Body Movers (44 page)

decor of the previous decade—he and Carlotta hadn’t

changed anything. His mother’s perfume bottles stil

littered her vanity, his father’s ties were stil draped over

his valet stand. E. walked into the room and to the closet.

She opened the door, revealing their clothes, stil hanging

as they’d left them, crammed into the small space, the

closet about a third of the size of the one in the house that

they’d lost.

They had traveled light when they’d left. E. closed the

closet door and walked back to him. “I think we’re through

here,” she said quietly.

He exhaled in relief, closed the bedroom door and

fol owed her back to the living room where she picked up

her purse. “I just need to take a look in the garage, and

then I’l be on my way.”

He grabbed the remote control and walked out to raise

the door. Once in the garage, E. scanned the cluttered

shelves, and cupped her hands to peek into the Miata. “Is

this yours?”

“My sister’s,” he said. “But it doesn’t run.”

“Too bad,” she said, then opened the door and pul ed the

lever to open the trunk.

The woman was thorough, he conceded.

She lifted a blond wig and a high-heeled boot from the

trunk and looked at Wesley. He shrugged and she dropped

them back inside, closed the lid and clapped the dust from

her hands.

“Thanks for the cookie,” she said with the faintest smile.

“See you next Wednesday.”

“Okay,” he said, feeling oddly proud of himself as he

watched her walk down the sidewalk to her car. But as she

drove away, he remembered the gun, which wasn’t even

his.

Wesley removed his glasses and raked his hand down over

his face. Where the hel could it be?

38

Carlotta was already awake when her alarm went off the

next morning. Awake and miserable, having spent the

night vacil ating between hiccupping crying jags and

nonsensical optimism that Peter’s confession would

somehow turn out to be a mistake, that the real kil er

would be apprehended, and that she and Peter would live

happily ever after.

She would have gladly spent the day wallowing in bed if

not for that pesky paycheck that she needed to earn.

Working for a living was so damn inconvenient sometimes.

She inched out of bed, her limbs heavy and her heart

down around her ankles. Showering and getting dressed

seemed to take forever, despite that since she’d cleaned

out her closet she had less to choose from. To lift her

spirits, she put on her most gorgeous and most

uncomfortable shoes: a pair of Valentino leopard-print

pumps that were a half size too small, but she’d had to

have them. They were, she acknowledged, turning in front

of a ful -length mirror, devastating. She was stil

inconsolable, but she was inconsolable and exquisitely wel

shod.

Concealing the circles under her eyes required more

makeup artistry than usual, although the bounty from Dr.

Suarez’s office came in handy.

While she made herself a cup of coffee and ate eleven

chocolate-chip cookies, she thought about Peter and

wondered if he’d turned himself in this morning, as his

attorney had promised he would. She was wounded to the

marrow that she had so grossly misjudged him, and

worried that he might be desperate enough to do

something to himself.

She pushed away the thought as soon as it entered her

head—she couldn’t imagine a world without Peter in it.

Even if they weren’t together al these years, it had been

comforting on a base level to know that he was walking

around, breathing in and out.

Like her parents.

When she walked out onto the stoop, she scanned the

yard and the street, looking for green cars, mobster-

mobiles and Detective Terry’s black sedan. Nothing

seemed amiss on this gorgeous morning, the sun already

simmering around the edges as it climbed in a cloudless

sky. The cheeriness of the day belied the gloom in her

heart, its stark brightness only highlighting the eerie

feeling of impending doom.

She frowned at the long scratches on the side of her car.

Filing a claim with her insurer was just one more thing to

do. When she realized how the episode might have ended,

she shuddered. Worse was not knowing if it had been an

accident or one of Wesley’s thugs.

Gone was the theory of someone trying to shut her up—

unless it had been Peter. She worried her lip. When he had

come to her house the night that Lisa Bolton had been

kil ed, hadn’t he begged her to stop asking questions? Her

thoughts flew to the dark loaner car in his garage. Had it,

by chance, been dark green?

She swallowed hard and climbed inside the Monte Carlo,

securing her seat belt tighter than normal. She kept an eye

on her rearview mirror on the way to work, in between

skimming the newspaper at red lights. The Buckhead serial

kil er story was on page three. The husband of one of the

victims had confessed to her murder, the article said.

Peter Ashford, age thirty-three, was expected to turn

himself in today.

She was all cried out, but her face hurt from the pressure

behind her eyes and nose and throat. By the time she

reached the parking garage, she was shaking from the

caffeine, the sugar and the stress. As she drove in, she

waved halfheartedly at Akin Frasier, who patrol ed the

entrance like a mercenary. She drove up to the second

level where she normally parked, and pul ed into the

space, thinking how ludicrous it was for her to go to work

today when she was likely to get nothing done. Yet what

else was there for her to do but maintain her routine?

It was, she had learned, how people coped with the

unthinkable. They kept moving, pretending to be okay,

until one day they were okay…or some version of it.

She’d just turned off the engine when suddenly the

passenger side of her car opened. She cried out in alarm

when Peter swung inside and closed the door. There was

at least two days’ worth of beard on his jaw and his

clothes were disheveled. And he was very drunk.

“Peter,” she said, gulping air. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you, Carly,” he said in a monotone, his eyes

glassy bright.

“I thought you were…turning yourself in today.”

“I am,” he said, his voice low and desperate. “I’m trying to

make everything right.”

“If you kil ed Angela,” she whispered, “then turning

yourself in is the right thing to do.” Her throat constricted.

“Why did you do it, Peter? Because you found out she was

taking money for sex?”

His eyes rounded in horror. “You…you know about that?”

She winced. “A friend of Wesley’s was the one who

identified her from the picture in the paper. Wesley told

the police yesterday.”

He pressed his hand against his forehead as pure panic

registered on his face. “You mean, everyone knows?”

“Not everyone,” she whispered. “Although there’s always

the chance that it wil get out to the papers.”

“Oh my God,” he said, bowing his head. “This can’t be

happening.” He clasped his hands together so hard they

shook. “I found Angela’s appointment book in the pool

house and figured out what she was doing. I couldn’t

believe it. When I confronted her, she said it was my fault,

for not loving her, that I drove her to find companionship

elsewhere. She said her johns made her feel…desirable.”

He began to sob. “And I knew who had talked her into it—

Lisa Bolton.”

Carlotta’s heart shriveled. Oh, God, he’d kil ed Lisa, too?

He pivoted his head. “Why couldn’t you just keep your

mouth shut, Carly? If not for that stupid autopsy, they

would have let Angela rest in peace. They wouldn’t have

started digging into our lives.”

Tears rol ed down her cheeks.

“If only you had left things alone, everything would have

smoothed over, and you and I could have been together.”

She reached for the door handle, but he leaned over and

locked her door. Then he put his hands on her shoulders,

turning her toward him. “I made a terrible mistake. But we

can stil be together.”

“Peter.” She tried to pul away and realized she stil wore

her seat belt. Fear invaded her organs. “You’re scaring

me.”

“Why?” His combustible breath was hot against her cheek.

“Are you afraid I’m going to strangle you, like you think I

strangled Angela and Lisa?” His hands closed around her

neck and he laughed as he applied pressure with his

thumbs. “You have no idea how much you tormented me

over the years, Carly, how I searched for some way to

forget about you.”

Terror descended, tearing a mewling noise from her

throat. She struggled against his grasp and used her elbow

to stab the car horn. The blast startled him, making him

more agitated. “I just want things to be the way they used

to,” he cried, anguish in his eyes. “But that will never

happen now, wil it?”

She clawed blindly for the door handle. “Peter, don’t do

this. I…I love you,” she gasped, not sure if she said it out of

desperation or because she meant it.

He froze, the glazed look in his eyes clearing for a few

seconds as a wondrous smile spread over his face. “You

do?”

She wheezed under the pressure of his hands, then

abruptly the pressure on her throat was gone, and Peter’s

mouth was on hers, kissing her as if his life depended on it.

Then al hel broke loose. A loud bang on the car

momentarily distracted Peter, and then the passenger-side

door opened and a pair of big hands reached in to drag

Peter off her.

“Peter Ashford,” a familiar voice said, “you’re under arrest

for the murder of Angela Ashford.”

“This is a mistake,” Peter said. “Call my lawyer. This is all a

big mistake.”

She saw him being handcuffed, heard the click of the

metal and brought her fist to her mouth to stifle the cry of

grief trapped in her throat. Then Detective Terry’s face

appeared as he leaned into the car. “Are you all right?” he

asked her, his jaw hard.

She nodded, wiping her eyes. He disappeared from view

and she watched him in the rear and side mirrors lead

Peter to his car and put him into the back seat. Then the

detective returned to her car. She fumbled with the door,

but finally managed to unlock it. He opened the door and

knelt to her level. “Are you really okay?”

She nodded, stil feeling a little dazed. He reached around

her to unbuckle her seat belt and she recognized on a

visceral level that his touch was different than Peter’s—

aloof, yes, but…protective…safe. “Were you fol owing

me?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said. “I figured Ashford might try to see you

before he turned himself in.”

“I guess you were right…about a lot of things.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “For the record, I’m not happy

about it.”

She averted her gaze, her chest and throat wracked with

the pain of helplessness. Senseless murders, lives

upended…and the nagging sense of denial that she stil

didn’t believe what was unfolding in front of her own eyes.

Her love for Peter was blind…and deaf, dumb and

paralyzed.

“Did he tel you anything?”

She looked up, expecting to see a smug look in the

detective’s eyes. Instead she saw…compassion? Maybe

there was a heart hanging behind those hideous ties. She

nodded.

“I’l need for you to come down to the station and make a

statement. Are you okay to drive, or do you want to ride

down with me?”

Her gaze darted to his car. Peter sat in the rear seat with

his head leaning back, a man in total surrender. It was

heartbreaking.

“I’ll drive.”

“Okay,” he said, his expression solemn. “Carlotta, you did

right by Angela Ashford, in spite of your feelings for her

husband. I know it cost you.” He gave her a little smile,

then walked back to his own car and climbed inside.

Carlotta watched as the detective backed up, then pul ed

away. Peter turned his head and looked at her, his face

beseeching.

Her heart twisted in her chest as the detective’s words of

praise rang in her head.

If she’d done the right thing, why did she feel so damn

lousy?

39

“Breakfast,” Wesley announced from the doorway of

Carlotta’s bedroom.

She groaned and threw back the covers. “It’s too hot to

eat.”

He leaned on the door frame and gestured to her Betty

Boop pajamas. “So why don’t you wear something to sleep

in that’s less wal to wal ?”

She frowned, remembering what had happened the last

time she’d worn something other than ful -coverage

jammies to bed. She sat up and shook her finger at him. “If

that snake of yours gets out again, both of you can get a

new address.”

He laughed. “What does Einstein getting out of his cage

have to do with your pajamas?”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “None of your