4 Bodies and a Funeral

4

Wesley had counted on walking out with Liz, knowing that Mouse wouldn’t come near him if he was with his attorney. But as luck would have it, she had appointments in the government office building the rest of the day.

“I don’t like the idea of you working for Hollis Carver,” she said with a concerned frown as they rode the elevator down to the first floor. “But give Lucas what he wants and maybe he’ll ease up on you.”

Wesley gave a little laugh. “You know as well as I do that Lucas would be thrilled if something happened to me on the job.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Liz said, but without her normal brass-tits attitude. “I’m going to request that Jack Terry be your undercover police contact.”

Wesley rolled his eyes. “Anyone but him.”

“I know you don’t like Jack, but he’s the best man for the job. I want you to be safe.”

Resigned, Wesley stepped off the elevator and dragged a shaking hand through his hair. He needed a hit of something, bad.

“I’ll call you,” Liz said from the elevator. “Get some rest—you look like hell.” The doors slid closed.

Wesley glanced in the direction of the lobby where Mouse had probably parked his fat ass, pretending to know how to read. Which meant Wesley needed another way out of the building.

He walked up to a janitor who was pushing a dust mop. “Man, is there someplace I can step out to grab a smoke without setting off an alarm?”

The guy jerked his thumb toward a Stairs-Emergency Exit sign. “The door’s left propped open for smokers and the alarm turned off. Don’t tell Homeland Security.”

Wesley made a zipping motion across his mouth, then headed for the stairwell. A folded empty cigarette pack was wedged between the door latch and the strike plate. He slipped outside, then carefully repositioned the cigarette pack as he closed the door behind him. A small concrete pad littered with cigarette butts was isolated by tall bushes and a whirring HVAC unit. He looked around to get his bearings, then stepped through the bushes and headed toward the parking lot where he’d left his bike, scanning for Mouse.

He merged with a group of employees who appeared to be leaving for a lunch break, then veered off when they walked past the bike racks. He stooped to spin the combination lock securing his bike, but his vision blurred and his hands fumbled. Sweat dripped off his nose. He shook his head to focus, and finally the lock sprang open. He stood too quickly and got a head rush, but stabilized himself on the bike and pushed off, feeling smug for outmaneuvering Mouse. He’d have to face the man soon enough if he infiltrated The Carver’s organization, but he’d rather get the details of what was expected of him first.

As he rode out of the parking lot, he heard a car pull up behind him—close.

Too close.

Hoping it was the standard asshole Atlanta driver who had no respect for sharing the road with cyclists, he looked over his shoulder, only to confirm his worst fear.

Mouse was driving a dark Town Car with a big, impressive grill that was closing in fast on his back tire. Panicked, Wesley stood to apply extra pressure to the pedals, but his reaction time was slow. The impact of the car knocked his bike forward, his body up and back. He landed on the big hood of the Town Car with a thunk and slid to the windshield as Mouse brought the car to a halt.

Mouse opened the door and stepped out, then dragged Wesley off the hood by his tie and pulled his face close. “Trying to avoid me, Wren?”

“‘Course not,” Wesley said with a cough. “I need to get my jacket back.”

Mouse shook Wesley until his glasses went askew. “What happened in there? You’re not planning to rat out The Carver, are you?”

“No,” Wesley said, swallowing past the pressure on his windpipe. “I told the D.A. I don’t know anything. He was pissed and threatened to throw me in jail, but my lawyer’s good. So all I have to do is more pain-in-the-ass community service.”

Mouse looked doubtful. “You fuckin’ with me?”

Wesley couldn’t imagine anything on earth more unpleasant. “Nah, man. The Carver’s off the hook.”

Mouse released his grip. “You’d better not be lying.”

“Dude, The Carver’s attorney has probably already been contacted.”

As the big man chewed on his lip, his phone rang. He kept one paw on Wesley while he answered the call. “Yeah …? Yeah … Yeah.” He ended the call and jammed the phone in his pocket.

“Okay, you little shit, I just got verification. Now, give me a payment and we’re square for a while.”

Wesley lifted his hands. “I don’t have any money.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Dude, I thought I was going to jail today. I didn’t bring any cash.”

Mouse frowned, then released Wesley and stepped back.

Wesley exhaled in relief, but winced as his back twinged in pain. When he looked up, Mouse was carrying his dented bike to the rear of the car.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Mouse used a keyless remote to pop the trunk. “Making your life miserable.”

Wesley could only stand and watch the man toss his bike into the cavernous trunk.

“Next time you leave the house, sport, you’d better find somewhere to stash some cash—in your wallet or up your ass, I really don’t care. I’m gonna need a payment.”

“Will I get my bike back?”

“Don’t count on it.”

Mouse slid into the car and slammed his door. Wesley jumped up on the curb to keep from being clipped by a mirror as the Town Car roared away. He swore through gritted teeth as the car disappeared—this day just kept getting better.

He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and brought up his buddy Chance’s phone number. His hands were trembling badly and his skin felt itchy. Under the intense sun, he felt like an egg sizzling in a frying pan.

Chance’s phone rang and rang, then rolled over to voice mail. Wesley cursed and disconnected the call. Chance not answering his cell phone meant one of two things—he was dick-deep in some big-butted girl, or he was dead. His guess was the former.

Wesley set off walking unsteadily toward the Five Points MARTA station. He had enough money for train fare to get him to midtown. From there he’d have to walk the few blocks to Chance’s place. He wiped his sleeve across his clammy brow, then loosened the tie. His throat was parched and every step was an effort. The one thing that kept him going was the knowledge that a bag of sweet Oxy was waiting for him.

He’d quit the stuff later, when his life calmed down.

A honk sounded and he jumped back, afraid that Mouse had returned to run him over.

A silver-colored dome-shaped car pulled up next to the curb. The passenger side window zoomed down and the driver leaned over to shout. “Wes? Hey, do you need a ride?”

He squinted. “Meg?” Meg Vincent worked at the city computer department where he performed his community service.

“Yeah, jump in.”

The car behind her honked with impatience, spurring him forward. He opened the door and swung inside. The coed gave him a brief smile, then looked back to the road and stepped on the gas.

“I thought that was you,” she said. “Your bony ass gave you away.”

“Ha, ha,” he said, then pursed his mouth. She’d noticed his ass?

“You weren’t at work this morning.”

“That’s because I was here,” he said without explanation. “What about you? Do you live in this area?”

“No, I live on campus. There’s a great health food store down the street, so I came over here for lunch. Where are you headed?”

“Midtown. But if it’s out of the way—”

“It isn’t.”

Wesley glanced sideways at the girl who was probably his age—she was a freshman at Georgia Tech, the same as he would’ve been if he’d gone to college. She was whip-smart with a funky, independent style. Today she wore camouflage pants, a plain white T-shirt, and her dark blond hair was covered with a smiley-face bandana.

“What kind of car is this?” he asked, glancing around at the interior.

“It’s a Prius.”

“Electric?”

“That’s right.”

It suited her, he decided. Meg’s father was a famous geneticist and apparently megawealthy, but she had a work study at the ASS office, and dressed like every other college kid who was scraping by. Plus she was living on campus in a dorm when she could easily afford her own condo in Buckhead.

“Why aren’t you riding your bike?” she asked.

“Flat tire,” he lied.

“Aren’t you a little old to be riding a bike anyway?”

“I used to have a motorcycle.”

“Used to? Is that supposed to impress me?”

He frowned. “No.”

“So what happened to it?”

“My driver’s license was suspended. I sold it.”

“Oh, right,” she said drily. “I forget that you’re an ex-con.”

“I’m on probation,” he said irritably. “Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” She glanced over at him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Seriously, are you okay?”

Meg had once accused him of being hooked on something, and he’d flatly denied it. “Just hot and tired.”

She reached around her seat and rummaged blindly in a container on the floorboard behind her, then came up with a Red Bull. “Knock yourself out.”

He took the can and cracked it open. “Thanks.” A couple of hearty drinks started to revive him. He laid his head back on the headrest.

“Are you moving bodies today?” she asked.

“Not today.” And after the stunt he’d pulled, he’d be lucky if Coop ever called him again.

“Doesn’t it creep you out?”

He shrugged. “It’s not pleasant, but someone has to do it.”

“So it’s something you intend to keep doing?”

If he went to work for The Carver, there’d be no time for body moving. The realization bothered him more than he expected. “I don’t know. I have a line on a new job.”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t have all the details yet.”

“You like being mysterious, don’t you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Does that mean you won’t be coming back to ASS?”

“No, I’ll be there for a while longer.”

Something flashed across her face—relief? He must be mistaken. Meg had been apathetic toward him from day one.

“Am I taking you home?” she asked.

“Nah—to a friend’s place.”

She grinned. “You have a friend?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Is he a dropout, too?”

“I’m not a dropout.”

“Fine. Is he also too sexy for college?”

That made him smile. The only person who thought Chance was sexy was Chance. And anyone he paid to sleep with him. “He attends Georgia State.”

Her eyebrows climbed. “Really? What’s he studying?”

“Business.” Wesley shifted in his seat over the idea of Meg being more impressed with his buddy than with him. “Chance isn’t much of a student, though.”

Meg shrugged. “Most of life is about showing up.”

Rankled, he took another long drink from the can. When it came to college, he’d shown up as much as Chance—to take his friend’s exams when necessary.

“Where am I dropping you?” she asked.

He gave her the address of Chance’s condo building a couple of blocks away.

“Nice building,” she murmured when they pulled up.

“Yeah.” She probably wouldn’t think much of the cramped town house where Wesley and Carlotta lived. Living in a “transitional” neighborhood was fine if a person did it for philanthropic or moral grounds, like Meg. But it was a different ballgame if you were there because you couldn’t afford to live somewhere else. Or if you were afraid to move because your parents wouldn’t be able to find you, should they decide to come home.

Wesley realized Meg was staring at him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” he said, opening the door to climb out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow morning?”

Her smile made his stomach feel funny. “Yeah, later.”

The Prius rolled away, and Wesley dismissed the nausea as hunger pains.

For Oxy.

On the way inside the building, he called Chance again, and his friend answered on the third ring, panting. “Yeah?”

“It’s Wes. I’m downstairs, but it sounds like you’re busy.”

“Uh, yeah … ah, hell, come on up.” Then he disconnected the call.

Wesley waved to the concierge who knew his face, then walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. He shook his head, wondering what he’d find his friend involved in today. From the way the big guy was huffing and puffing, he might have a whole herd of prostitutes up there. His chubby buddy had a fat trust fund and made tons of money selling soft-core drugs and hard-core porn on the side. Chance worshipped vices and excess, and was fun as hell to be around.

On the ride up, Wesley mopped at his wet forehead with his sleeve. Just knowing he was close to the Oxy made him almost weak with relief. He jogged down the hall, then rapped on Chance’s door.

After a few seconds, the door opened and Wesley stared.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

Chance had answered his door in just about every outfit and stage of undress imaginable, but this one topped them all.

“What?” Chance looked down at his short, red, spandex unitard. “You’ve never seen exercise clothes before?”

“Not on you,” Wesley said. “The headband’s a nice touch.”

“Get in here, shithead.”

Wesley walked inside and closed the door. Chance climbed on a new treadmill that took up a big portion of the living room, and increased the speed until everything on him jiggled. In the stretchy suit and black high-top tennis shoes, he looked like an overweight superhero.

Wesley pulled on his chin. “What’s with the exercise kick, man?”

“Just thought I’d start taking better care of myself. This treadmill is great. I can work out and still watch TV.”

The big screen TV was playing porn, as usual.

“And look—” From the tray in front of the treadmill that was meant to hold a book, Chance picked up a reefer and lit it with a lighter. “I can get high while I exercise.”

“Nice,” Wesley said drily. “Does this have something to do with my sister’s friend Hannah calling you fat?”

“No.” Chance drew on the joint until his face turned red, then exhaled a stream of smoke. “Maybe. You put in a good word for me, didn’t you?”

“I will the next time I see her.” Wesley shook his head. The fierce and pierced Hannah would skewer Chance’s frat-boy ass and put an apple in his mouth before she ate him alive.

“Dude, I’ve got Grimes working on getting you into another card game. He knows he owes us since it was partly his fault we got cleaned out last time.”

“Okay, sure.” Wesley darted a look toward the cabinet where Chance kept his stock of pills.

Chance saw him looking. “Need some more OC?”

He tried to sound casual. “Yeah, but I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I’ll get it out of your winnings. It’s in the second drawer. Take what you want.”

Wesley was at the cabinet before his friend finished talking. “I’m going to need more of that urine screen, too.” To keep from testing positive when his probation officer asked for samples.

“Top drawer on the right.”

He pulled out a bag of the Oxy and felt a rush just holding a pill in his fingers. He popped one in his mouth and chewed to break the time-release coating. Instantly a feeling of euphoria bled through his chest and arms. As he floated toward oblivion, the thought slid into his mind that he’d forgotten to call Carlotta to tell her he wasn’t going to jail after all.

Oh, well, she was probably too busy having fun on her first day back to work to worry about him anyway.

5

Carlotta stopped by her locker for her purse and her cell phone, feeling miserable. At least the break room was empty—all employees had been dispatched in the aftermath of the disturbance.

Her dress was sticky and stiff and dotted with scorch marks from the sparklers on the cake. Cake and icing were everywhere—under her fingernails, inside her arm cast, in her bra. She winced as she turned toward the mirror, dreading the sight of herself.

She gasped in horror at her reflection. Bits of cake and icing clung to her face, eyebrows, chin and hair. She looked as if she’d been whitewashed.

The realization sent her running to the restroom to wash off what she could. She’d need mascara remover to get rid of the icing from her eyelashes, and a good exfoliant scrub to cleanse her pores. And she’d have to shampoo, rinse and repeat a couple of times to get the hardened mess out of her hair.

She dried her face and hands with paper towels, then checked her cell phone for messages. There were two messages from her friend Hannah, but nothing from Wesley. She dialed his phone but he didn’t answer.

“Hey, it’s me,” she said into the mouthpiece, trying to sound upbeat. “Just wondering how things went today. Call me when you can.”

She disconnected the call, hoping against hope that Wesley wasn’t sitting in jail. Surely he or Liz would call her if the meeting had gone south, wouldn’t they? Carlotta bit her lip in frustration, tasting sugary remnants of icing. Swallowing her pride, she emerged from the break room to find the shimmering Maria Marquez waiting for her.

“Jack is pulling the car around,” the detective said, gesturing to a side exit.

Carlotta nodded and fell into step next to the woman, feeling like a crusty child who was being picked up from school to be driven home.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Maria asked.

“Nothing a shower won’t fix,” Carlotta mumbled. “By the way, thanks for pulling me out of that mess.”

“No problem.”

When they got to the exit, Maria held open the door, like the parent. Carlotta walked through to see Jack’s black sedan sitting at the curb. She headed for the front passenger seat, but he intercepted her by getting out and circling to the back.

“I put down something for you to sit on,” he said. From his sweeping gesture, one would’ve thought he’d rolled out a red carpet for her instead of crinkled pages of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

“Thanks,” she said as she climbed in.

“Buckle up,” he said cheerfully, then closed the door.

She fastened the seat belt and watched as the two of them slid into their seats simultaneously, then checked mirrors, visors and their radios like a choreographed dance. They seemed to be perfectly in sync with each other, she noticed irritably. When the car pulled away, they conversed in low tones, as if they didn’t want Carlotta to hear what they were saying.

“Is it true that Eva McCoy has received death threats?” Carlotta piped up.

Jack adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see her. “Where did you hear that?”

“It’s all over the Internet.”

He frowned. “I thought one of the terms of Wesley’s probation is that he can’t have computers at home.”

Carlotta frowned back. “We don’t have a computer at home. A coworker told me she saw the rumor online. Is that why you two were there?”

“No comment,” Jack said.

Carlotta’s mouth tightened. He would’ve told her if Maria hadn’t been in the car. “Maria, did you notice anything special about the guy with the cake before he got away from you?”

Jack shot her a warning glance in the mirror, but Carlotta returned with an innocent eyebrow raise.

“No,” Maria replied with a smile. “Except that he left tire tracks over you.”

Jack pressed his lips together and turned his attention straight ahead.

Carlotta unbuckled her seat belt and stuck her head between their seats. “That reporter from the AJC hung around after the event. She heard Eva say that her bracelet was stolen—it’ll be all over the news.”

He shrugged. “That could help us. Maybe someone will see the bracelet and get in touch with the police. And a piece of jewelry known to be hot will be harder to resell.”

“Maybe it was just a warning,” Carlotta said. “Maybe the guy took the bracelet to let everyone know how close he could get to her. Or maybe whoever took it will ask for a ransom.”

“Maybe,” Jack said in a noncommittal tone. “Frankly, in the scheme of things, I don’t consider this to be a high-priority crime.”

“I’m with you, Jack,” Maria said. “I don’t understand all the hoopla around the charm bracelets in general. I see you have one, Carlotta.”

Carlotta covered the bracelet with her hand. “It was a gift from a coworker,” she said defensively. “Although I can see why the idea of charms appeal to women. They’re mementos of special times, and they’re jewelry—what’s not to like?”

“It just seems silly to me,” Maria said.

Carlotta frowned. “Where are you from, Maria?”

“Chicago.”

“And what brings you to Atlanta?”

The woman turned her head to look out the window. “I just needed a change.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to find the Atlanta heat a little hard to handle,” Carlotta offered.

Maria turned in her seat to smile at Carlotta. “I like the heat. In fact, I’m finding a lot of things about Atlanta that I like.” Her gaze drifted to Jack’s profile.

“The traffic is horrible,” Carlotta muttered, sitting back in her seat. When Jack gave her a chiding look, she wanted to stick out her tongue.

“Is that why you’re riding the train?” he asked.

“No.” Her shoulders fell. “My car battery is dead.”

“I’ll give you a jump when we get you home.”

His eyes met hers and she detected a flash of amusement—and desire. Her pulse betrayed her. Maria’s head turned.

“Your car, I mean,” he added, then turned his gaze forward as if he’d been a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What part of town is this?” Maria asked, looking out the window at the passing neighborhood landscape which was clearly middle to lower class.

“Lindbergh,” Carlotta supplied.

“Like the cheese?”

“Something like that.”

Jack spelled it for Maria and she pulled out a map. “I’m still trying to get my bearings,” Maria explained.

“Me, too,” Carlotta whispered to no one as they pulled into the driveway of the town house she shared with Wesley.

Jack adjusted the rearview mirror. “Carlotta, do you recognize that black SUV?”

She turned around in time to see the vehicle pull away from the curb where it had been sitting across the street. Anxiety bubbled in her stomach. “I don’t think so.”

Jack’s mouth tightened as he put the car in Park. “Do you have your car keys with you?”