5 Bodies To Die For
Carlotta frowned. “You’re smoking right now, aren’t you?”
He exhaled into the mouthpiece. “Yeah. But it’s an organic cigarette, so it’s cool.”
She gave a little laugh. “Peter has plenty of room if you change your mind and want to stay here, too.”
“Thanks, but I’m settled in Chance’s extra bedroom for now. He lets me smoke inside. I’ll bet you’re out on a fancy porch or something, sneaking around, aren’t you?”
She looked at the exquisitely furnished veranda and flicked her ashes away from an upholstered chaise. “Or something. Have you been back to the town house?”
“No. Jack said he’d let me know when the CSI team was finished so I can install a security system.”
She frowned. “When did you talk to Jack?”
“Uh, earlier. I just wanted to see what was going on, that’s all.”
“Did he have any news?”
“Not that he shared with me.”
“Okay. So I guess I’ll see you when I see you?”
“Yeah. I’ll check in.”
“You’d better.” She disconnected the call, then sucked on the cigarette until her cheeks hurt. God, it tasted so good.
She punched in Hannah’s number, but no surprise, her friend didn’t answer. Carlotta left her a message with her whereabouts and the reasons why, then ended the call, shaking her head.
Normally, she wouldn’t think twice about Hannah not answering her phone. Her culinary friend, who dabbled in catering—and body moving when Coop permitted—had a lot of men, er, irons in the fire. But recently, Jack’s profiling partner, Maria, had accused Carlotta of not knowing anything about her good friend. Carlotta had bristled at the allegation, but admittedly, it had made her curious about what was going on when Hannah couldn’t be located or made vague excuses to escape.
She tapped some ash off the end of her cigarette, causing the charms on her bracelet to clink. She fingered them, shaking her head over the idea perpetuated that the charms on the bracelets sold by Olympian Eva McCoy for charity were not only unique to the wearer, but were also predictive. Her particular bracelet’s charms were a puzzle piece, an “aloha” charm, three hearts bound together, two champagne glasses toasting and a woman whose arms were crossed over her chest—which looked a little too much like a corpse for Carlotta’s comfort.
If she looked hard enough, she could find connections to her life. She was trying to figure out the puzzle of her father’s guilt or innocence, for example. And shortly after donning the bracelet, she’d met Mitchell Moody, the son of June Moody, the woman who ran Moody’s Cigar Bar. Mitch was currently on military leave from Hawaii.
It was a flimsy connection, but a connection nonetheless.
As far as the three hearts linked together, one might say that it could refer to the three men in her life: Jack, Coop and Peter. The champagne glasses…well, she would certainly celebrate once The Charmed Killer was apprehended…with someone.
And the weird corpse-looking charm, she didn’t want to think about.
Carlotta took a final deep drag on the cigarette, then exhaled leisurely while she glanced over the roofs of the quiet neighborhood. Where she and Wesley lived in Lindbergh, she’d grown accustomed to the boom of car radios and the scream of sirens. Here, the only thing disturbing the peace were suburban crickets.
She squinted at a flash of something—light? metal?—from the house closest to Peter’s, which was slightly up the hill and partially hidden by trees. There was a movement outside a window. As she continued to stare, she could make out more details and realized that someone was standing on a terrace in partial light.
Staring at her with binoculars.
Unnerved, she walked back inside and secured the door, dismissing the incident as typical neighborly snooping. In light of Angela’s scandalous behavior, she suspected more than one set of binoculars had been trained on the Ashford house over the past few months.
She suddenly felt very exposed.
After washing her face and donning silky tap pants and a matching camisole, she snuggled down in the mountain of pillows and set the alarm on her phone so she wouldn’t oversleep. She needed to allow extra time to get ready for work, not to mention drive an unfamiliar car along an unfamiliar commute. While she was scrolling through the features, her phone rang, startling her so badly she nearly dropped it.
She hadn’t realized how skittish she’d become.
But when she looked at the caller-ID screen, she smiled. Jack.
She connected the call. “Are you calling to tuck me in?”
His sexy laugh rumbled over the line. “Yup. What are you wearing?”
“Sweatpants and big fuzzy socks.”
“Good, that should keep Ashford in his place.”
She sighed. “What do you want, Jack?”
He made a rueful noise. “I mentioned that the GBI is coming on board The Charmed Killer case.”
“Yeah.”
“They want to interview you as soon as possible.”
Her heart raced—when would this ghastly situation end? “I can come down in the morning before I go to work. Eight o’clock?”
“Okay.”
“Jack, will you be there?”
“Couldn’t keep me away.”
“Good night.”
“You, too.”
6
Carlotta woke to a piercing noise. As she reached for her cell phone to turn off the blaring alarm, her mind raced to orient herself. Light poured in from a veranda—Peter’s veranda. In a rush it all came back to her—coming home with him and being ensconced in the lap of luxury, sleeping like the dead imbedded in a mattress fit for royalty, the ugliness of The Charmed Killer far, far away. She stabbed at her phone, but the frantic alarm didn’t stop.
And then she realized the wail wasn’t the alarm on her phone. It was the house security alarm.
Her heart vaulted to her throat. As she leaped out of bed, she wondered if Peter had inadvertently tripped it as he’d left for work. But the clock showed it was seven-thirty—much later than he said he’d be leaving. She rushed to the closed bedroom door and scanned the small security panel on the wall above the light switch. A red light glowed next to the words Motion Detector. Someone had set off the device on the first floor—meaning they were inside the house.
Carlotta’s throat convulsed in fear. If Peter was running late and had accidentally set off the alarm, he would’ve disarmed it by now. She turned the dead-bolt lock on the door and backtracked to her cell phone, only to find the battery dead.
The crashing noise of glass breaking sounded from the first floor, confirming her fear that someone was in the house. From the nightstand, a landline cordless phone rang, startling her so badly she cried out, then she clamped a hand over her mouth, realizing she’d just advertised her whereabouts to the intruder. She scrambled to answer the phone. “Hello?”
“This is the security monitoring service,” a man said. “We were alerted that your home alarm has been tripped. What is your password?”
Carlotta frowned. “Password? I don’t know. I don’t live here.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, I’m a guest in the house. I think there’s an intruder—I heard something downstairs.”
“I’ll send the police,” he said, his voice full of solemn concern, “but I need to put you on hold and contact the owner at an alternate number. What’s your name?”
“Carlotta Wren. When you call the local police, give them my name and tell them to contact Detective Jack Terry of the APD. This might have something to do with a case he’s working on.” It was possible that Michael Lane could be stalking her again. And there was a serial killer on the loose.
Assuming they weren’t the same person.
“Will do, ma’am. Stay on the line.”
“Okay, please hurry.” She looked around the room for an escape route. The veranda was on the second floor, so unless she was willing to jump to the concrete driveway below, it wasn’t an option. There was the back stairway down the hallway, but that meant leaving the relative safety of the bedroom.
She looked for a chair to wedge under the doorknob, but the only ones in the room were two upholstered models and a stool for the vanity, all too short. She set down the phone and tried to slide the dresser in front of the door, but the furniture wouldn’t budge.
Then she heard a sound outside the door on the landing, a scuffing against the wood floor. Panic seized her. In the distance she heard the wail of sirens, but they were still far away. The peal of the alarm ended abruptly, leaving a whine of stunned silence in the air.
A thump sounded against the door.
“Go away!” Carlotta screamed. “The police are here!” But she knew it would still take precious minutes for them to arrive, possibly break into the house, and find her.
Plenty of time for her to be strangled and have a charm stuffed down her throat.
Carlotta retreated until her back slammed into a wall. She considered fleeing to the closet or the bathroom, but that would only take her farther from the last-ditch escape route of the veranda if she had to jump or shimmy down a tree in her skimpy pj’s.
“I have a gun,” she yelled, then picked up a lamp and wielded it like a baseball bat.
A scratching noise sounded against the door, sending terror rippling through her.
Then Carlotta frowned. Scratching? She took a step forward, then stopped. It was probably a ploy to draw her closer. Then an ax would crash through the door and the face of a maniac would appear.
She stood stock-still, her heart thrashing in her chest as a muted sound came from the other side of the door. Carlotta crept forward and pressed her ear against the wood.
Meow.
Carlotta’s shoulders fell in abject relief. If the maniac “intruder” was deranged, it was on catnip. Peter’s cat must’ve escaped from wherever he kept it and set off the motion detector.
She set down the lamp and unlocked the dead bolt. When she carefully opened the door, a yellow streak of fur shot through her legs and under the bed. Carlotta stuck her head out in the hall for a quick scan, but the rest of the house vibrated with stillness. The whine of the police siren grew closer. Turning back to the bedroom, Carlotta walked over to pick up the phone. “False alarm,” she said to the guy on the other end. “And the police are here. Thanks for your help.”
She disconnected the call, then dropped to her knees to lift the bed skirt and look for the cat. From a far corner, two green eyes glowed back. The alarm had probably scared it to death.
“Me, too,” she murmured to the cat in a soothing voice. “Come on, I won’t hurt you.”
It released a shaky little meow. Carlotta sprawled on her stomach and inched her way under the bed. “Come on, kitty. It’s okay.”
The cat stretched out its neck and sniffed her fingers.
“That’s it, you’re safe with me,” Carlotta urged, sliding closer.
Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and swiped at her. The claws found their mark on her hand and Carlotta howled in pain. She jerked up her head and banged it against the bed railings, which made her howl again. She suddenly realized the danger of being in a confined space with an hysterical cat. Worse, when she tried to shimmy back out, she found herself lodged between the floor and the bed.
Damn, being off work so long with a broken arm had added a little padding to her backside. She tried to move, then grunted. And to her front side, as well.
The sound of voices came from downstairs. “Police! Is anyone here?”
“I’m up here!” she called, but her voice was muffled. She frantically tried to make her way back out from under the bed and managed to retreat a few inches by the time footsteps approached.
“Are you okay?” a male voice called, sounding hollow.
“Yes,” she said cheerfully, wondering what kind of picture she presented. “You can go now, it was a false alarm.”
Carlotta gasped when hands closed around her ankles. She slid out in a whoosh, then flopped over on her back and looked up.
Into Jack’s sardonic face.
“Hi,” she ventured with a little wave.
“Hi.” He gestured to her lime-green tap pants and matching camisole. “I thought you were sleeping in sweatpants and big fuzzy socks.”
“I lied.”
He reached down and helped her to her feet. “You okay?”
“Except for the floor burns.” She winced and touched the lump on her head. “And I konked myself pretty good on the bed railing.”
He retrieved her robe from a chair and handed it to her. “Were you hiding from the intruder?”
“Not exactly.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he was struggling for patience. “Is there another reason you were under the bed?”
A meow sounded and the cat appeared, rubbing against Jack’s pant leg.
“Meet the intruder,” Carlotta said, nodding to the blond Persian. “She must’ve set off the motion detector.”
“There’s a broken wineglass on the kitchen floor.”
“She must’ve knocked it over. I didn’t even know Peter had a cat.”
“Figures, though,” Jack muttered.
“It probably belonged to Angela,” she chided, then crouched down and offered the fluffy feline her hand to sniff. The cat hissed and swiped, drawing blood this time. “Ouch!” Carlotta yelped, pulling back.
“She must prefer males,” Jack offered. Then he stepped back into the hallway and called, “False alarm, guys. Thanks for your help.”
He came back in the room and crossed his arms, looking her up and down. “You gave me quite a scare.”
“Sorry. I guess I overreacted.”
“Don’t worry about it. This is the reason I’m okay with you being here—Ashford’s house is even pussy-proof. Now I can relax.”
She gave him a withering look. The cordless phone rang and she hurried to pick it up. “Hello?”
“Carlotta,” Peter said, his voice high and agitated. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Peter. It was a false alarm.”
“The security monitoring system called me at work. I’m on my way home.”
“I’m sorry for the commotion,” she said, “but you don’t have to come home. Jack’s here.”
“Jack?”
“He came with the police who responded to the alarm.”
“Oh. Did you accidentally set it off?”
“No, your cat did.”
“My cat?”
“Yes.” Carlotta rubbed her finger over the angry raised scratches on her hand. “And she’s a little mean.”
“Carly, I don’t have a cat.”
She frowned and her gaze went to the feline twisting happily between Jack’s legs. “Are you sure? She’s fluffy and blond—a Persian, I think, with green eyes.”
He laughed. “I’m positive I don’t have a cat. It must belong to a neighbor and slipped into the house when one of us wasn’t looking.”
“That’s strange,” she murmured.
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said. “Are you sure I don’t need to come home?”
“No, everything’s fine. And I have to leave soon. The GBI wants to talk to me about The Charmed Killer case, so I thought I’d get that over with before going to work.”
“Well, I have to admit that I’m glad the GBI is taking over the investigation. Jack and his people don’t seem to be making much headway.”
She lifted her gaze to Jack and he frowned, as if he sensed Peter was talking about him. “I should get going,” she said. “Thanks for checking on me, Peter.”
“I left you the Porsche,” Peter said, sounding…husbandly.
“That’s very generous. I’ll see you later?”
“Can’t wait. Have a good day.”
“You, too,” she murmured, conscious that Jack was listening. She punched a button to end the phone call, then shrugged. “Peter says it’s not his cat. It must belong to a neighbor and got into the house somehow.”
Jack made a noise in his throat. “I’ll check the doors and windows and search the house just to be sure no one else came in.”
She nodded, thinking of Michael.
“Want me to put the cat outside?”
“I suppose so. Her owner is probably looking for her. Or maybe she’ll find her way back home.”
Jack scooped up the cat, who purred and rubbed its head on his lapel. “I’ll look around and wait for you downstairs. Do you need a ride to the station for the interview we discussed?”
She pressed her lips together. “Uh, no. I have transportation.”
“Did you get the Miata fixed?”
“No.”
“A new car?”
“Uh, no. Peter loaned me one of his.”
Jack’s eyebrows went up.
She squirmed. “It’s practical, at least while I’m staying here.”
“I have to hand it to Ashford. He’s giving you a taste of the good life.”
Carlotta lifted her chin. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing,” Jack said lightly. “Maybe I underestimated him.”
“Peter is accustomed to getting what he wants, and he doesn’t have to throw muscle around to get it.”
“Muscle? What muscle?” Jack casually flexed his own bulging biceps.
“Real mature, Jack. I’m going to take a shower.”
He grinned. “Want some company?”
“No,” she said, pushing him out into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Yet, as she showered in the luxurious bathroom, she thought back to when she and Jack had shared a showerhead only a few days before—right after her car had exploded. The incident had shaken them both and they agreed that due to mounting complications, it would be the last time they would give in to temptation.
Yet they seemed addicted to each other.
She showered and dressed hurriedly, pulling her still-damp long dark hair into a ponytail. When she descended to the first floor, she found Jack standing next to the sliding glass door. His back was to her, and he was on his cell phone.
“Yes, sir, I do understand what’s on the line, sir…yes, sir, I know it’s a shit storm…yes, sir, I know this is our jurisdiction and I don’t like the state badges here any more than you do…yes, sir, I won’t let you down.” He disconnected the call and rubbed his neck in fatigue.
Carlotta walked up to him and took over the impromptu massage, kneading the muscles in the top of his shoulders through his shirt.
“Mmm, that’s nice,” he said.
“Did you sleep last night?”
“Some.”
“Jack, you’re no good to anyone if you fall asleep behind the wheel and kill yourself.”
“I’m fine,” he said, straightening and turning around. He glanced over her outfit—gray miniskirt, a bone-colored jacket and lime-green blouse—his gaze lingering on her legs that ended in five-inch Chloe pumps. “Is your strategy to distract the state guys with that lame excuse for a skirt?”
She smiled. “Think it’ll work?”
He groaned. “Only if they’re not blind.”
Carlotta laughed. “Any more leads on the case?”
“As if I could discuss them with you.”
“But no more bodies?”
“No, thank God…At least none that we know of.”
“Have you found Michael Lane?”
“No. He hasn’t contacted you, has he?”
“You know I would’ve told you.”
“Right.” He glanced at his watch. “Ready to go? I’ll follow you to the station.”
“I’m ready, I need to set the security alarm. What did you do with the cat?”
“I put her outside and she ran away, so maybe she’ll find her way back home.”
Carlotta nursed a stab of remorse. “I hope so. Where is the broken glass?”
He gestured toward a utility closet. “I swept it up.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Pretty domestic of you, Jack.”
“Just trying to keep you safe. I’d hate to see you hobbled, just in case you have to outrun our killer.” He arched an eyebrow. “Or Ashford.”
“Peter is being a perfect gentleman.”
“Are you sure he isn’t gay?” Jack asked. “If you were in my house, you wouldn’t be sleeping across the hall.”
Carlotta angled her head. “Do you have a house, Jack?”
“We’re going to be late,” he said, easily changing the subject. “Believe it or not, my job consists of more than watching your sweet ass, as entertaining as that might be.”
“Where’s your partner?” Carlotta asked. “Getting her beauty sleep?”
“Marquez is with the Gibbies, going over the profile for The Charmed Killer.”
Carlotta harrumphed. “I thought she had decided it was someone with the last name Wren.”
“She never suspected you.”
“Right. She only suspected that I was planting those charms on the bodies after the fact.”
“She’s just doing her job.” Jack gave her a pointed look. “We all are.”
“Meaning you haven’t ruled out my father as the maniac who’s going around murdering women?”
“Personally, I think Michael Lane is a more likely suspect.”
She frowned. “I got the impression that you didn’t think it was Michael.”
He averted his gaze. “We’re still working out the time line.”
“I suppose that’s better for Randolph,” she mused.
He tapped his watch. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Right.”
Carlotta turned off the lights, then grabbed her purse and carefully reset the alarm before stepping into the garage. Jack followed and pulled the door closed behind him, sweeping his gaze over the structure that was finished with details nicer than most home interiors. Carlotta depressed the button for the garage-door opener. As the door rose, it ushered in morning light that bounced off the mirror finish of the sleek little two-seater sports car.
Jack caught her eye and grinned. “I could take the Porsche if you’d feel safer driving the sedan.”
“Nice try. Just don’t rear-end me.”
“Gee, you didn’t mind the other day,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
Carlotta glared at him, then opened the door and swung into the Porsche, admittedly nervous. As she adjusted the seat to accommodate her shorter legs, her pulse tripped higher. What if she did do something to Peter’s car?
She put her hands on the steering wheel and forced herself to relax. As long as she was careful and drove slowly, what could go wrong? She was allowing the luxury of the car—of Peter’s life—to intimidate her. Which was ironic, considering that if she’d married him, she’d probably have a fleet of luxury vehicles to choose from on any given day. Feeling more confident, she pressed the button to lower the convertible top, determined to enjoy the car to its fullest.
She turned over the engine and held her breath as she slowly backed out of the garage into the circular driveway. Beautifully shaped pavers surrounded a tall concrete fountain that dropped sheets of crystal-clear water into a tulip-shaped basin. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Jack sitting in his sedan, waiting to pull out behind her. He gave her a wry little wave. She exhaled and shifted into Drive. So far so good. The engine purred around her like a vibrator set on low speed. The distinctive hood sloped down and away from her. She felt sexy and powerful, wrapped in leather, a light breeze lifting her ponytail. She lowered her sunglasses and sighed. She was meant for this life. Carlotta pressed the gas pedal and the car surged forward as if it had been let out of its cage. She knew how it felt.
Suddenly a screeching noise sounded and a blob of scratching, snarling fur landed in her lap. Terrified, she yanked the wheel and tried to hit the brake, but wound up hitting the gas instead. The car lurched forward.
Into something hard enough to stop it cold.
The cat, meanwhile, acted as if it was possessed and climbed her shoulder, emitting humanlike screams. Carlotta flailed at it with her hands, but it sunk its claws into her scalp. She shrieked as pain shot through her head.
Then suddenly, the attack ceased. She glanced up to see that Jack had removed the deranged cat.
“Scat! Get out of here!” he shouted. “Carlotta, are you okay?”
She pushed her hair out of her eyes and was struck with horror—she had plowed the left side of the Porsche into the fountain. She nodded, then burst into tears. “Peter’s going to kill me.”
Jack sighed. “He’s not going to kill you. It’s just a scratch down the side. Come on, let’s get you out of there.”
He reached in to help her slide to the passenger side, then she heard him curse and felt herself being ripped out of the seat. A horrific crash sounded, followed by the splintering of glass.