Body Movers (3 page)

something to do with his gambling problem? He was

supposed to be on the wagon, but maybe he was running

a bookie service or an il egal poker site. She held her

breath and steeled herself for the bad news.

The detective worked his mouth from side to side. “Guess

it won’t hurt to tel you—it’l be a matter of public record

soon. Your brother was arrested for hacking into the

database of the Atlanta city government, specifically, the

courthouse.”

Panic blipped in her chest. “How much trouble is he in?”

“A lot,” he said, his voice sober. “We’re talking a felony

here. And records tampering and identity theft is high on

the department’s priority list. Hackers are vigorously

pursued and prosecuted. Accessing the records is bad

enough, but we think he might have changed some things

while he was in there.”

Carlotta frowned. “Like what?”

“We’re stil trying to determine the extent of the

tampering.”

She stifled the spike of pride that Wesley was so damn

smart—this wasn’t the time to gloat.

“We’re guessing that he might have been planning to sel

the information.”

Carlotta’s jaw hardened. If money was involved, that damn

Chance Hol ander probably had something to do with it.

That overgrown brat had been a friend of Wesley’s since

they were boys and he’d made a lifestyle out of talking

Wesley into doing things that always seemed to result in

Wesley getting into trouble and Chance getting a good

laugh.

“This isn’t like Wesley,” she murmured, swallowing her

rising panic. “He’s mischievous, but he wouldn’t break the

law.”

Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Wesley must have

been a little fel ow when your father, er—”

“Yes, he was.”

“That has to be rough on a kid.”

She nodded and averted her gaze. He had no right prying

into their personal lives.

“Who raised your brother?”

“I did.”

He seemed surprised. “What do you do for a living, Ms.

Wren?”

“I work for Neiman Marcus.”

He gave her a thorough once-over, his gaze lingering on

her legs. The cad. “I hear that’s a nice place.”

She crossed her arms. “When and where was Wesley

arrested?”

“This morning, at his residence. I assume it’s your home,

actually, since your name is on the mortgage?”

Her heart accelerated. “You were in our home?”

He nodded. “We traced his online activity to the house. I

arrested him there and confiscated his equipment.”

She covered her mouth. This couldn’t be happening.

He gave her a little smile. “Don’t worry—we didn’t trash

your place. That only happens on TV.”

Carlotta narrowed her eyes. “You think this is funny?”

His smile vanished. “No. Sorry. Does your brother live with

you ful -time?”

She tingled under his scrutiny and felt her defenses rise.

“Yes, it’s his home, too. And for all that Wesley’s been

through, I think he’s turned into a pretty decent kid.”

He pursed his mouth. “He might stil seem like a kid to you,

Ms. Wren, but your brother is an adult in the eyes of the

law. And no offense, but he’s making bad choices that are

going to mess up his life, just like your father did.”

His words cut her to the quick. For the past ten years, her

consuming goal had been to do what was best for Wesley,

to teach him right from wrong, especially considering the

criminal legacy their father had left behind. It seemed she

had failed…miserably.

She blinked back sudden tears. “What do you know about

my father?”

The detective’s face went stony. “I know that he made a

living bilking people out of their hard-earned money while

he lived like a king. And when he got caught, instead of

facing his punishment like a man, he skipped bail and

abandoned his children, one of whom seems on the verge

of fol owing in his footsteps.”

Carlotta’s defenses surged against his attack on her family.

“What are you, a one-man judge and jury? You don’t know

everything, Mr. Terry.”

“Detective Terry,” he corrected amiably.

“Detective Terry, why aren’t you out arresting real

criminals instead of picking on my brother?”

His geniality fled. “Ms. Wren, your brother is a real

criminal.”

She wanted to scream a denial, to flail and blame

everything on her parents, to rail against the unfairness of

it all. She had given up her twenties because her parents

had bailed on their responsibility, but had always told

herself it was worth it to be the best possible replacement

for their parents to her little brother. Had it all been for

nothing?

Suddenly she felt so powerless. She sank into the yel ow

chair, stain and all, and summoned strength. She didn’t

have to like Detective Jack Terry, but right now he had the

information she needed. “What wil happen next?”

“He’l need an attorney.”

“An attorney,” she repeated in a weak voice. Where would

she get the money for an attorney?

He checked his watch. “If his attorney can get here this

afternoon, he’l probably have a bail hearing today.”

“Bail hearing,” she murmured.

“And since this is his first offense, he’l probably be

released on bail.”

Feeling like the most stupid person alive, she said, “How

does that work exactly—bail? I…I don’t remember from…I

don’t remember.” From when her father had been

arrested.

His expression softened, as if he realized that she wasn’t

nearly as street-smart as she tried to appear. “For a felony

with no endangerment, the standard bail is five thousand.

If you pay cash, you’l get it back after the case is settled.”

She choked back a laugh. Where would she get five

thousand dol ars? If only their parents had left them a

stash of il -gotten gains to make up for the fact that they

had abandoned their own children.

He coughed lightly. “If you don’t have cash, you’l want to

call a bail bondsman. That wil cost you ten percent of the

bail, which you won’t get back.”

Five hundred—she could probably scrape together that

much, but it would be another expense that she didn’t

need right now.

He opened a desk drawer, revealing more clutter, and

rooted around, coming up with a curled business card. “If

you need to, call this guy.”

She took the card of Brumbee’s Bail Bonds (“Cal us

anytime!”), a flush warming her cheeks. Had the detective

guessed how deeply in debt they were, or had he already

performed a credit check and confirmed it? At least her

parents had left the house in her name. Although she

suspected it was to shelter the property in case her

parents’ assets were seized during the criminal case, it was

the one thing that had given her a financial toehold after

they had disappeared, and the means to secure custody of

Wesley. “I’ve heard of people putting up the deed to their

house for bail.”

“A property bond?” He splayed his big hands. “Yeah,

people do that al the time. And then they get a lien placed

on their home if the person doesn’t show up in court.” His

lips flattened. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

She frowned. “Wesley would never skip bail.”

The detective didn’t say anything, but in the air hung the

question Like your father wouldn’t skip bail?

Carlotta lowered her gaze, burning with shame. She

refused to cry. When Detective Terry’s hand touched her

arm, she could only stare at the blunt-tipped fingers,

wishing it was the hand of someone she could rely on for

the long haul rather than fleeting sympathy. They were,

after al , on opposite sides of this issue. She inhaled to

compose herself, then pul ed her arm away and lifted her

gaze to his. “After posting bail, then what?”

The detective looked contrite, then picked up his coffee

cup with his errant hand. “Within a couple of days he’l

have to appear in court to be arraigned.”

“Arraigned,” she said, nodding stupidly.

“That’s where the charges against him wil be read, and

he’l enter a plea. If his attorney and the district attorney

reach an agreement on the charges and the sentence, he

can plead out.” He hesitated, then added, “If not, his case

will go to trial.”

“Trial,” she said like a sick parrot. She closed her eyes,

thinking how sordid it all sounded—and how disturbingly

familiar. It was all coming back to her, hearing the same

terminology peppering her parents’ conversations after

the grand jury had indicted her father, her mother

weeping drunkenly, her father professing his innocence—

unconvincingly. And now it was starting all over again.

When she opened her eyes, Detective Terry was studying

her intently. Upon closer inspection, his bloodshot eyes

were hazel, almost golden, unusually pale with his dark

coloring. And…dangerous. Unbidden, the thought darted

through her mind that any woman foolish enough to hook

up with this man was destined for disappointment.

Suddenly he leaned toward her. “Look, I didn’t know about

the connection between your brother and your father

when I made the arrest this morning. Your brother wil

have to pay for his crime, but…wel , off the record, I

should warn you—the D.A., Kelvin Lucas, is the same man

who had your father indicted.”

A slow drip of panic entered her bloodstream, as cool as

menthol. “Are you saying that the D.A. might be harder on

my brother because he didn’t get to prosecute my

father?”

The detective’s gaze was unflinching. “Ms. Wren, in this

city, and especial y in the D.A.’s office, your father’s name

is like a bad smel . All I’m saying is that you and your

brother should prepare yourselves for the worst.”

3

Wesley Wren whistled under his breath, a nameless tune

that his father had always whistled when Wesley was a

boy. He didn’t remember too many moments with his

workaholic father, whose angular face was hazy in his

mind, but he remembered that when Dad was in a good

mood, he whistled. And, despite sitting in the corner of a

musty jail cel and the fact that Hubert, one of the dozen

other guys in holding, had forced him to trade his new

brown suede Puma tennis shoes for Hubert’s worn-out no-

name sneakers, Wesley was in a pretty good mood. It had

taken him only a few weeks to find a way into the Atlanta

courthouse records, and that wasn’t bad for a hobby

hacker.

His buddy Chance had given him the idea by asking if

Wesley could expunge a couple of DUI arrests from

Chance’s record. He was wil ing to pay Wesley five

hundred bucks per delete stroke.

Oh, sure, the extra cash had come in handy, but cleaning

up Chance’s traffic violations hadn’t been the primary

incentive. For months now he’d been covertly

accumulating details about his father’s indictment and

subsequent disappearance—covertly because Carlotta

would murder him if she ever caught wind of it. He’d made

copies of every public document he could find online and

in crammed file cabinets around Atlanta, but the

information was incomplete and dated. When he’d tapped

into the courthouse records two days ago, he’d found a

wealth of information on his father’s last court

appearance, and on sightings of his parents over the past

ten years—Michigan, Kentucky, California, Texas. The

thought of his polished, executive father wearing a ten-

gallon hat made him smile, but he was sure that Randolph

Wren could carry it off. His father was smart, savvy, and

knew how to blend in to his environment—how else had

he been able to elude the authorities for over a decade?

His chest swel ed with pride when he thought of his father

donning a disguise and slipping out of town under the

nose of some cop out to make a career for himself by

capturing Randolph Wren, The Bird. When Wesley was in

grade school, he’d entertained his friends with daring

stories that he’d imagined to be true. Having a notorious

father had given him status in school. He was no longer

the bespectacled runt who blew the curve in math class.

He was the son of The Bird. He had told his classmates

how he’d helped his father escape the feds by coming up

with a fantastic math equation regarding engine speed and

the timing of traffic lights, and how he continued to help

his father from afar via secret code. As soon as his father

had gathered enough evidence to prove that he had been

set up, he would return to Atlanta and clear his name.

They would be a family again, vindicated, and stronger for

their trials.

It was true…sort of. He hadn’t helped his father escape, of

course, but he would have if his father had only asked. And

there was no secret code within the abbreviated messages

on the postcards they had received sporadically over the

years—at least not one that he’d been able to crack. He’d

spent hours poring over those postcards, eight of them in

all, studying them under a magnifying glass, infrared light,