with a genius IQ, and the creative capacity to concoct all kinds of stories about why their parents had left. Eventually he’d decided that their father was some kind of secret agent forced to go underground. She knew Wesley had outgrown the elaborate tales intellectually, but she wondered if he still entertained some of those childhood fantasies emotionally.

Over the years, she’d vacillated between hoping their parents were found and hoping they were lost forever. But she was starting to worry that Wesley would be at dangerous loose ends until there was some resolution to the jagged tear in their family.

Was their father close to turning himself in? Was he growing tired of life on the lam? Was that why he’d gotten sloppy and left fingerprints at a crime scene? She shook her head, trying to imagine her parents as a crime duo—her dad wielding a gun while her mom walked around holding open a designer bag for everyone to deposit their wallet in.

Frankly, the most ludicrous part of it all was the thought of Valerie entering a Holiday Inn. If her mother had any say, they would hold up only five-star establishments.

No, Carlotta couldn’t picture her parents as armed robbers. They wouldn’t have to resort to anything so overt. Randolph Wren could charm anyone out of his or her life savings, and Valerie was the kind of woman that men threw money at. Model-thin and beautiful, with an aura that mesmerized those around her, she was movie-star glamorous, and everyone had been happy to be in her entourage. Carlotta suspected that being on the run had been hard for her mother, who was accustomed to lavish attention. But it only demonstrated how emotionally dependent she was on Randolph … and on her vodka.

The phone rang, rousing Carlotta from her dark thoughts.

“Hello?”

“It’s Coop.”

She smiled into the phone. “Hi, there. You just missed Wesley.”

“That’s okay. It’s you I want.”

She gave a little laugh, enjoying the easy flirtation. “In that case, what can I do for you, sir?”

He groaned. “So many things. Seriously, though, did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Are you kidding? I’m so bored, I’m cleaning.”

“I figured you might be going stir-crazy being off work, so I have a proposition.”

She pursed her mouth. “I’m listening.”

“Well, this isn’t exactly romantic, but I have a VIP body pickup in Boca Raton, and I wondered if you’d like to ride along. We could leave tomorrow and have a couple of days of fun in the sun beforehand.”

“Boca Raton? Oh, my God, is it Kiki Deerling?”

“You know her?”

“Just from television. She’s hard to miss.”

“Yes. This trip is to pick up her body, but no one can know about it. I signed a confidentiality agreement, so mum’s the word.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“So how about it? Want to hit the road for a few days? Separate rooms, of course … unless I can persuade you otherwise.”