Authors: Stephanie Bond
“Eldora Jones speaking.”
“Eldora, this is Carlotta Wren, Wesley’s sister. We met a
couple of nights ago at the Elton John concert.”
“How could I forget? Are you out of the hospital?”
“Yes, thanks, and feeling much better. I’m calling about
Wesley. Did he make his appointment today?”
“As a matter of fact, he didn’t.”
Carlotta’s heart sank to her ankles. “Did he call to say he
wouldn’t be there?”
“No, he didn’t. May I ask what this is about?”
“I hope it’s nothing, but my brother seems to be missing.”
“Missing?”
“He hasn’t been home, no one’s heard from him since
yesterday, and he isn’t answering his cel phone.”
The woman paused, then said thoughtful y, “I did receive a
call from a Richard McCormick saying that Wesley had
impressed him in his interview yesterday morning. He’s set
to start his community service with the city computer-
security department next Monday.”
“He was supposed to meet me at the hospital after the
interview, but he didn’t show.”
“Have you called the police?” Eldora asked hesitantly.
Carlotta thought she detected more than professional
interest in her tone.
“That’s next on my list.”
“Wil you have Wesley phone me as soon as you…see him?
He’l have to make up the missed meeting.”
Carlotta promised she would, then hung up and put her
head between her knees to relieve the light-headedness
that suddenly overcame her. Please, God. She reached for
the phone again and dialed Detective Jack Terry’s number
from memory.
Jack had arrested Wesley for hacking into the courthouse
computer. He’d reopened their father’s case. He’d
investigated a couple of little murders that Carlotta had
gotten involved in accidentally. And in between, he’d given
her one or three mind-boggling orgasms. Theirs was a lust-
hate relationship. After the fiasco at the Fox Theatre,
during which he’d broken her fall, she was hoping she
wouldn’t have to call him anytime soon.
Here we go again.
“Jack Terry,” said the rough-hewn voice over the line.
It was so unexpectedly comforting, Carlotta’s throat
choked with emotion.
“Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”
“Jack,” she cried.
“Carlotta? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Wesley,” she said, openly sobbing now.
“Are you at home?”
“Yes,” she blubbered.
“I’m on my way.”
3
Six minutes later, Detective Jack Terry walked through her
door. Carlotta had pul ed herself together and had
promised herself she’d behave professionally with Jack,
just like anyone else would report a potential crime to any
police officer.
Instead, she went into his arms and pressed her wet face
against his ugly tie. He just held her and rubbed circles on
her back.
“You have to give me something to go on here,” he finally
said into her hair.
She sniffled and lifted her head. “Wesley’s missing.”
He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to
her for an awkward one-hand nose blow. “Let’s sit down
and you can tel me what’s going on.”
They settled on the couch and she relayed what she knew,
from how Wesley hadn’t shown up at the hospital the
previous day to the fact that he’d missed the meeting with
his probation officer.
Jack’s expression was serious, but not concerned. “So he’s
been missing for less than twenty-four hours.”
“Yes, but something’s wrong, I know it.”
“Has he ever disappeared before?”
Carlotta hesitated. “This is different.”
Jack’s face relaxed. “Probably not. He could be with a
buddy, hanging out, or maybe he found a card game.”
“His friend Chance Hol ander called here. He doesn’t know
where Wesley is.”
“That’s the guy who gave us the tip in the Angela Ashford
murder, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I don’t trust him. I think he’s into something
il egal.”
“His friend could’ve been covering for him. Maybe Wesley
was right in front of him, stoned, or sleeping off a
hangover. Doesn’t Wesley have more than one buddy?”
“Not really,” she said, then frowned. “Not that I know of.
But there’s a woman.”
“A woman?”
“I don’t know who she is, but sometimes he comes home
smelling of expensive perfume.”
“I think I caught a whiff of that myself the night of the
drive-by shooting,” he said, nodding. “That could be where
he is.” He winked and thumbed away a tear from her
cheek. “See, nothing to worry about.”
“But remember what those guys you arrested here said
about Wesley being in trouble with The Carver.”
“I remember. I also remember tel ing you that if Wesley
has gotten himself in deep with these guys, he’s going to
have to figure a way to get out of it.”
“But what if they hurt him?”
His mouth twitched downward. “He’s young. He’l heal.
And maybe a beating is what he needs to convince him
that these aren’t people he wants to do business with.”
She gasped. “But what if they kil him?”
“That’s not likely. An intel igent young guy like Wesley is
more valuable to them alive.”
That made her smile slightly. “You think he’s intel igent?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, he’s not very smart.”
“He’s only nineteen.”
“He’s not a kid, Carlotta. When I was nineteen, I’d traveled
halfway around the world.”
“In the military?”
He nodded. “Don’t baby him. If you do, you’l never have a
life of your own.”
“So you’re tel ing me there’s nothing I can do?”
“Legally, not until he’s been missing for twenty-four hours.
Off the record, though, I’l do a little nosing around.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Jack.” She reached up to stroke
the bruise around his eye. “I see your shiner is fading.”
“Yeah.” He caught her hand and folded it into his.
His eyes were the color of amber, bright and direct. Sexy.
“How’s your arm?” he murmured in a husky tone that
implied he was asking how incapacitated she was.
“My arm…” She felt the pul of his body on hers, like a
force field. But she remembered too well the negative
fallout the last time she’d given in to that attraction.
Besides, if the note from her fugitive father fell out of her
bra, it would probably kil the mood. “My arm is itching,
actually.” She made a face and wiggled her finger under
the edge of the cast.
He smiled, and the surface tension dissipated. He pushed
himself to his feet. “I should go. I’ll cal you if I find
anything. Meanwhile, if Wesley shows up, let me know.”
“Okay. I’m sorry for the drama,” she added sheepishly.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Wesley’s lucky to have
someone who cares about him. I’m not sure he deserves
it.”
“Do any of you male types deserve it?” she asked lightly.
“Touché.” He left, grinning.
Carlotta stood at the edge of the window and watched
him drive away, wishing she could put her finger on her
feelings for the man. Then she shook her head at the
futility of such an exercise. The next time she and Jack
crossed paths, they could be at each other’s throats.
But he had made her feel better…and empowered to do
something more than wait to get a call from Wesley—or
the morgue.
She called Hannah, who answered after the third ring.
“Any news?”
“No. But I was wondering if you’d like to take a little field
trip when you got off work. I need your muscle.”
“You got it. Pick you up in an hour.”
She was waiting outside, holding a fire extinguisher, when
Hannah pul ed up in her refrigerated catering van.
“Are we going to a fire?” Hannah asked, looking like the
Goth Chef in her white smock.
Carlotta tossed the extinguisher on the floorboard, then
climbed in awkwardly. “No, but it was the closest thing I
had to a weapon. Chance Hol ander is into al kinds of
shady stuff. I just want to be prepared in case we have to
fight our way out of there.”
“Gee, if it’s a weapon you need, I have an arsenal.”
Carlotta squinted at her. “I don’t think I want to know
that.”
“Knives, I mean. I’ve got a bagful in the back—from paring
to cleavers, straight edge, chisel ground, hol ow edge,
serrated.” She bounced in her seat with excitement. “Who
are we going to hurt?”
“No one, hopeful y. But I want to question Chance
Hol ander to his smarmy face, and who knows what kind
of people I might run into at his place.”
“So I should arm myself.”
“One knife, Hannah. Just one. And let me do the talking.”
They parked in the visitor lot for his building and climbed
out. “We need to grab some empty food boxes so we look
like we’re catering a party,” Carlotta said. Hannah stacked
empty boxes on a handcart and wheeled them toward the
entrance. Carlotta fol owed, carrying the fire extinguisher.
The concierge buzzed them in.
“We’re catering a party for Chance Hol ander,” Carlotta
said, then smiled apologetically. “But I’ve forgotten his
unit number.”
The concierge not only gave her the unit number, but held
the elevator door for them. She tipped him five dol ars.
“Nice work,” Hannah murmured.
“All the party-crashing subterfuge we’ve learned
occasionally comes in handy.”
They got off on the top floor and Carlotta took in the
upscale decor with a twinge of envy.
“Wow, Wesley’s friend must be wealthy,” Hannah
remarked.
“Chance Hol ander is a trust fund baby, with lots of idle
time on his hands.” They found his door. Carlotta rang the
doorbel and pushed Hannah in front of the peephole. “If
something’s going on, he won’t open the door to me. Try
to look friendly.”
Hannah’s attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace,
but a few seconds later, Chance Hol ander greeted them,
dressed in a short Hefner-esque paisley robe. He was
blond and tanned, with the chuffy body and casual posture
of a person who enjoyed excess.
“Yeah?” As soon as he spotted Carlotta, he tried to shut
the door, but he was no match for Hannah. She shoved
him so hard he stumbled backward and landed on his ass
on a zebra-striped rug shaped like an animal hide, in the
middle of a room crammed with black leather furniture.
Carlotta rol ed her eyes. Why was it that people with
money usually had no taste?
They walked in and Carlotta closed the door behind them.
“We just want to talk, Chance.”
“I don’t know where Wesley is,” he said.
Carlotta narrowed her eyes at him. “You know something,
you little shit. And you’d better tell me.”
He got a surly look on his face as he reclined on his elbows.
The robe had fallen away to reveal baggy briefs and a
spare tire. “Or what?”
She handed the fire extinguisher to Hannah. “Would you
pul the pin, please?”
“Here, trade me.” Hannah pul ed a gleaming twelve-inch
cleaver from a box. “This only takes one hand.”
Carlotta’s eyes widened, but Chance’s startled yelp
vanquished the reprimand on the tip of her tongue.
She hefted the heavy cleaver while Hannah aimed the
hose at Chance’s dingy briefs. “Christ, what is it with you
rich people and underwear? A three-pack of Hanes at
Target for ten bucks—give it some thought.”
Chance grinned. “Where did you get the dog, Carlotta? I
kind of like her.”
Hannah blasted his crotch with foam, eliciting a scream
from him. When the dust settled, Hannah leaned closer.
“The cleaver is next, fat boy. Start talking.”
“It was Wesley’s idea.”
Carlotta’s stomach churned. “What was his idea?”
Chance sat up, defeated. “He thought The Carver was
behind the drive-by shooting at your place. He was scared
that you were going to get hurt. So he came up with a plan
to blackmail the guy.”
“Blackmail The Carver? How?”
Chance grinned. “It was genius, really. We got a
transvestite to go to a strip club with us where the guy was
hanging out with his cronies. When he went to the can, we
sent in our himbo, and got some incriminating photos.
Wesley told The Carver if you got hurt, the photos would
be posted on the ’Net.”
Carlotta shook her head in confusion. “But the man
responsible for the drive-by shooting is in jail. He had
nothing to do with The Carver.”
Chance winced. “I know. That part kind of sucks.”
Carlotta exchanged a horrified glance with Hannah. “We
have to go.”
Chance slowly got to his feet and struck a cocky pose.
“Hey, Goth Girl, can I persuade you to stay?”
Hannah blasted him with the extinguisher again, then
grabbed her handcart and fol owed Carlotta out. They
sprinted back to the van, where Carlotta punched in Jack’s
number with a shaking hand.
4
Wesley twisted his handcuffed wrists to glance at his
watch. He’d been locked in this bathroom for twenty-four
hours. He’d missed the meeting with E., his probation
officer. Carlotta was probably worried to death.
He was sitting in a grimy green bathtub, his head leaned