Читать книгу Body Movers Books 1-3 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 24

The woman behind the counter sucked her teeth. “Name?”

“Wesley Wren. I’m here to see—” He checked the slip of paper he held. “E. Jones.”

The woman tapped on a computer keyboard. “Spell the name.”

“J-O-N-E-S.”

Eye roll. “I meant your name, hotshot.”

“Oh. W-R-E-N.”

“Date of birth?”

He told her. More tapping ensued, then the woman jerked her thumb to the left. “Down the hall, second door on the right. Knock before you go in.”

He did as he was told, but dread cramped his intestines. With his luck, his probation officer would be one of those hard-ass military types with a crew cut and ripped arms, bent on scaring his charges straight. Wesley stopped at the door and knocked.

“Come in,” a muffled voice sounded.

He opened the door and stared at the back of his probation officer—all five foot and ten willowy inches of her.

“Park it,” she said over her shoulder as she walked her fingers through hanging files in a cabinet drawer.

Wesley settled into a chair facing the desk and busied himself studying the shapely E. Jones’s rear end, encased in snug khaki-colored pants. No crew cut here—instead, glossy auburn hair was twisted in a knot on the back of her head and secured with a pencil stuck down through it. But her arms were ripped—lean and tanned beneath the short-sleeve yellow shirt she wore. He could only hope that her front was as hot as her back.

She whirled around and pinned him to the chair with blazing green eyes. Damn, she was…gorgeous.

“What’s your name?” she barked, dropping into the chair behind her desk.

Name? “Uh, Wesley,” he stammered. “Wesley Wren.” He leaned forward and handed her the slip of paper that he’d received in the mail.

She glanced at the paper, then sifted through a stack of folders on her desk and pulled one from the pile. She didn’t look up, but Wesley didn’t mind because it allowed him to study her unobserved. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and she moved like a cat, with no wasted motion. Her lashes were dark and incredibly long, her nose petite, her mouth full and pink, although it was at the moment tightened in a disapproving little bow.

“So, Mr. Wren,” she said without looking up, “you’re a bad computer hacker.”

He bristled. “I got in, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and you got caught.” She sat back in her chair and assessed him with narrowed eyes. “You’re what, eighteen?”

“Nineteen,” he said, sitting straighter.

She seemed unimpressed. “Okay, I’m supposed to help you get a job.”

“I already got a job,” he was glad to report.

“Where?”

“It’s not in a location. I’m a body mover.”

“Excuse me?”

“I work with a guy who contracts with the morgue for body retrieval.”

She pursed her pink mouth and nodded. “It’s a niche. But I’ll need a note from your employer, or a paycheck stub.”

“Okay.”

“And you need to set up a payment schedule with the court to pay your five-thousand-dollar fine.”

He winced. “How will that work?”

“Make regular payments to the court cashier, with a check or money order, preferably every week.”

Another weekly payment. He was still feeling queasy over the fact that Carlotta had met Tick at the door yesterday morning and handed over a grand before fatso had a chance to ring the doorbell. His sister didn’t want to say where she’d gotten the money, but when he’d insisted on knowing, she’d admitted that she’d pawned the engagement ring that Peter Ashford had given her. She’d mooned over the guy for ten years, and now that he was available, she’d pawned the ring.

If he lived to be five hundred years old, he’d never understand women.

Of course, between Father Thom and The Carver, his chances of living to be a hundred didn’t look too good.

The rapid snapping of fingers caught his attention. “Are you with me?”

He flushed, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. “Sorry.”

She frowned. “Are you high?”

“No.”

She pulled open a drawer and produced a cup. “Then you won’t mind giving a urine sample before you leave.”

His neck and ears warmed. “No.”

“Drug use, possession of a firearm and any other legal violation will land your ass in jail, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your probation also stipulates that you aren’t to access a computer, except when you begin your community-service work with the city to improve their computer security.”

“Right.”

“And I see from your file that your driver’s license has been suspended for multiple speeding violations.”

“Right again.”

“How do you get around?”

“I ride the train or walk.”

She frowned and reached inside yet another drawer and pulled out a Marta train pass. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

“Now…back to paying off your fine. Can you swing fifty dollars a week?”

“Probably.”

“Can you or can’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She made a note in his file. “How soon can you begin your community-service work?”

He perked up. “The sooner, the better.”

“What about your work schedule?”

“My boss knows my situation. He’ll work around it.”

“Okay, I’ll make a couple of phone calls and get back to you.” She asked for and wrote down his cell-phone number. “Regardless, you’ll need to meet with me once a week. Are Wednesdays okay?”

He nodded.

“Any questions?”

“Yeah. What does the ‘E’ stand for?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He stabbed at his glasses, then pointed to the nameplate on her desk. “Your first name—what does the ‘E’ stand for?”

Her pink mouth twitched downward. “You don’t need to know.” She handed him the cup for his urine sample. “Down the hall, to the right. Leave the sample with the officer there. I’ll see you next week. Don’t forget to bring your paperwork.”

Feeling thoroughly dismissed, Wesley stood and walked to the door.

“Mr. Wren?”

He turned back, eager to have more contact with the intriguing E. Jones. “Yeah?”

She tapped his file with an ink pen. “For some reason, your probation has been flagged by the D.A.’s office for close scrutiny. Why is that?”

Deciding he could be mysterious, too, Wesley shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the D.A.”

For the first time, he detected a light of curiosity in her green eyes. “I will.”

He left her office with a bit of a spring in his step and, after depositing a sample of his whizz with the dour-faced guard in the john, walked out of the building, whistling under his breath. Suddenly, probation was looking like a more pleasant prospect. He certainly could get used to looking at E. Jones every week.

With his probation officer’s warning about possessing a firearm ringing in his head, he used the pass she’d given him to take a Marta train to the Midtown station, then made the several-block walk to the Sonic Car Wash, a huge enterprise that was always jammed with business. He asked a fellow in the exit lot who was hand-drying the windshield of an SUV to point out Louis Strong. The man pointed across the lot to a short, rawboned guy supervising the tire-cleaning of several vehicles, shouting orders and waving cars forward.

Wesley walked over to the man who sported tattoos across his knuckles. “Louis Strong?”

The man turned and eyed Wesley up and down. “Who wants to know?”

Wesley leaned in. “Cooper Craft gave me your name. I need a gun.”

Panic flared in the man’s eyes as he grabbed Wesley by the shoulder and looked around. “Keep your voice down, man. Are you trying to get me arrested?”

“No.” Wesley pushed his glasses up. “Sorry.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Well, come back when you get one,” he said, disgust in his voice. “If people just walk up and start talking to me, my boss is going to get suspicious, got it?” He walked away, shaking his head, leaving Wesley feeling like a fool.

Cursing under his breath, Wesley walked off the lot, dialing his buddy Chance Hollander’s number.

“Yeah?” Chance answered.

“Dude, it’s Wes.”

“I thought you’d died or something, man. Where you been since you got out of jail?”

“Working.”

Chance laughed. “Working? You flipping burgers?”

“No, man, I’m moving stiffs to the morgue.”

“You’re fucking with me, man.”

Wes’s chest expanded. Chance wasn’t easily impressed. “No, I’m serious.”

Chance guffawed. “That’s righteous.”

“Listen, dude, I need a gun.”

“What kind?” Chance said, instantly all business.

“Handgun.”

“You in trouble?”

“A little.”

“You can borrow one of mine.”

Wesley’s shoulders dropped in relief. “You sure, man?”

“Absolutely. Come on over.”

“I’m on foot. I’ll be there when I can.”

“Oh, right, you don’t have a license.” Chance’s hearty laughter sounded over the line. “Man, you should’ve taken care of your own speeding tickets, too.”

“I know,” Wesley said, hating to pretend that he was dumb.

“Where are you? I’ll come and get you. I’m bored as shit anyway.”

Wesley told him where he could pick him up, then walked to the corner and waited. A few minutes later, Chance’s black BMW coupe came into view. He stopped in traffic and gestured for Wesley to get in. When a car horn sounded behind him, Chance gave the guy the finger and swore out the window.

“Fuckers need to chill,” Chance said. His chunky body was dressed in Tommy Hilfiger and sprawled in the driver’s seat. He smiled behind his Oakley sunglasses, but even without seeing Chance’s eyes, Wesley knew he was stoned.

“Did you bring the gun?” Wesley asked as they pulled away from the curb.

“Glove compartment,” Chance said happily. “In the black case. It’s a .38 special, easiest gun in the world to fire. There’s a half box of shells in there, too.”

Wesley opened the case and removed the small revolver to heft its weight in his hand. His heart beat faster as he stroked the cold metal. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chance said. He was always generous when he was high. “Just find a good hiding place.”

“Is it registered to you?”

Chance snorted. “No way. It’s practically untraceable.”

Wesley nodded, thinking that his friend was pretty street-smart for a frat boy. He put the revolver and the shells in his backpack, then asked, “So how’s school?”

“Sucks a big, hairy one. You’re lucky that you don’t have to go.”

“Yeah,” Wesley said, thinking that Chance didn’t realize how lucky he was that his parents provided the means for him to go to school, have a great apartment and car, and all the spending money he wanted. They would’ve paid for an Ivy League school if Chance could’ve gotten accepted, but as it was, he’d barely scored high enough on the SAT to get into a state college.

“So tell me about this body-moving gig,” Chance said.

“Oh, it’s cool. We go to hospitals, people’s houses, anywhere there’s a stiff, and transport them to the morgue or to a funeral home.”

“Worked any traffic accidents yet?”

“A couple.”

“How bad was it?”

“Not pretty,” Wesley said, bracing himself against the car’s dash as Chance zigzagged through traffic and wondering if some day he and Coop would be peeling his buddy off a guardrail.

“So you got probation in your case, huh? You must’ve had a kick-ass attorney.”

“Yeah, she was great, not bad to look at either.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“What? No. She’s a woman—she’s not interested in me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Chance said. “And trust me, older women are great in bed.”

Wesley smirked. Chance had more women than he could count. The guy was legendary in his conquests, and bragged that he’d once bedded four women at once. Wesley didn’t doubt it. Girls loved Chance’s money and his parties and to hear Chance tell it, his dick.

The guy had it made, Wesley thought, shaking his head. As his friend guided the little sports car down the street toward the town house, he said, “Thanks for the ride home, man. And the piece.”

“Call it a bonus for taking care of the speeding tickets.” Chance laughed. “I pretended to be an employer doing a background check and called to see if the tickets were gone. My record is clean as Clorox.”

“Great.” Wesley jerked his thumb toward the town house. “Want to come in?”

“Nah, I’ll pass,” Chance said. “All that talk about women got me horny. I think I’ll go get a massage, if you know what I mean.”

He did. Chance liked paying for sex, even though he didn’t have to. But his trust fund had to be spent somehow.

“Catch you later,” Wesley said.

“I keep hearing rumors of a high-stakes poker game being put together. When it happens, I’ll give you a call.”

“Okay,” Wesley said, and stepped away from the car. He approached the house with trepidation, looking up and down the street for suspicious cars. Seeing none, he breathed a little easier and went inside.

After he reached his room, he closed the door and inspected the gun again, taking a couple of test aims in his mirror. Then he glanced around for a hiding place, trying to think of somewhere that Carlotta—and the police—would never look. He considered and discarded the top of his closet, the clothes hamper and a boot. Then he glanced at Einstein’s enclosure and smiled. No one would look there.

He unlocked the pin, slid the screen top aside and reached in to place the small revolver and box of shells in the base of a driftwood decoration that he seemed to like more than Einstein did. As he expected, Einstein barely moved.

“Hungry yet?” He retrieved the squeaking mouse from its temporary home and dangled it in front of the python, without consequence. “A few more days and I’ll have to force-feed you,” Wesley warned, returning the mouse to its container. “Just don’t swallow my gun. I’d have a hell of a time explaining that one to the veterinarian.”

And to Carlotta. She’d never understand that having the gun within reach made him feel better able to protect her. He smirked, thinking of his green-eyed, flame-haired probation officer. If she knew he had a gun, she, too, would have his hide.

He lay down on his bed and crossed his hands behind his head. Of course, that might be fun.

Yes, things were definitely looking up.