Body Movers (43 page)

and Tracey Tul y, along with Tracey’s socialite buds. She

didn’t see Peter, and wasn’t sure if that was good or bad,

but her heart raced to see Dennis Lagerfeld a few rows

ahead of her, with his arm draped loosely around the

shoulders of a gorgeous blonde. Since he was wearing his

wedding ring again, she assumed the woman was his wife.

He glanced back and when he caught Carlotta’s eye, panic

darted across his face. Then he jerked his attention back to

the front of the room where the minister was giving a

eulogy. Carlotta smirked, thinking she’d probably seen her

last commission from the big man on campus.

But was Dennis Lagerfeld there out of compassion for a

slain neighbor, or out of a compulsion to revisit his crime?

Carlotta listened to Lisa Bolton’s life story while continuing

to scan the audience. Her gaze stopped on a familiar

profile—Dr. Suarez.

How many doctors felt close enough to their Botox

patients to take time out of a busy schedule to attend their

memorial service?

A few rows away, another familiar face stopped her—D.A.

Kelvin Lucas. Carlotta’s eyes narrowed. Was he there for

professional reasons, or personal?

The warmth and weight of a person settling in next to her

distracted her. She turned her head to see Detective Terry

wiping his forehead with a handkerchief—it made her

think of the one that he’d loaned to her on the day of

Wesley’s arraignment and to wonder digressively how

many men these days carried a handkerchief. He ignored

her while he, too, methodically scanned the attendees, his

rocky profile grim. After a couple of minutes, he shifted his

weight closer.

“We need to talk.”

“Can’t it wait?” she whispered.

“No.” He jerked his thumb toward the door and stood up.

Her stomach churned at his urgency, but she fol owed him

out into the entryway where it was quiet. Coop’s uncle

was gone, presumably outside to welcome other

latecomers.

“What’s so important that you had to drag me out of a

funeral?” she asked.

“Some new information about the case has come to

light—actually, from your brother.”

Alarm seized her heart. “What does Wesley have to do

with this?”

The detective looked over his shoulder as if to ensure they

were alone. “He called me a few minutes ago, said that a

friend of his identified Angela Ashford from a picture in

the paper as a hooker he knew as Kay.”

Horror and disbelief washed over her. “Hooker?”

He nodded curtly. “Which would explain why Peter

Ashford would destroy his wife’s things.”

Incredulous, she touched her hand to her head. “You

mean you think that Peter found out and that’s why he

might have…hurt Angela?”

The detective shrugged. “Or he might have known and

gone along with it.”

She shook her head. “Never.”

His mouth became a thin line. “It’s possible that Lisa

Bolton was also prostituting herself.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Carlotta said. “Why would two

wealthy women with everything going for them become

prostitutes?”

“Like I said before, who knows why people do the things

they do? I came here looking for Peter Ashford. His DNA

has been subpoenaed to check against the fetus that Lisa

Bolton was carrying. Do you know where he is?”

She was stil trying to absorb the awful allegations that the

detective had made, thinking Wesley’s whoremonger

friend was no doubt that loathsome Chance Hol ander.

“No. Why would I know where Peter is?”

“Because he seems to have disappeared. He hasn’t been

to work, and he’s not at his home or in any hotel in the

city.”

Bile rose to the back of her throat. Why would Peter

disappear if he had nothing to hide? “Wel , I have no idea

where he is.”

The detective crossed his arms. “Just like you haven’t

heard from your parents lately?”

She gritted her teeth. “I don’t know where Peter is, but

both Dr. Suarez and Dennis Lagerfeld are sitting in there,”

she said, pointing toward the room where the memorial

service was being held. “Don’t you find that odd?”

“Yes, but thanks to you, we have their DNA, and they’ve

already been ruled out as the father of the child.” He

smiled. “You keep leading us to Peter Ashford. If he calls

you, promise me you’l let me know.”

She pressed her lips together. “Peter didn’t do this.”

The detective’s mouth tightened and he made a derisive

noise in his throat. “I’d like to know how this man has such

a hold over you that you can’t see what’s right in front of

you, how he can invoke so much loyalty from a woman like

you, who’s ten times his worth.” Then he shook his head

and straightened. “Then again, maybe I don’t want to

know.”

His cel phone rang and he yanked it out of its holder, then

turned his back to answer it.

Shel -shocked by his words, Carlotta stood there feeling

the way she’d felt when she’d realized that her parents

had abandoned her and Wesley. Everything she’d known

for a certainty had been obliterated, replaced by a gaping

hole of chaos.

If Peter had kil ed those women, she’d never again trust

her feelings for another human being.

The detective closed his phone, then turned, his

expression one of bewilderment. “That was Ashford’s

lawyer. Peter just confessed to kil ing Angela.”

Carlotta shouted the word no but no sound came out of

her mouth. Her last thought was that Detective Terry’s

black shoes were very, very shiny as they rose to meet her.

37

Wesley walked into the town house, glad for a little peace

and quiet for a few hours. Coop had a funeral this

afternoon, so they wouldn’t be on call until later. He put a

frozen pizza in the oven and flopped down on his bed with

a Playboy magazine—the Racy Redheads issue. It wasn’t a

stretch to realize why all of a sudden redheads had

captured his imagination.

He’d just turned to the centerfold when the doorbel rang.

He rol ed his eyes. He pushed to his feet, tossed the

magazine on his bed and made his way to the door, trying

to pul his T-shirt over the erection straining his zipper.

Some people had the worst timing.

He opened the door, then blinked in surprise to see E.

Jones standing there, wearing jeans and a black jacket

over a T-shirt that molded her breasts. “Hi, Wesley.”

Her gaze went to the bulge in his jeans, which he covered

by crossing both of his hands in front of him. “Hi. I…wasn’t

expecting you.”

She smiled and stepped forward to push on the door.

“That’s the idea. I came by for an in-home visit.”

He stepped aside as she walked in, then closed the door.

“What does that mean?”

“That means that I’m making sure you’re not breaking the

terms of your probation—you know, using drugs, firearms,

and, in your case, computer equipment.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t use drugs.”

She picked up his arm and pointed to the fresh needle

mark in the crook of his arm, a pinpoint of dried blood.

“Real y?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then clear it up for me, Wesley.”

“I gave plasma this morning,” he said, embarrassed. “I

needed the cash to get my cel -phone service turned back

on.”

She considered him thoughtful y. “You can prove it?”

“I have the slip they gave me at the blood center when I

left.”

“I’l need to see it,” she said more gently, then released his

arm.

Call him a masochist, but he hadn’t minded being grabbed.

“Why don’t you show me around the house,” she

suggested, already studying the living room. She walked

over to the desk and opened and closed the drawers.

He frowned and crossed his arms. “This is the living room.

The kitchen is right through there.”

She walked to the couch and felt behind the cushions. “So

it’s just you and your sister living here?” she asked,

walking into the kitchen.

He fol owed. “Yeah, just me and Carlotta.”

“Pretty name,” she said, then walked over to the fridge

and looked inside. She checked out the freezer, too, and

all four canisters sitting on the counter, plus the cookie jar.

She stole a chocolate-chip cookie from the batch he’d

made a few days ago. “Mmm, this is good,” she said,

stooping to look beneath the table. “Does your sister have

a boyfriend who hangs around or lives here?”

“No,” he said. “Carlotta doesn’t date much.”

“What does she do?”

“Works at Neiman’s at the Lenox Mall.”

She smiled. “Real y? Nice. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “No reason.” Then he panicked. “I’m not gay

or anything.”

She looked at him and laughed. “I didn’t think you were.

What’s out there?” she asked, pointing to the back door.

“A deck.” He unlocked the door and held it open while she

walked out onto the weathered structure.

She gestured to the weedy backyard, leading to a patch of

trees. “Nice,” she said, munching her cookie.

“Not really,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets,

nudging an abandoned flowerpot with his toe.

“It could be,” she said, lifting the lid of the rusty gril for a

quick look before walking back inside. Wesley waved at

Mrs. Winningham who was in her gazebo, craning her neck

for a good look. Then he fol owed E. back inside.

“Where’s your bedroom?” she asked.

In any other situation, he would have given his spleen to

hear her say those words, but he was sure they had two

entirely different activities in mind once they reached their

destination.

He led the way and when he opened the door, he realized

with a wince that the Racy Redheads Playboy was lying on

his bed. She lifted her eyebrows but didn’t make any

remarks. Wesley turned the magazine facedown and tried

to wil away his returning erection. The sight of E. near his

bed, touching his bed, made him grind his teeth to rein in

his fantasies.

She felt under his pil ows, then under his mattress. She

pul ed out more porn mags, a triple X–rated DVD movie

and a pair of pink panties that some girl at one of Chance’s

parties had given him. A hot flush climbed his neck. It

seemed so juvenile now.

E. barely glanced at the items before putting them back,

then she straightened and moved around the room,

checking under his lamp, even squeezing the hems of his

curtains, finding a hundred-dol ar bil he didn’t know he

had.

She removed various books from his bookshelf, running

her fingers along the spines. “Nice col ection,” she

murmured, pausing at The Catcher in the Rye before

taking it down and flipping through the pages. “One of my

favorites.”

“Mine, too,” he said, annoyed that his voice came out

sounding squeaky and adolescent.

Across the room, Einstein moved in his enclosure. He

expected E. to freak, like most women, but instead she

walked over, smiling. “An axanthic ball python?”

Wesley blinked. “Yeah.”

“From the size, I guess it’s a male.”

“Right. His name is Einstein.”

“Is he friendly?” she asked.

He nodded, but was unprepared for her to unlock the

enclosure, then reach in and remove Einstein like a pro.

“You’re a big boy,” she said, as if she were talking to a dog,

then she handed him to Wesley and lifted the driftwood

decoration. Wesley almost dropped Einstein. Shit. He’d

forgotten about the gun.

She removed the base of the decoration, and a dozen lies

leaped to his tongue to explain away the presence of the

.38 special. Instead, Wesley gaped to see it empty.

What the hel had happened to his gun?

“Nice hiding place,” she observed.

“I…yeah,” he said, stil reeling. He remembered the day

he’d arrived home and thought someone had broken in.

Had the intruder braved Einstein and taken his gun? But

who would have guessed it was even there? He looked at

Einstein, suddenly fearful—had his pet somehow

swallowed the gun? He pivoted his head and realized that

the live mouse was gone from its container. How had that

happened? Carlotta would freak out if the mouse

somehow made it into her bedroom.

He returned Einstein to the aquarium and replaced the

locking pin as E. went into his bathroom and, from the

sound of it, looked in his hamper and medicine cabinet. He

grimaced, wondering if she’d noticed the ful unopened

box of Trojans on the shelf.

“Condoms have an expiration date,” she said matter-of-

factly when she emerged. “Can you show me the rest of

the house?”

Wesley led her across the hal . “This is my sister’s room.”

E. peeked inside, but didn’t go in. Instead, she pointed to

the room at the end of the hall. “Where does that door

lead?”

He hesitated. “It’s my parents’ room.”

Her expression softened slightly. “May I see it?”

With mixed feelings, he led the way to the door, turned

the knob and pushed it open. The room was frozen in the