Читать книгу Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 7

Six minutes later, Detective Jack Terry walked through her door. Carlotta had pulled herself together and had promised herself she’d behave professionally with Jack, just like anyone else would report a potential crime to any police officer.

Instead, she went into his arms and pressed her wet face against his ugly tie. He just held her and rubbed circles on her back.

“You have to give me something to go on here,” he finally said into her hair.

She sniffled and lifted her head. “Wesley’s missing.”

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her for an awkward one-hand nose blow. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me what’s going on.”

They settled on the couch and she relayed what she knew, from how Wesley hadn’t shown up at the hospital the previous day to the fact that he’d missed the meeting with his probation officer.

Jack’s expression was serious, but not concerned. “So he’s been missing for less than twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, but something’s wrong, I know it.”

“Has he ever disappeared before?”

Carlotta hesitated. “This is different.”

Jack’s face relaxed. “Probably not. He could be with a buddy, hanging out, or maybe he found a card game.”

“His friend Chance Hollander called here. He doesn’t know where Wesley is.”

“That’s the guy who gave us the tip in the Angela Ashford murder, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “I don’t trust him. I think he’s into something illegal.”

“His friend could’ve been covering for him. Maybe Wesley was right in front of him, stoned, or sleeping off a hangover. Doesn’t Wesley have more than one buddy?”

“Not really,” she said, then frowned. “Not that I know of. But there’s a woman.”

“A woman?”

“I don’t know who she is, but sometimes he comes home smelling of expensive perfume.”

“I think I caught a whiff of that myself the night of the drive-by shooting,” he said, nodding. “That could be where he is.” He winked and thumbed away a tear from her cheek. “See, nothing to worry about.”

“But remember what those guys you arrested here said about Wesley being in trouble with The Carver.”

“I remember. I also remember telling you that if Wesley has gotten himself in deep with these guys, he’s going to have to figure a way to get out of it.”

“But what if they hurt him?”

His mouth twitched downward. “He’s young. He’ll heal. And maybe a beating is what he needs to convince him that these aren’t people he wants to do business with.”

She gasped. “But what if they kill him?”

“That’s not likely. An intelligent young guy like Wesley is more valuable to them alive.”

That made her smile slightly. “You think he’s intelligent?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, he’s not very smart.”

“He’s only nineteen.”

“He’s not a kid, Carlotta. When I was nineteen, I’d traveled halfway around the world.”

“In the military?”

He nodded. “Don’t baby him. If you do, you’ll never have a life of your own.”

“So you’re telling me there’s nothing I can do?”

“Legally, not until he’s been missing for twenty-four hours. Off the record, though, I’ll do a little nosing around.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Jack.” She reached up to stroke the bruise around his eye. “I see your shiner is fading.”

“Yeah.” He caught her hand and folded it into his.

His eyes were the color of amber, bright and direct. Sexy.

“How’s your arm?” he murmured in a husky tone that implied he was asking how incapacitated she was.

“My arm.” She felt the pull of his body on hers, like a force field. But she remembered too well the negative fallout the last time she’d given in to that attraction.

Besides, if the note from her fugitive father fell out of her bra, it would probably kill the mood. “My arm is itching, actually.” She made a face and wiggled her finger under the edge of the cast.

He smiled, and the surface tension dissipated. He pushed himself to his feet. “I should go. I’ll call you if I find anything. Meanwhile, if Wesley shows up, let me know.”

“Okay. I’m sorry for the drama,” she added sheepishly.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Wesley’s lucky to have someone who cares about him. I’m not sure he deserves it.”

“Do any of you male types deserve it?” she asked lightly.

“Touché.” He left, grinning.

Carlotta stood at the edge of the window and watched him drive away, wishing she could put her finger on her feelings for the man. Then she shook her head at the futility of such an exercise. The next time she and Jack crossed paths, they could be at each other’s throats.

But he had made her feel better … and empowered to do something more than wait to get a call from Wesley—or the morgue.

She called Hannah, who answered after the third ring. “Any news?”

“No. But I was wondering if you’d like to take a little field trip when you got off work. I need your muscle.”

“You got it. Pick you up in an hour.”

She was waiting outside, holding a fire extinguisher, when Hannah pulled up in her refrigerated catering van.

“Are we going to a fire?” Hannah asked, looking like the Goth Chef in her white smock.

Carlotta tossed the extinguisher on the floorboard, then climbed in awkwardly. “No, but it was the closest thing I had to a weapon. Chance Hollander is into all kinds of shady stuff. I just want to be prepared in case we have to fight our way out of there.”

“Gee, if it’s a weapon you need, I have an arsenal.”

Carlotta squinted at her. “I don’t think I want to know that.”

“Knives, I mean. I’ve got a bagful in the back—from paring to cleavers, straight edge, chisel ground, hollow edge, serrated.” She bounced in her seat with excitement. “Who are we going to hurt?”

“No one, hopefully. But I want to question Chance Hollander to his smarmy face, and who knows what kind of people I might run into at his place.”

“So I should arm myself.”

“One knife, Hannah. Just one. And let me do the talking.”

They parked in the visitor lot for his building and climbed out. “We need to grab some empty food boxes so we look like we’re catering a party,” Carlotta said. Hannah stacked empty boxes on a handcart and wheeled them toward the entrance. Carlotta followed, carrying the fire extinguisher. The concierge buzzed them in.

“We’re catering a party for Chance Hollander,” Carlotta said, then smiled apologetically. “But I’ve forgotten his unit number.”

The concierge not only gave her the unit number, but held the elevator door for them. She tipped him five dollars.

“Nice work,” Hannah murmured.

“All the party-crashing subterfuge we’ve learned occasionally comes in handy.”

They got off on the top floor and Carlotta took in the upscale decor with a twinge of envy.

“Wow, Wesley’s friend must be wealthy,” Hannah remarked.

“Chance Hollander is a trust fund baby, with lots of idle time on his hands.” They found his door. Carlotta rang the doorbell and pushed Hannah in front of the peephole. “If something’s going on, he won’t open the door to me. Try to look friendly.”

Hannah’s attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace, but a few seconds later, Chance Hollander greeted them, dressed in a short Hefner-esque paisley robe. He was blond and tanned, with the chuffy body and casual posture of a person who enjoyed excess.

“Yeah?” As soon as he spotted Carlotta, he tried to shut the door, but he was no match for Hannah. She shoved him so hard he stumbled backward and landed on his ass on a zebra-striped rug shaped like an animal hide, in the middle of a room crammed with black leather furniture.

Carlotta rolled her eyes. Why was it that people with money usually had no taste?

They walked in and Carlotta closed the door behind them. “We just want to talk, Chance.”

“I don’t know where Wesley is,” he said.

Carlotta narrowed her eyes at him. “You know something, you little shit. And you’d better tell me.”

He got a surly look on his face as he reclined on his elbows. The robe had fallen away to reveal baggy briefs and a spare tire. “Or what?”

She handed the fire extinguisher to Hannah. “Would you pull the pin, please?”

“Here, trade me.” Hannah pulled a gleaming twelve-inch cleaver from a box. “This only takes one hand.”

Carlotta’s eyes widened, but Chance’s startled yelp vanquished the reprimand on the tip of her tongue.

She hefted the heavy cleaver while Hannah aimed the hose at Chance’s dingy briefs. “Christ, what is it with you rich people and underwear? A three-pack of Hanes at Target for ten bucks—give it some thought.”

Chance grinned. “Where did you get the dog, Carlotta? I kind of like her.”

Hannah blasted his crotch with foam, eliciting a scream from him. When the dust settled, Hannah leaned closer. “The cleaver is next, fat boy. Start talking.”

“It was Wesley’s idea.”

Carlotta’s stomach churned. “What was his idea?”

Chance sat up, defeated. “He thought The Carver was behind the drive-by shooting at your place. He was scared that you were going to get hurt. So he came up with a plan to blackmail the guy.”

“Blackmail The Carver? How?”

Chance grinned. “It was genius, really. We got a transvestite to go to a strip club with us where the guy was hanging out with his cronies. When he went to the can, we sent in our himbo, and got some incriminating photos. Wesley told The Carver if you got hurt, the photos would be posted on the ‘Net.”

Carlotta shook her head in confusion. “But the man responsible for the drive-by shooting is in jail. He had nothing to do with The Carver.”

Chance winced. “I know. That part kind of sucks.”

Carlotta exchanged a horrified glance with Hannah. “We have to go.”

Chance slowly got to his feet and struck a cocky pose. “Hey, Goth Girl, can I persuade you to stay?”

Hannah blasted him with the extinguisher again, then grabbed her handcart and followed Carlotta out. They sprinted back to the van, where Carlotta punched in Jack’s number with a shaking hand.