Body Movers 4 - 4 Bodies and a Funeral (16 page)

opportunity, he might try to finish the job.”

She swallowed hard. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“The detectives are going to make sure you get home

safely and check things there,” Lindy said.

“What about the black SUV I saw sitting by the curb

yesterday?” Jack asked. “Could it have been him?”

Carlotta shot a nervous glance toward Lindy. She didn’t

want the woman knowing all the sordid things going on in

and around the Wren household. “I don’t think so. My

neighbor said she’d been seeing it for a couple of weeks.”

“What about the man with the cake yesterday?” Maria

asked. “Could it have been Michael Lane?”

Carlotta stopped, her mind rewinding to the man’s face.

She closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead. “I

don’t know. The height is about right…and the build.

Michael had dark hair, but the guy yesterday was wearing

a fake mustache…Maybe he was wearing a wig, too, under

the hat.”

“You didn’t mention a wig yesterday,” Maria said.

Carlotta frowned. “Or maybe not, I don’t remember.

Perhaps someone else wil .”

“But it could’ve been Michael Lane?”

“Maybe.”

“Which might explain why he mowed you over with the

cart,” Maria said.

Carlotta straightened. “Wel , he didn’t exactly mow me

over—”

“Right,” Jack cut in. “We were thinking the guy was trying

to get close to Eva McCoy, but maybe he was trying to get

close to Carlotta.”

Carlotta frowned. “If it was Michael, don’t you think it was

a pretty elaborate ruse just to get to me? And do what—

put me in a sugar coma?”

“He had a tool of some kind,” Jack reminded her.

“He could’ve had a knife,” Maria added. “Do you

remember seeing one?”

Carlotta replayed the episode in her head, but it had

happened so quickly, and her memory was already getting

fuzzy. “I don’t remember either way.”

“Do you know anywhere Lane might go?” Jack asked.

“What about his apartment?”

“His landlord said it’s been rented out, but no one’s seen

him on the property.”

“Michael and I didn’t hang out a lot. We mostly saw each

other here at work. There’s a coffee shop here in the mal

he liked.”

“Michael’s picture has been distributed to mall security,”

Lindy said. “And we’l inform the other store employees in

case he shows up here. I know you have some time left on

your shift, but we all think it’s a good idea if you go home

now. I’l have Patricia work your area until closing.”

Carlotta bit back a smart remark—this was no time to be

worried about her sales commissions. “Can I come back to

work tomorrow?”

“That’s up to you,” Lindy said.

“Hopefully al of this wil be resolved before tomorrow,”

Jack said. “We have a lot of people looking for Lane.”

Carlotta nodded numbly. “I need to stop by the break

room to pick up my things.”

The two detectives fol owed her out of the office, Jack

walking in front and Maria behind. Being sandwiched

between them as they made their way through the store

made Carlotta feel conspicuous and nervous. “You’re not

sure when Michael escaped?”

“No,” Jack said. “He was being transported to a facility in

Mil edgevil e. It’s not clear if he ever left Northside

Hospital, or if he escaped once he reached Mil edgevil e.”

Jack’s voice was tight and he kept turning to look her over

as if he were afraid something had happened to her and

she hadn’t told him about it. It made her feel all warm

inside.

It wasn’t lost on her that she and Jack always seemed to

be the most attracted to each other when danger was

involved.

Then Maria strode up next to her and Carlotta pursed her

mouth—except now they were a threesome.

They escorted her to the break room, where she swiped

her ID card for the first time to gain access. Once inside,

she pul ed her purse from her locker and thought about

the papers inside that she’d printed at the library, but

decided it wasn’t the right time to bring up the Shawna

Whitt case.

Carlotta caught her reflection in the mirror and

acknowledged she looked pale. And scared. The night that

Michael had thrown her over the balcony at the Fox

Theatre, she could’ve fallen to her death on the seats

below. She’d uncovered Michael’s scheme of plotting with

members of his therapy group to steal identities—hers

included. And he’d been determined she wasn’t going to

live to tel anyone about it.

She massaged her healing arm that suddenly thrummed

with pain. When the curtain she’d grabbed on the way

over the balcony had finally given way, she’d been lucky

that Jack had broken her fall—her injuries might’ve been

much worse. And Michael’s betrayal had cut deep.

She chased a couple of ibuprofen gel capsules with a

swallow of water from a bottle, pinched her cheeks to add

a little color, then closed the locker door. She emerged

from the break room and threaded through the aisles

flanked by her personal security detail. The store was stil

thick with customers, and Carlotta found herself studying

each face, expecting to see Michael Lane at every turn.

“We’re parked outside this exit,” Jack said, pointing. “We’ll

drive you to your car and fol ow you home.”

With a sense of déjà vu, she fol owed them to Jack’s dark

sedan and slid into the backseat.

“Where are you parked?” Jack asked after he and Maria

were settled in the front.

Carlotta pointed the way, then decided to take her

chances with her question while Jack seemed protective

toward her.

A girl had to push her advantage when she had one.

“Have you gotten the results back from the Whitt woman’s

autopsy?” she asked, feigning interest in her do-it-yourself

manicure. Once Jack caught wind of her fascination with

the case, he’d clam up.

“Not yet,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“Any leads on the chicken charm?”

“We lifted a partial print from it—but it’s smudged,

probably unusable.”

Maria shot him a questioning look. “Jack, should you really

be discussing a case?”

From the backseat, Carlotta shot imaginary fireballs with

her eyes into the woman’s ridiculously thick, luxurious hair

to give her split ends.

Jack gave a dismissive wave as he pul ed up behind the

Monte Carlo. “Carlotta thinks she’s Nancy Drew. I’ve

learned to humor her with a detail or two.”

Carlotta glared at him. “Just for that, Ned Nickerson, I have

a clue in the Shawna Whitt case and I’m not going to share

it.”

Jack’s dark eyebrows knitted as he put the sedan in Park.

“Who’s Ned Nickerson?”

“He was Nancy’s boyfriend,” Maria offered.

Carlotta rol ed her eyes. “He’s wasn’t really her boyfriend.”

She opened the door and climbed out, rummaging for her

keys.

Jack got out and walked up to her car, peering inside. He

waved, seemingly satisfied that Michael Lane wasn’t lying

in wait for her.

She slid behind the wheel and slammed the door, but

when she turned the key, the only sound she heard was a

clicking noise.

The battery was dead again.

Minus ten points.

She banged on the steering wheel, then rol ed down her

window and glanced up at Jack. “Wil you give me another

jump?”

One side of his mouth pul ed back in a smile, then he

nodded toward the sedan. “Come on, we’l take you home.

You can get your car later.”

Sullen, she locked her lifeless vehicle and gave the tire a

kick as she walked past it. “Stupid redneck car.”

“Hey, don’t be abusing the Super Sport,” Jack scolded. “I

would’ve kil ed for that car when I was a teenager.”

“Exactly,” she said drily, then reclaimed her place in the

backseat of Jack’s life—er, car.

In the front seat Maria was on the phone, and her tone

sounded official. By the time Jack fastened his seat belt

and set the car in motion, she was hanging up. “That was

the medical examiner,” she murmured to Jack.

Carlotta’s ears perked up and Jack caught her glance in the

rearview mirror. “I don’t suppose it’l do any good to ask

you to close your ears?”

She shook her head.

He sighed, then looked back to Maria. “Was Abrams calling

about the Whitt woman?”

“Yes.”

“And the cause of death?”

“Natural causes. Said she had a heart attack—case closed.”

Carlotta shot forward. “But what about the charm in her

mouth?”

Maria lifted her shoulders in a philosophical shrug. “People

have all kinds of oral fixations. Maybe she just liked to

chew on things.”

“That’s bizarre.”

“Believe me,” the detective said, “I’ve seen more people

die with strange things in their mouths than people who

were murdered. I remember one lady who had change for

a dol ar in her mouth in quarters, dimes and nickels. And

one guy who liked to suck on nine-volt batteries.”

“But Coop said it was placed in her mouth postmortem,”

Carlotta argued.

“Guess Coop was wrong this time,” Jack said. “There were

no signs of forced entry, the house was locked when the

uniforms arrived, and all the prints CSI lifted were the

vic’s. We were just waiting for confirmation from the M.E.”

Carlotta slowly sat back in the seat, her mind on Coop’s

performance and the hidden bottle of vodka. Coop had

been reserved when he’d picked her up. Something about

his demeanor had seemed “off,” but she’d chalked it up to

the personal tension between them. He’d said he needed

her as a witness for the pickup—had he been drinking and

was perhaps afraid he’d do something wrong at the scene?

“Didn’t mean to burst your bubble,” Jack said, his tone

sarcastic. “I know how much you think of the good

doctor.”

“Coop is a good doctor,” she murmured, then stared out

the window while Jack and Maria talked shop—schedules,

lab work…Maria’s problem with her garbage disposal.

“I can take a look at it sometime,” Jack offered.

“I’d appreciate it.”

Carlotta bristled at their familiarity, but rather than

listening to their domestic banter, she pul ed the sheets of

paper out of her purse and glanced over them, rereading

the words that Shawna Whitt had written. It was sad to

think of the young woman, not much older than herself,

sitting at her computer—perhaps at work—typing in plans

for jump-starting her life and meeting someone, only to

die a few days later. Had Shawna known she had a heart

condition? Is that what had made the woman, by her own

admission, tentative?

Carlotta closed her eyes briefly. Life was so short. She was

glad, of course, that the Whitt woman hadn’t been done in

by some random psycho, yet she suspected the reporter

Rainie Stephens would be disappointed.

Although with Michael Lane escaped, she might have her

wacko-kil er-on-the-loose story after al . “Does the media

know about Michael?” she asked.

“We didn’t call them, but frankly, there were so many

people involved in the transport at both facilities, I’l be

surprised if we don’t hear about it on the eleven o’clock

news.”

Jack wheeled into her driveway. “Is Wesley home?”

“No. He’s spending the night with his friend Chance.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve installed an alarm in the house

recently?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Do you have anything to protect yourself

with?”

“My wits,” she said cheerfully.

“Yeah, that’s comforting.” He climbed out of the car,

turning to scan the area. “You two stay here. I’m going to

look around.”

He closed the door, effectively sealing her in the car with

Maria, who was also looking all around, checking the side

mirrors. Carlotta used the opportunity to study the woman

from an unobtrusive vantage point. Her dark suit and

pinstriped shirt were of equally good quality as yesterday’s

outfit. Her makeup was high-end—probably La Prairie or

Dior. Her earrings were David Yurman, and the watch that

peeked out from under her sleeve was a Rolex Super

President, meaning the sparkly stones weren’t cubic

zirconia.

Hmm…this was getting curiouser and curiouser.

Carlotta felt as if she should make small talk, but she held

back. A part of her didn’t want to become friendly with

this woman, and she could feel a similar vibe coming from

the detective. The silence in the car grew oppressive.

Final y, Carlotta cleared her throat. “Do you really think

Michael Lane wil come after me?”

“Unfortunately, it does fit his profile.”

“What do you mean?”

Maria turned in her seat to face Carlotta. “Michael Lane is

a narcissist. In his mind, he’s the only person who matters.

Everyone around him serves a purpose, which is simply to

further his interests. You can testify against him. If he gets

rid of you, in his mind, his problems are solved.”

“I was told there might not even be a trial.”

“That’s true—he was being moved to Mil edgevil e for