Body Movers (19 page)

strummed in the back of her mind. She couldn’t be sure,

but the car looked like the one that had nearly run her

down in the parking garage today.

She jerked her attention away and hurriedly swung into

her car, frantic to be gone. In her haste she nearly flooded

the engine, but finally the ignition caught and she pul ed

away from the house, her hands clammy, her mind ringing

with one truth: It was a good decision to have kept her

mouth shut about her run-in with Angela, or that pesky

Detective Terry might try to implicate her in the woman’s

death by pointing out that she had plenty of motivation for

wanting Angela dead.

Carlotta rubbed at her temple where a headache had

settled. As if she didn’t already have enough problems to

deal with.

15

From his seat in the van, Wesley watched his sister careen

out of the neighborhood and shook his head.

“She’s in a hurry,” Coop observed wryly.

“I guess this scene shook her up. She was engaged to that

Ashford guy.”

“Hmm.”

“Kind of weird that she ran into him just a couple of days

ago, then again tonight, huh?”

“Hmm.”

“And now his wife is dead.”

“Hmm.”

Wesley looked at his boss. “Are the husbands usually that

calm in a situation like this?”

Coop took his time answering. “Not usually, but

sometimes. Ashford looked drunk to me.”

Wesley stabbed at his glasses. “Wel , I didn’t like the way

he cozied up to Carlotta, seeing as how his wife isn’t even

in the ground.”

“It’s good that you watch out for your sister,” Coop said

with a little smile, “but I have the feeling that she can take

care of herself.”

His mind flew to the disheveled state of Carlotta’s clothing

when she’d arrived home. What had she said? That she’d

walked out in front of a car when she’d left work and had

decided to sacrifice her outfit.

No way would Carlotta sacrifice her outfit unless she truly

thought she was going to bite a car gril .

And even though it was probably some soccer mom from

Alpharetta trying to beat rush-hour traffic, there was the

possibility that it had been someone who’d targeted her,

someone who wanted to scare her, to send a message…to

him. A sour taste backed up in his mouth. He’d heard

rumors about The Carver running people down, and the

bumper on his black Caddy did look as if a few objects had

bounced off it.

“Say, Coop, do you know where I could get a gun?”

Coop’s head pivoted. “Why on earth do you need a gun?”

Wesley shrugged. “You know—for protection.”

“You’re on probation, chief, or have you forgotten?

Besides, I think you’re overreacting on the protective-

brother thing.”

He chewed on his response for a while, then decided to

talk to Coop man-to-man. “Look, I owe money to some

bad dudes. One of them keeps showing up at the house

and hassling my sister. I just want to be able to protect

her, if necessary.”

Coop scowled. “Maybe you should call the police.”

“Yeah, right. And the next body-moving cal you get wil be

me.”

Coop didn’t respond and Wesley wished he hadn’t brought

up the subject. His buddy Chance would probably know

where he could get a gun with no questions asked. “That

detective back there, he’s the guy who arrested me. Jerk.”

“Jack Terry? We don’t always see eye to eye, but he’s

usually just doing his job.”

“He cal ed you doctor, just like that lady at the nursing

home.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he asked your opinion on the M.E.’s report.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So what’s up with that?”

Coop stretched in his seat and Wesley thought it was

another one of those questions his boss would avoid.

“I used to be a doctor,” Coop said finally.

“Used to be?”

Coop shot him an impatient look. “Yeah, as in I’m not

anymore.”

“What happened?”

The man’s profile hardened and he seemed to turn inside

himself. “Long story,” he said, mimicking Wesley’s

response of a couple of days ago when Cooper had probed

about his family.

“Some other time, then,” Wesley said.

“Yeah. We’re here,” Coop said, pul ing the van into the

parking lot of the city morgue.

Wesley looked at the nondescript building, the third time

he’d accompanied Coop to the place. They pul ed around

to the back where two guys in scrubs were just finishing a

smoke break and going back into the building.

“Working in a morgue, you’d think they’d know better

than to smoke,” Wesley said.

“Yeah,” Coop replied, “but sometimes the people who

know better have the worst vices of al .”

Something in his voice made Wesley think once again that

Cooper Craft had secrets and maybe a shady past. And the

set of the man’s mouth told him that something about this

body pickup had bothered him more than usual.

When Coop parked, Wesley jumped out to help him

unload the body from the van and place it on a gurney.

They rol ed it up a ramp where Coop pressed a button on a

call box and identified himself and their “delivery.” A few

seconds later a buzz sounded, unlocking the door.

A slender, suited man, maybe in his fifties, met them just

inside the door, a thundercloud on his bushy brow.

“Hel o, Dr. Abrams,” Coop said pleasantly.

The man didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “Is this the

Ashford body?”

“Yes.”

“My medical examiner just phoned in. He said he ruled the

death an accidental drowning.”

“He did,” Coop said.

“So why is she here?”

“Detective Jack Terry told me to bring her here after he

interviewed the husband,” Coop said, his voice even. “The

M.E. had already left, Bruce.”

The chief medical examiner’s expression changed to one of

suspicion. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with the

detective overriding the M.E.’s report.”

Coop lifted his hands. “Just fol owing orders.”

The man expel ed a long sigh and jammed his hands on his

hips. “You’re putting me in a hel of a spot. I extended the

transport contract for your family’s funeral home because

we go way back, and in spite of everything, I respect you,

Coop. But I can’t have you on the scene second-guessing

my people.”

Coop frowned. “Wel , maybe I wouldn’t have to if your

people would do their job. The guy barely looked at the

body before writing the report and taking off. He didn’t

even talk to the next of kin, only the maid.”

Dr. Abrams made an exasperated noise. “Coop, you of all

people know how it is—everyone here is overworked and

underpaid. We’re lucky to fil the entry-level jobs, and we

got bodies stacked up in here.”

“Then one more won’t matter,” Coop said, his voice

chal enging.

The older man’s expression hardened and his chin went up

in the air. “No, Coop. That’s not the way things are run

around here anymore. We fol ow the rules to the letter.”

Coop’s mouth tightened, and then he shook his head, his

eyes ful of disdain. “That’s why you’l never be a great

M.E., Bruce.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You arrogant son of a bitch.

You have the nerve to criticize me after the disgraceful

way you behaved?”

Wesley took a step back. The men obviously had history.

Coop set his jaw and looked away. When he turned back,

his expression was contrite. “I’m sorry, Bruce. You’re

right—I was out of line. You don’t have to do an autopsy,

but I’l have to leave the body here while I make another

run. I’l pick it up when I make the next dropoff in about—

” he looked at his watch “—two hours. Okay?”

Dr. Abrams drew back, his eyes stil wary despite Coop’s

apology, his chin stubbornly set. “Take her to the crypt for

now.”

Coop nodded in acquiescence and told Wesley where to

turn once they reached the end of the hall. He seemed to

know his way around the place.

The morgue was a cold, sterile building with industrial

surfaces and a hushed, echoey atmosphere. At this time of

day, the corners were dark, the glaring overhead lights

ruthless. They passed workers wearing scrubs, their eyes

and shoulders sagging in fatigue. A few of them recognized

Coop and murmured hel o, although their body language

seemed awkward and their eye contact furtive.

Wesley slid his gaze sideways to his boss. The man was

indeed a mystery, but he had a feeling now wasn’t the

best time to ask questions.

As they rounded a corner, the body shifted in the gray

body bag they had transferred her to. Wesley jumped back

and Coop smiled as they repositioned her.

“Relax, man, she’s not going to hurt anyone.”

Even in the voluminous body bag, her breast implants

were obvious, jutting up, pushing the plastic taut.

“It freaks me out a little because she was so young,”

Wesley said.

“Unfortunately, you’d better get used to that.”

“But she’s, like, my sister’s age.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you don’t think her drowning was an accident?”

Coop pursed his mouth and resumed pushing the gurney.

“As a matter of fact, it probably was an accident. I have a

tendency to look for a devious angle even where there is

none.” He smiled. “I can be rather morose, if you hadn’t

noticed.”

“I guess this job wil do it to you.”

“Yep.”

They reached the stainless-steel doors marked Crypt. Coop

knocked and handed some paperwork to the young

orderly who came to the door and said, “We’ll take it from

here.”

Wesley handed off the gurney and turned to go. Coop took

a little longer and cast a lingering glance over Angela

Ashford’s body as it disappeared through the doors. Then

he turned to Wesley and clapped him on the back. “Louis

Strong at the Sonic Car Wash on Monroe Avenue.”

Wesley frowned. “Who’s that?”

“The man who can get you a decent handgun without a lot

of questions. He’s not cheap, but he has a good

reputation. Tel him I sent you, and don’t shoot your damn

foot off, okay?”

Wesley grinned. “Okay.”

“Wipe that grin off your face. I’m doing this because I

don’t want to see anything happen to your sister,

capisce?”

Wesley’s grin widened. “Capisce.”

16

By the time Carlotta parked the Monte Carlo in her garage,

she was shaking uncontrol ably. A hot shower did little to

dispel the chil that had seeped into her skin, a reminder

that Angela Ashford would never again be warm. Sleep

was out of the question. Instead, she huddled against her

headboard wrapped in the fuzzy chenil e robe, watching

the Style Network through a haze of tears that wouldn’t

fall and aching all over from a misery that she couldn’t

define. Hovering along the edges of guilt over how many

times she’d wished terrible things upon Angela was a

profound fear that she’d never felt before—her own

mortality.

She and Angela were the same age, and Angela had been

surrounded by everything that Carlotta had once thought

would be hers someday, including Peter. In Carlotta’s eyes,

Angela had been the luckiest woman in Atlanta, yet it al

had been snatched from her in the time it took to fall into

a quarter-of-a-mil ion-dol ar swimming-pool addition and

drown.

How long did it take for a person to drown? Carlotta

wondered. One minute? Three? Five?

All that time, Angela would have been thrashing in the

water in those boots that Carlotta had coveted, trying to

hold her breath until at last giving in and drawing

chlorinated water into her burning lungs.

Had Angela’s last thoughts been of Peter, of the man she’d

married? Had she died thinking that her husband was

having an affair with his former fiancée? Had she mourned

that her life hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped?

If so, Carlotta thought sadly, then she and Angela actually

had a lot in common.

With her bedroom lights blazing, Carlotta listened to the

comforting hum of voices from the television as the pretty

people on the entertainment news show floated through

their glamorous lives, smiling wide and lifting one-

hundred-dol ar glasses of Clarendon Hil s syrah, climbing in

and out of their European sports cars, wearing couture

clothing from Milan. Their lives seemed so perfect…the life

she’d always aspired to have.

She picked up the Cartier ring box from her nightstand and

fingered the marquis-cut engagement ring that Peter had

given her when she was seventeen. She’d been much too

young to be thinking about marriage, she knew that now,

but her love for Peter had obliterated any other goal she

might have had for herself. The fact that the ring he’d

given her surpassed what most adult women received

spoke of the incredible wealth that Peter had at his

disposal. Too young, too clueless and too

wealthy…completely unprepared to deal with reality.

She sighed. After ten years of hard knocks, sometimes she