Body Movers (31 page)

“Dennis Lagerfeld” and “Martinique Estates” and got a hit

on a lifestyle article in the Atlanta Journal–Constitution:

“…Martinique Estates, tucked away in a lush Buckhead

basin, has become home to many local celebrities,

including supermodel Daniel e Finnie, former Falcon

Dennis Lagerfeld…”

Her heart sped up. Dennis Lagerfeld, one of the people

who happened to buy the same type of expensive cigar

she’d found in the jacket that Angela had returned, lived in

the same neighborhood as Peter and Angela. And if the

man was a former professional football player, he was

probably a big man—big enough to fit the jacket. She

clicked on the images filter and looked for photos of

Dennis Lagerfeld. There were many of him in the black-

and-red uniform, but she finally found one publicity shot.

He was handsome, with dark hair and caramel-colored

skin, large, exotic features and piercing pale-colored eyes.

But there was a slight curl to his mouth that made her

think that Lagerfeld was a jock who wasn’t above

exploiting his celebrity status.

She glanced at her watch and rushed to do a local search

on Susan Harroway. Lots of hits were returned, but most

of them were mentions of her husband, Davidson, with

Susan at his side. She scanned images of the couple, then

clicked to enlarge a photo of them walking into a benefit.

Davidson Harroway was puffing on a long cigar, with

Susan’s hand tucked under his arm.

So, chances were, the Cohiba that Susan had purchased

was for hubby. Carlotta moved the mouse to close the

browser just as a man’s face appeared over the top of the

cubicle.

She started, then manufactured a smile for Akin Frasier,

security officer extraordinaire. “Hel o, Mr. Frasier.” She

was never sure how to take the intense little man with the

big attitude. He was either a little off in the head, or the

most dedicated security officer she’d ever encountered in

retail.

“Hi, Ms. Wren. Just making my rounds. I was told that no

one is supposed to be in here except the people whose

names are on the cubes.”

She hurriedly closed the browser window and stood,

replacing the owner’s sticky note and scooting the chair in

close. She gave a dismissive wave. “Smithy told me I could

check my e-mail, but I’m all finished.”

She sashayed by.

“Ms. Wren?”

She winced and turned back. “Yes, Mr. Frasier?”

“I ran into that Detective Terry this morning and told him

all about that awful Ashford woman attacking you last

Friday. I thought he should know, even if the woman is

dead. He seemed appreciative—even asked for the

surveil ance film.”

She managed to maintain a watery smile. “Thank you.”

He tipped an imaginary hat. “You’re welcome, ma’am. We

had a report of a purse snatcher in the area. If you need an

escort when you walk to your car, just let me know.”

“I wil , Mr. Frasier.”

She returned to her department, her nerves frayed.

Because of her, Peter was being investigated for the

murder of his wife, and even though she believed he was

innocent, somehow she managed to keep giving the police

more and more motive for him to have done it. Now they

had footage of his wife attacking his presumed girlfriend

the day she was murdered.

She felt numb the rest of the afternoon as she waited on

customers, worried sick over Peter’s fate and mul ing over

the information she’d learned. She was going to be fired if

she continued to obssess over the case.

She clocked out a few minutes early, then found a quiet

corner in the employee break room and made a call on her

cel phone that she didn’t want to make. After the third

ring, she was hoping to be able to leave a message, but

after a click a voice came on the line. “Liz Fischer

speaking.”

Carlotta’s throat tightened. “Um, hi…Liz. This is Carlotta

Wren.”

“Hel o, Carlotta,” Liz said, although her voice was laced

with concern. “Is everything all right? Is Wesley okay?”

“Everything’s fine. In fact, Wesley’s little run-in with the

police has helped him to grow up. Probation seems to

agree with him.” She wet her lips. “I didn’t thank you, Liz,

for helping him. I know I didn’t act like it at the time, but I

do appreciate it.”

“It was no problem,” Liz said, her voice now suspicious.

“But surely you didn’t call me on a Friday evening just to

thank me for helping your brother out of a jam.”

“No,” Carlotta admitted. “Actually, I know I don’t have the

right to ask, but I need another favor.”

“Okay,” Liz said warily.

“Do you know an attorney named Bryan D’Angelo?”

“Sure. But he’s not an attorney now. He was just

appointed to fil a vacant bench on the circuit court.”

“He’s a judge?”

“Yes. Why are you asking questions about D’Angelo?”

“A friend of mine died,” Carlotta said slowly. “Actually, she

was kil ed. And I found a cigar in her possession that I’m

trying to trace back to an owner. Bryan D’Angelo’s name

came up as a possibility and I thought you might be able to

tel me what kind of person he is.”

Liz made a thoughtful noise. “I’ve only worked with him a

couple of times on cases, but my experience with him

wasn’t pleasant. He’s a big, arrogant son of a bitch. On the

other hand, I can’t see him kil ing someone.”

“But he’s a big man?” Carlotta asked, thinking of the jacket

size.

“Not fat, but tall and kind of bulky. Listen, Carlotta, I’m

sorry about your friend, but this sounds serious. You

should turn over whatever information you have to the

police and let them handle it.”

“I have, but I’m afraid the investigating officer has already

set his sights on another suspect, who is also a friend of

mine.” She thought it best not to mention that she herself

had given them plenty of reason to scrutinize her “friend.”

“Who was the woman who was kil ed?”

“Angela Ashford.”

“Yeah…she belonged to my club. I thought it was an

accidental drowning.”

“Her death has been reclassified,” Carlotta murmured,

wondering if she was giving away too much. On the other

hand, it would be public knowledge all too soon.

“Who is your friend that the police have fingered?”

“Um, her husband, Peter Ashford.”

“Oh,” Liz said mildly. “You’re friends with the vic’s

husband?”

“Just friends,” Carlotta said, closing her eyes. Liar, liar,

Prada pants on fire.

“Who’s the investigating officer?” Liz asked. “I can call and

have a word with him, if you like. Tel him to keep an open

mind.”

Carlotta pursed her mouth, annoyed at the idea of having

Liz call up her old boyfriend on Carlotta’s behalf.

“Carlotta?”

“Uh, actual y, it’s Detective Jack Terry.”

“Oh. I know Jack,” Liz said, her voice turning wistful. “I

wouldn’t mind giving him a call.”

Carlotta had a vision of the woman on the other end

licking her pencil. “No, I don’t want you to go to any

trouble—”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Liz said, practically purring. “I’ve

been meaning to give Jack a call and see what he’s up to.

Don’t worry, your name won’t even come up.”

“Thanks,” Carlotta said with a sour frown. “But back to

D’Angelo—can you tel me anything else about him? Is he

married? Does he have a reputation as a womanizer?”

“I don’t know, but I can put out some feelers and get back

to you.”

“I’d appreciate it. Goodbye.” Carlotta disconnected the call

and sighed. She’d just guaranteed that Jack Terry was

going to get laid soon—probably tonight. But hey, as long

as it meant he’d be more cooperative and she didn’t have

to sleep with him.

Not that she’d sleep with him under any circumstances.

Unbidden, an image of the two of them together entered

her head, of his powerful body covering hers. She frowned

and pushed herself to her feet. The lack of food was

making her hallucinate.

As she walked out to her car, dread accumulated in her

stomach. She wasn’t looking forward to going home to an

empty house. Maybe she should’ve taken Hannah up on

her offer to sneak her into a party at the High Museum

tonight. At the time the prospect had seemed dul , but

now she knew she would only go home and spend the

night thinking about Peter and sifting through mementos.

How pathetic was that?

“Carlotta.”

At the sound of her name, she looked up to see Peter

standing next to her parked car in the dim lighting of the

parking garage. For a split second, she thought she had

conjured him up from a memory. His tousled blond hair,

long-sleeve polo jersey and loose jeans sent her back in

time, to when the two of them were all that mattered and

every minute of her day hinged on his touches and phone

calls. It was easy to imagine that he had just stopped by to

pick her up for the movies.

She inhaled to clear her head and bring herself back to the

present as she walked closer. She stopped about five feet

away, her breathing compromised. “Peter…what are you

doing here?”

“I had to talk to you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You

wouldn’t answer my calls.”

“I…I didn’t think it was a good idea. And I wanted to give

you space to grieve for Angela.”

“I am grieving,” he said, his eyes clouding. “The police

came back this morning, to question me. Now they’re

saying that Angela was murdered, and they think I did it.”

“If that were true,” she said careful y, “and they had

evidence, they would have arrested you.”

“The detective said that it was you who told them that

Angela had been murdered.” His eyes were heavy with

hurt and he shook his head. “How could you think that?”

Her heart cracked a little to see him in pain and to know

that she had caused it. At the same time, a chil inched up

her back as she realized they were alone. Was Peter

angry? Had he been drinking? “I—I don’t think you kil ed

Angela, Peter. I was suspicious of how she might have

died, but I never said you did it. In fact, I told the detective

just the opposite.” She lifted her hands. “Don’t you see?

The police are trying to pit us against each other. Detective

Terry even insinuated that we were in on it together.”

He frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I said, but that’s why I haven’t returned your

calls. I didn’t want to give them more ammunition.”

He exhaled and dropped his head. When he looked up, she

was relieved to see a small smile and a glimmer of the old

Peter. “I knew it couldn’t be true. I knew you of all people

couldn’t think that I was a murderer. You stil know me

better than anyone, Carly, even after all these years.”

Her chest warmed and she walked forward, extending her

hand. He clasped it between his two hands, his eyes

shining with—hope? His touch stil made her tingle, she

realized, stil made her feel as if they shared something

special, a bond that neither time nor tragedy could break.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asked.

She bit her lip, so tempted to leave with him. But they

were both so vulnerable right now, it would only lead to

more complications. “We can sit in my car,” she suggested.

“I’l take what I can get.”

With her heart tripping faster, she unlocked the doors with

her keyless remote and slid into the driver’s seat. Peter

lowered himself into the passenger side, then adjusted the

seat to accommodate his long legs. They closed their doors

and Carlotta was immediately assailed with the intimacy of

the small space. The late hour had cast the parking garage

in shadows; it was darker stil in the car, but she welcomed

the obscurity. Having Peter so near was unsettling enough,

inhaling his earthy cologne and feeling the warm energy of

his body across the short distance. If she had to look at

him she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to form words for

a coherent conversation.

For a few seconds, only their breathing sounded in the car,

and she suspected he, too, was struggling for words.

“Peter—”

“Carlotta—”

They both stopped and laughed, easing the tension a bit.

“Me first,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry that you’ve been

pul ed into this mess, but I’m so glad to have you on my

side.”

Guilt stabbed at her. Was she on his side?

“I feel so guilty,” he said, and suddenly picked up her

hand.

Alarm bel s sounded in her head. “Why?”

“Because I can’t help but think if I had been more of a

man, that I would have married you instead of Angela. She

was a great girl. Deserved someone who loved her more

than I did.”

Something inside her softened to hear the sincerity in his

voice—he had cared for Angela. She weighed her words.

“Do you think she…found someone?”

“You mean, was she having an affair? No. Besides, I

suggested divorce several times, but she wouldn’t hear of

it. If she’d wanted out of the marriage to be with someone