Читать книгу Body Movers Books 1-3 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 9

Carlotta’s eyes popped open from a restless sleep, with elusive dreams of her parents sliding into the dark corners of her subconscious. Mercifully, the dreams had become less frequent over the years, and she hoped this recurrence was an isolated incident. A glutton for punishment, she allowed herself to wonder where her parents were waking up, and if she and Wesley ever crossed their minds. Then the events of yesterday—Wesley’s arrest and bail hearing—came crashing back, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

Her family was going to be the death of her.

She turned her head on her pillow to look at the alarm clock and groaned. She’d meant to get up early to make up for the hours she’d missed yesterday, but now she’d be lucky to make it to the morning staff meeting on time. While she stood and yanked up the duvet cover to make her bed, she thought of Angela Ashford and the commission she’d walked away from yesterday. And she wondered how much of her phone conversation with Wesley the woman had overheard—enough to fuel another gossipy lunch with her girlfriends?

She tamped down her resentment toward Angela, recognizing that it was mostly rooted in the fact that the woman had married Peter, which, truthfully, only proved that Angela was…smart. Peter had graduated from Vanderbilt and returned to Atlanta to launch a successful career and join the ranks of his fabulously rich family. Angela enjoyed social status and all the perks that came with being a third-generation Buckhead wife.

Carlotta frowned. Although, considering the fact that the woman was sneaking booze in the department-store dressing room, her life might not be as rosy as the picture she’d painted for Carlotta.

After a quick shower, Carlotta opened the door to her closet, which always lifted her spirits. Working at Neiman Marcus for the better part of her adult life had afforded her a fabulous wardrobe on her employee discount. She had eased off her habit of “borrowing” clothes to wear for a special occasion and then returning them after nearly getting herself and her friends Jolie and Hannah in trouble last Christmas when they’d “borrowed” outfits to crash an upscale pajama party where a man had wound up dead. Since they’d been the only uninvited guests at the party and had drawn attention to themselves by accidentally falling into the pool fully clothed, they’d been fingered as the prime murder suspects. They’d managed to clear themselves, but had been stuck with paying for thousands of dollars’ of ruined silk pj’s and robes. She still hadn’t paid off her Neiman Marcus credit card.

Thinking of Jolie made her smile. Her friend and coworker had moved to Costa Rica with the man of her dreams, and her parting gift to Carlotta had been a pink leather autograph book to replace the one full of celebrity autographs that had been ruined by the fall in the pool, and two thousand dollars in cash to satisfy the loan shark that had been hounding Carlotta for money that Wesley owed.

Jolie had saved their lives…or at least their kneecaps.

Carlotta flipped through her bulging wardrobe and decided to go all out today. Dressing to the nines always made her feel better.

She pulled out a black miniskirt, a teal-colored tunic, one of the vintage Judith Leiber huge “breastplate” necklaces from her mother’s collection and tall Prada boots. She pulled her long black hair—her best feature, she thought—into a low ponytail, and added dangling glass earrings. She popped in her blue contact lenses, always amazed that they covered her dark brown irises so well. Blessed with good skin, she was able to skip foundation, but took time to stroke several coats of mascara onto her lashes to play up her eyes, add a touch of blush to the apple of her cheeks and smooth on red, red lipstick. When she made a final check in the mirror, though, she couldn’t help but compare her dark coloring to Angela Ashford’s golden good looks. Not only was Angela patently gorgeous and rail thin, she was well connected, with a long southern lineage. Yes, Angela was definitely the better match for Peter and the life he was destined for.

Carlotta sighed and turned to face the life she was destined for. She walked out of her bedroom and looked across the hall at Wesley’s closed bedroom door and farther, at the end of the hall, to the closed door of her parents’ room, left largely untouched except for the times she’d gone in to dust or to adjust the heating and air-conditioning vents. Daylight shining over the gray carpet in the hallway revealed large shoe prints, evidence of where the police had entered their home and confiscated Wesley’s computer and phone equipment. A sense of violation permeated her skin—the cramped living space she’d tried to make a home for Wesley, compromised.

Using the toe of her shoe, she wiped out the footprints, wondering if they belonged to Detective Jack Terry. The mere thought of the man made a frown settle on her face and the knowledge that he’d been in her home made her feel naked, as if he knew intimate things about her. Had he peeked into her bedroom, sneered at the girlish white furniture, the pink Lilly Pulitzer linens and the fuzzy yellow chenille robe she always left draped across the foot of the bed? A flush climbed her neck when she remembered the way he’d looked at her when she’d told him that her father was Randolph Wren. He’d decided that she and Wesley were from bad stock. Your father’s name is like a bad smell.

The friendly warning he’d given her about the D.A. notwithstanding, she had a feeling that Detective Terry was going to stir up more trouble before he exited their lives.

As she walked through the living room and into the kitchen, her thoughts turned to Liz Fischer. She didn’t like the fact that Wesley had called the woman. She didn’t trust Liz. After her parents had skipped town, Liz had tried to convince her that she was too young and ill equipped to raise Wesley, that his needs would be better served with a foster family until her parents returned.

This from the woman who’d had an affair with her father.

Carlotta had hated the woman for trying to fracture her family further, and it was Liz Fischer’s insufferable words that had given her strength in the early years when she’d thought she would collapse under the stress of raising Wesley.

She knew what the woman was thinking now—that Carlotta had done a crummy job of parenting and that Wesley would have been better off with strangers.

And considering that he was head over heels in debt and now facing jail time, Carlotta couldn’t exactly disagree. Maybe Wesley would have been better off with two authority figures who weren’t bogged down with their own emotional baggage, who weren’t struggling to make ends meet, who weren’t, deep down, yearning for a life of their own.

Carlotta walked into the kitchen, massaging her temples and craving a Starbucks latte. But since they were facing unknown expenses, she poured water into the automatic coffeepot and waited for the homemade brew to trickle out. She walked around and straightened things that might have been moved by the police, or perhaps she was just being paranoid. What was it that Detective Terry had said?

Don’t worry—we didn’t trash your place. That only happens on TV.

Pushing the unpleasant thought—and the unpleasant man—from her mind, she glanced around the red-themed kitchen and contemplated repainting. All the rooms decorated under her mother’s heavy hand were looking a little dated. In fact, she’d love to sell the town house outright and find another place for them to live, someplace with only two bedrooms and a larger living area, rather than having to walk by their parents’ empty bedroom every day. But Wesley wouldn’t hear of moving. He was afraid they would miss a postcard or a phone call…or the reappearance of their prodigal parents.

Heaving a sigh, Carlotta filled an insulated mug with coffee and cream to drink during the drive to work. Then she grabbed her purse and walked through the living room to the front door.

In the corner of the living room, the small aluminum fringe Christmas tree that had occupied the same spot for the ten years that her parents had been gone stirred anger in her stomach. Her mother had put up the tacky little tree the day after Thanksgiving and put a few presents under it, then had skipped town with their father two weeks later. Carlotta often wondered if her mother had felt guilty about abandoning her children just before Christmas, if Valerie had considered the tears that Wesley had shed Christmas morning when she and their father had failed to return, dashing his hopes for a Christmas surprise.

Carlotta loathed the raggedy little tree that had lost most of its luster, but Wesley had insisted that they leave the tree up and the presents underneath so they could celebrate when their parents came home. She had been eager to comfort her little brother in those first few weeks and months after her parents had left, but eventually she had begun to resent the tree’s lopsided shape and the pathetic little pile of presents underneath. She’d long forgotten what she’d wrapped to give to her mother and father, and no longer cared what they had given to her. Several times over the years she had broached the subject of taking down the tree or, when money had been tight, of opening the gifts in the event that they contained cash, only to be met with Wesley’s curt refusal. He was obsessed with the tree, as if somehow by taking it down, they would be giving up on their parents ever coming home. That ship had sailed for her years ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to hurt Wesley yet again by taking it down. Turmoil rolled in her empty stomach. She was never sure how to handle her sensitive, quirky brother, so she usually erred on the soft side.

Too soft, apparently.

She opened the door, stepped out onto the stoop and bent to retrieve the newspaper. Around her, the neighborhood was peaceful, if a little shabby. Downsizing from their lavish home in a tony neighborhood to a town house in a “transitional” area had been a blow to her mother, who had chirped that it was only temporary and then taken another drinkie-poo.

“Carlotta!”

Carlotta winced, then turned to face her busybody neighbor. “Good morning, Mrs. Winningham. How are you today?”

The woman stood on the stoop next door with her head jutted forward, her eyes narrowed. “Why were the police at your place yesterday?”

Carlotta gave a hoarse little laugh. “Oh, that? It was a mistake. They were at the wrong address.”

Mrs. Winningham frowned. “I saw them carry a bunch of computers out of there.”

“Everything is fine, Mrs. Winningham. I have to run—I’m late.” Carlotta jogged down the steps and toward the garage while holding down the button on the remote control for the garage door. The noise of the door going up drowned out the woman’s words, and Carlotta waved cheerfully as she swung into her dark blue Monte Carlo. She muttered a curse under her breath at the woman’s snooping, then started her car.

The Monte Carlo was another sore spot—she loathed the car. Her beloved ten-year-old white Miata convertible sat like a sick and neglected pet next to her new car. Just before last Christmas, her Miata had died and she couldn’t afford to have it fixed. So she’d taken advantage of a dealer’s offer to test-drive a vehicle for twenty-four hours before buying it. Except the night she had taken the vehicle out for a test-drive was the night that she and her friends had crashed the party where a man had been murdered. She’d been taken to the police station for questioning and the car impounded. When she’d been released and had finally tracked down the car, the twenty-four-hour return period had expired and she owned the car by default.

The money that her friend Jolie had given her had kept Carlotta from having to sell her beloved, crippled Miata convertible to satisfy Wesley’s debt. She still held out hope to have it back in working condition someday so she could get rid of the Monte Carlo—although what the Monte Carlo was worth amounted to less than what she owed on it.

Her life was a catastrophe.

Next to her Miata sat another thorn in her side: Wesley’s newly acquired motorcycle, a fluorescent-green crotch rocket. He’d already received so many speeding tickets, his driver’s license had been suspended, which only made him more prone to stay at home in his room and mess around with his computers.

Puffing out her cheeks in an exhale, she backed out of the driveway, avoiding eye contact with Mrs. Winningham, and steered the car toward the Lenox Mall. She knew every curve of the road of her commute. The first traffic light would stay red long enough for her to take a long drink of coffee and scan the first three pages of the newspaper. The second light would stay red long enough to allow her to read any article that had caught her eye. The article that caught her eye this morning reported a rash of crimes in the area surrounding the mall where she worked—purse snatchings, muggings at gunpoint, even an attempted assault. There were also some disturbing reports of a ring of identity thieves operating in the Buckhead area. And then she saw it:

Man Arrested and Charged With Breaking Into Atlanta Courthouse Records—Wesley Wren, 19, of Atlanta was arrested yesterday and charged with hacking into the records of the Atlanta City Courthouse database, a federal offense. A police spokesperson wouldn’t comment on how much data might have been compromised during the break-in, but maintained that records confidentiality and identity theft is a top priority for the department and that hackers will be prosecuted “vigorously.”

Vigorously. Carlotta scowled. Since Detective Jack Terry had used that exact wording during their conversation, it wasn’t a stretch to identify him as the officer who had leaked the story to the newspaper. And he had pretended to be sympathetic to her situation. The brute.

The sound of blaring car horns jarred her back to the traffic. The light was green and Atlanta drivers brooked no hesitation. She gunned forward, begrudgingly admitting that the Monte Carlo’s engine did have some pickup, and fumed all the way to work. How many of her co-workers would see the article? And Angela Ashford would be able to tell her girlfriends that she was there when Carlotta had received the call from her jailbird brother—but then, like father, like son, of course.

With her exit looming, Carlotta wondered idly what would happen if she just kept driving up Interstate 75 and didn’t stop until she was…somewhere else, far away from Atlanta. What would everyone think—that she’d been abducted, or perhaps had suffered some kind of mental breakdown? No, everyone would assume that she had run from her problems, as her parents had. Some might even think she’d gone to join them.

That thought, combined with the knowledge that she couldn’t abandon Wesley, not when he was in so much trouble, made her put on her signal and take the exit, as she’d done thousands of times over the past ten years.

A few minutes later she slid into a parking place, jumped out and trotted toward the elevator. She was only a few minutes late, but the general manager, Lindy Russell, was still perturbed with Carlotta over the clothes-borrowing business and was keeping a close eye on her. When Carlotta opened the door to the meeting room, Lindy, who was standing, paused midsentence to frown. “Nice of you to join us, Carlotta.”

Carlotta flushed and slipped into a seat in the back row, next to Michael Lane.

“You’re late,” he whispered.

“Did you take care of Double-A yesterday?” she whispered back.

“Yes. She was drunk on her pretty ass and not happy with you.”

She winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry—I rang up the sale under your employee ID.”

She grinned. “You’re a gem.”

“I know.”

She looked toward the front of the meeting room. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing. It’s security update time.”

Sure enough, the mall security director, a tall, wiry man with a crew cut, sat in a chair next to Lindy.

“With the upswing in crime in the area around the mall,” Lindy was saying, “I asked our security director, Akin Frasier, to sit in on our meeting, and a representative from the Atlanta PD to join us and share some tips to help all of us be more safety conscious.”

Since safety updates were fairly routine—and routinely boring—Carlotta settled in to enjoy the rest of her coffee.

“Please welcome Detective Jack Terry.”

Carlotta choked back her surprise, and then joined in the mild applause as the man rose from a seat near the front and nodded amiably to the crowd. He sent a special smile in her direction.

She frowned, sinking lower in her seat. Michael eyed her suspiciously.

“Good morning,” the detective said. His voice was pleasant enough, but for some reason she suspected he hadn’t volunteered for this job. And she noticed his tie was as bad as yesterday’s. Christ, the man must be color-blind.

“I want to tell you a few things you can do to minimize your chances of becoming a victim,” he said, his voice almost too big for the room. “First, don’t look like a victim. Always be aware of your surroundings. Try to buddy up when you walk to your cars, or ask for a security escort.”

He continued with a litany of Safety 101 tips, but Carlotta found herself tuning out, distracted by the man himself, trying to ascertain something about him from his body language. He moved with athletic ease as he addressed the crowd, making eye contact and gesturing for emphasis. She wondered what would make someone choose law enforcement as a career. Maybe it was a family legacy. Or perhaps it was a career choice born of his size. A man with such a powerful build would naturally be drawn to a physical occupation. When he lifted his large hands in the air to make a point, she squirmed, remembering him touching her arm yesterday, as if to comfort her. She smirked, glad that she hadn’t fallen for his act.

His left hand was bare of rings—no surprise there. Jack Terry seemed to fancy himself some kind of ladies’ man, so a wife would probably cramp his style. No doubt he had a girlfriend or three, all of them working jobs that mandated a midriff-baring uniform. His nose and forehead were ruddy from a sunburn—he seemed like the kind of guy who played touch football with his back-slapping buddies on the weekends while consuming enormous amounts of beer.

“Any questions?” the detective asked, all smiles.

Carlotta raised her hand.

His mouth twitched. “Yes?”

“Detective Terry, doesn’t the police department have better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks to death?”

Michael elbowed her. “That was rude,” he hissed.

Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably and Lindy rose to save the detective from answering, but he looked at Carlotta, smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, yes, we do have better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks to death. But we get a sick kind of pleasure out of it. Any other questions?”

Chuckles sounded around the room. She gave him ten points for being witty, then took them back because it was at her expense. Lindy glared at her, even more so when her cell phone’s ringtone started its rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

“Uh-oh,” Michael muttered. “The boss lady is going to slay you.”

But Carlotta didn’t care at the moment because the caller ID said it was her home number. Wesley could be in trouble again. She scrambled out of the row and dashed out of the meeting room, pushing the Incoming Call button as soon as she cleared the door. “Hello?”

“Is this Carlotta?” a deep, sandpapery voice asked.

“Yes,” she said, frowning. “Who is this?”

“I work for Father Thom, and he wanted me to tell you that your brother still owes him a shitload of money. He wants a payment, pronto.”

Carlotta gripped the phone. “Wh-where’s Wesley?”

“Right here,” the man said pleasantly. “He didn’t want me to call you, but I convinced him it was the right thing to do.”

“Don’t worry, sis,” Wesley said in the background. “I got it covered.”

The man guffawed into the phone. “Yeah, right. You have a week to come up with a grand. See ya soon, sis.”

The call was disconnected and Carlotta felt dizzy from the air being squeezed out of her lungs. Wesley must have squandered his “emergency fund” in the tennis-ball can in the garage. Otherwise he surely would have given it to the thug. Desperation clawed at her. How could she get a thousand dollars together in a week? A small cry escaped from her throat.

“Are you okay?”

She jumped, then turned to see Detective Jack Terry standing next to her, his gaze curious…and concerned.

She straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look like you just got an upsetting phone call.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I said I’m fine.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “You leaked Wesley’s arrest to the newspaper.”

He frowned. “No, I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

His eyebrows went up, then he laughed. “Yeah, I’ve told a few whoppers in my time, but I’m not lying now. Besides, arrest reports are a matter of public record.”

“This article quoted a spokesperson.”

“Which is whoever answers the precinct phone. Look, Ms. Wren, I’m glad we caught your brother before he was able to do more harm, but I’m not out for his blood. The D.A.’s office, on the other hand, might be. They’re probably the ones who called the newspaper, maybe thinking it would draw out your father.”

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, irritated that he seemed to have a pat answer for everything.

He squinted. “Weren’t your eyes brown yesterday?”

She frowned. “I should get back to the staff meeting.”

“Okay.” He nodded toward her cell phone. “But are you sure I can’t help you with whatever is bothering you?”

He’d probably love to hear that on top of Wesley’s legal trouble, he was in debt to two unsavory characters. That would seal his opinion that Wesley was no good, just like their father.

“I’m sure,” she said evenly. “Goodbye, Detective Terry. Have a nice life.”

He laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Wren, but I have a feeling that our paths will cross again.”

Carlotta watched him stride away, ugly tie flapping, and muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”