Body Movers (38 page)

couple on the other side of them had enclosed their deck

and turned it into a solarium sunroom.

He buried his cigarette butt in a pot of dried dirt. The

Wrens were dragging down the neighborhood. Since losing

the poker tournament, he’d been obsessed with the things

he could’ve done with that twenty-five grand.

But easy come, easy go. There would be other games. He

was sure a World Series of Poker bracelet was in his

future.

He waited until he knew that Mrs. Winningham was

parked in front of the TV watching The Price Is Right

before walking his motorcycle out of the garage. The last

thing he needed was for the old bat to mention something

to Carlotta about the noise and busting him for driving. A

half block down the street, he strapped on his helmet and

climbed on, mentally mapping out a route to his probation

officer’s building that would keep him off main

thoroughfares where cops might be trol ing for jerks like

him who were driving with a suspended license.

He made it to the building a little early and parked off the

property so he could pretend he’d arrived on foot. While

he sat in the waiting room for E. Jones to meet with him,

the anticipation of seeing her again helped to dispel some

of the dread accumulating in his stomach over the job

waiting for him afterward.

“Wren,” the lady at the counter called, “you’re up.” E.

Jones was sitting at her desk, engrossed in a file, when he

opened her office door.

“Come in. Sit down,” she said without looking up.

He sat, thinking how much better her red hair looked

down, falling over her shoulders. She wore an aqua-

colored shirt and she looked as if she’d gotten a light

sunburn across her nose and cheeks since the previous

week. From hiking? Biking? Sunbathing nude?

“Did you bring your paperwork?” she asked.

“Yeah.” From his backpack he withdrew the employment

status form that Coop had signed, plus the stub from his

paycheck that he’d pissed away, and the payment

schedule that he’d worked out with the court cashier.

E. Jones looked over the paperwork and nodded. “Good.”

Then she walked to the copy machine in the corner, giving

him a glimpse of the contours of her rear end and thighs in

a snug skirt—that fel just below her knees, dammit.

Weren’t short skirts back in style?

“How’s your job going?” she asked.

He stabbed at his glasses. “Great.”

She walked back to the desk and handed him his original

paperwork. “Good, because I’ve spoken to the IT director

who deals with the city computer systems, and it’s going

to be a few weeks before he can meet with you and assess

your, um, strengths. Then you can start your community

service.”

He suspected they were stil trying to figure out how much

damage he’d done during his cyber break-in. “Okay.”

“In the meantime, keep working, make your payments to

the court and stay out of trouble.”

“Okay.”

She sat back in her chair. “How’s your home life?”

He shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“I understand that you live with your sister.”

“That’s right.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Sure, other than my sister busting my chops when I mess

up.”

She smiled faintly, then sat forward, giving him a glimpse

of cleavage in the vee of her prim button-up shirt. “I talked

to the D.A. about your case. He told me about your

father.”

He shifted in his seat. “What he probably didn’t tel you is

that my father is innocent.”

Her fine eyebrows arched. “Are you in contact with your

father?”

“No.”

“You have no idea where your parents are?”

He gave a dry laugh. “Are you working for the D.A. now?”

“I work for the court system.”

“What do all these questions have to do with me?”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay. Did you know that

you have access to counselors while you’re on probation?”

He scoffed. “You want me to see a shrink?”

“I’m only letting you know it’s available if you need to talk

to someone.” She gave him a tentative smile. “And I’m no

doctor, but I’m a pretty decent listener.”

His mind rewound through the countless school

counselors, nurses and teachers over the years who had

told him that he’d feel so much better if only he would talk

about his parents leaving. But behind the concerned

expressions he’d always detected a gossipy gleam in their

eye that made him think they were more interested in the

details of his father’s criminal behavior than in helping him

deal with the sudden loss of his parents. Besides, at the

time, he’d been convinced that his parents would return

any day, so why bother?

He studied the woman sitting in front of him, searching

her green eyes for hints of ulterior motives. She looked

sincere enough, and God, it was tempting to share with

her some of the things he’d been through, if for no other

reason than to be in the same room with her. But he had

to remind himself that anything he said would likely be

reported back to the D.A., and he simply couldn’t risk a

verbal slip that might make things worse for his dad.

“I’l keep that in mind,” he said, then gripped the arms of

his chair. “Are we finished?”

She nodded, but just before he left, she said, “Wesley…I

really do want to see you do wel . But for me to help you,

you’re going to have to trust me.”

He hesitated, a little shaken by her intensity. She’d pity

him if she knew how much he wanted to believe her. He

conjured up a cocky grin and waved. “See you next week,

E.”

He drove to Chance’s condo building by way of back roads,

with his probation officer’s words about staying out of

trouble reverberating through his head. He had a couple of

good things going that he didn’t want to mess up: his job,

and his impending access to the city’s court records as

soon as his community service got under way. And then

there was the going-to-jail part of having his probation

revoked—that would truly suck.

When he got to Chance’s tenth-floor midtown condo and

knocked on the door, his buddy answered, holding

binoculars and flush with excitement. “You got to see this,

man—a chick in the tower across from me is walking

around her place buck-ass naked.”

Wesley stepped into the poshly decorated three-bed-room

condo. Nickelback blared from the top-of-the-line Bose

stereo system. “I think I’l pass, man. I need to get going.”

Chance frowned. “Dude, if I didn’t know better, I’d think

you were a fag.”

Frustration bil owed in his chest. He was about to put his

freedom on the line, and all his friend could think about

was T and A. “Come on, man, I just want to get this over

with.”

Chance sighed and set down his binoculars, then

disappeared into his bedroom.

Wesley stepped to the door of one of the spare bedrooms,

wincing at the sight of the disheveled, smel y bed and the

debris of a partying binge. But he was gratified to see that

all his good computer equipment was intact on the

bookshelves. He stepped back out just as Chance emerged

carrying a generic black gym bag. He handed it to Wesley,

who tried not to notice that the bag weighed about ten

pounds and appeared to be about half ful .

“The guy’s name is Hobbs,” Chance said. “He’l meet you in

front of the gas station at the corner of Smart and

Livingston. Know where that is?”

“I’ll find it. How wil I know this Hobbs?”

“He’s a short, stocky white dude. He’ll be wearing a green

ball cap.”

“And all I do is hand him the gym bag?”

“That’s all. Call me when you’ve made the drop.”

The lingo didn’t exactly ease his fears, but then again, if

what Chance was doing was legit, he’d be making “the

drop” himself. “What happens if he’s not there?”

“Don’t worry, he’l be there.”

“Okay, I’l call you.”

But Chance was already heading back to his balcony with

the binoculars. Wesley shook his head and let himself out.

The gym bag felt bulky and conspicuous in his hand, and

he worried that everyone he met on the elevator and in

the parking garage knew that he was doing something he

shouldn’t be doing.

He wondered what was in the bag—drugs, for sure, but

what kind? Pot? Coke? Crack? OxyContin? Ice? And

although Chance drew the line at using heroin, that didn’t

mean he wouldn’t broker it.

By the time Wesley reached his motorcycle, his palms and

back were sweaty. His hands shook as he strapped the bag

onto his bike. And he was so paranoid that at one point on

the back-roads drive to Col ege Park, he even thought

someone was fol owing him.

At the corner of Smart and Livingston, he slowed to

cruising speed but didn’t see his green-capped connection.

He went down to the next block, turned around and

stopped long enough to unstrap the bag so he could

simply drive up, hand it off and drive away. Gone in fifteen

seconds.

He pul ed away from the curb for another pass. Up ahead

he saw a guy with a green cap emerge from the gas

station. With his heart thudding in his chest, he geared

down and flipped on his signal to turn left across the

trickle of traffic.

Preparing to turn as soon as a red Volkswagen Passat

passed by, he frowned in confusion when the VW stopped

next to him. The driver’s-side window zipped down to

reveal E. Jones’s face, and he was so startled, he kil ed the

bike’s engine. Frantically, he tried to restart it.

“Don’t drive away, Wesley,” she shouted as his engine

roared to life, “or I’ll cal the police.”

He cursed inwardly and threw up the hand not holding the

gym bag. “Okay, I’m cool.”

She put her car in Park, then turned on her hazard lights.

“Driving with a suspended license alone is enough for me

to have your probation revoked, but what the hel is in the

bag?”

He swallowed hard. “What bag?”

“The bag you’re holding in your other hand,” she said,

pointing. “I fol owed you to the condo building in

midtown, and saw you come out carrying it.”

“You fol owed me?” he asked incredulously.

“I’m allowed to do that. I only expected to bust you for

driving your motorcycle on a suspended license—by the

way, the helmet hair you had when you came into my

office gave you away.” Then she leveled a stone-cold stare

at him. “But when I saw the gym bag and fol owed you

here, I realized that I underestimated just how stupid

nineteen-year-olds can be.”

“I don’t know what’s in it,” he said in his defense.

“Oh, I suspect you know.” She nodded to the green-

capped guy on the corner, who now seemed to stand out

like a siren. “And I suspect that he knows.”

Wesley averted his gaze and wildly considered driving off

and ditching the bag. Even if his probation was revoked,

going to jail for computer hacking was better than going to

jail for drug possession.

“Don’t do it, Wesley,” she said as though sensing his

thoughts. “Drive away and life as you know it is over. Or

you can give the bag to me.” She put her arm out the

window and wiggled her fingers.

Sweat dripped down his back. Christ, he’d done it now. Go

to jail and leave Carlotta alone to clean up his mess. Or

trust his green-eyed probation officer, a woman he barely

knew, who probably could advance her career by

delivering the gym bag straight to the D.A. He goosed the

engine.

“Wesley,” she said, “make one good decision today.”

He wanted to, dammit. He just wasn’t sure which decision

was the good one.

31

Carlotta sighed. Wednesdays were typically slow unless a

sale or a holiday drove customers in. So much for making

headway on her sales numbers.

There was another reason to dread slow foot traffic. When

unoccupied, her mind snapped back to the Ashford and

Bolton murders. She kept imagining both women as they

were only days ago—living, breathing, going about their

daily lives…shopping.

They’d both died in their designer clothes, Angela in those

decadent black boots, and Lisa Bolton in exquisite lingerie.

Carlotta straightened and, on a hunch, walked to the

lingerie department and began fingering through the racks

and shelves. Ten minutes into her search she found the

lightweight corset that she’d recognized on the dead

woman. French, expensive and—yes, there was a God—

exclusive to Neiman’s.

She used a counter phone to call a friend of hers in

inventory. “Jeanine, hi, it’s Carlotta. I need a favor.”

“You got a body you need to move?”

“What?” Carlotta choked out.

Jeanine laughed. “Good grief, it’s a joke. What’s with

you?”

“Oh.” Carlotta forced a laugh. “Good one.”

“What do you need?”

Carlotta recovered—she was losing her mind. “A good

customer wants to buy a piece of expensive lingerie that

his wife admired, but wants to make sure she hasn’t