Body Movers (5 page)

himself to be handcuffed again, then fol owed the man to

a room where Liz Fischer waited, tapping the toe of her

pointy high-heeled shoe. She was a tall, athletic blonde in

her mid-forties, a real looker who seemed to be in

perpetual motion. Wesley recognized her from newspaper

photos of his father’s case, although her hair was shorter

and she looked a little leaner.

“Hel o, Wesley.”

Her voice, for sure, was familiar—throaty and abrupt. He’d

had more than one wet dream lately with that voice

looping in his head. “Hel o, Mrs. Fischer.”

She smiled at his politeness. “I’m not married, so it’s Ms.—

in fact, cal me Liz. How nice to finally put a face to the

voice. I just wish it were under different circumstances.”

When she sat down at the table, the scent of her cologne

reached him—not a feminine, floral scent, but something

earthy and strong that she might have gotten out of her

lover’s medicine cabinet this morning. Which could also

explain the oversize white dress shirt she wore with her

prim suit.

She clicked open her briefcase. “So, you got caught. I told

you to be careful.”

He splayed his hands. “I slipped up, but everything’s fine.”

She frowned. “The optimism of youth. Do you realize that

you’re facing jail time and a hefty fine?”

A vision of Leg Warmers licking his lips flashed through

Wesley’s mind. “How much jail time?”

“Probably less than six months, but it won’t look good on

your permanent record. Now, tel me what happened.”

Wesley repeated the lie, that he had hacked into the

courthouse records to clear his own traffic violations. “I’m

really sorry,” he added.

The woman’s expression was bland. “You’re going to have

to do a better acting job than that for the district attorney.

And you’re tel ing me that this records break-in has

nothing to do with your sudden interest in your father’s

cold case?”

“That’s right.”

She studied him suspiciously. Wesley imagined himself

through her experienced eyes: a skinny, know-it-al kid

who’d grown up without parents and likely wouldn’t

amount to much.

“You look like Randolph,” she said, surprising him with

intense eye contact.

His cock jumped—damn, he was going to embarrass

himself. He shifted in his chair. “That’s what my sister says

when she talks about my father, which isn’t often.”

“Carlotta was bitter when your parents…left. Rightful y so.

How is she?”

“Fine. A little upset with me at the moment.”

“I called her occasionally after…. afterward, and she

always assured me everything was okay.” The woman

looked remorseful. “I should have looked in on both of you

more often.”

“We did okay,” Wesley said, trying not to sound too

reassuring in case she was inclined to reduce her fee out of

some sense of obligation. “But Carlotta doesn’t know that

I’ve talked to you about my father’s case. It would only

upset her.”

“She won’t hear it from me, but you know that I agree

with her, Wesley. You should let sleeping dogs lie, and get

on with your life. Your parents seem to have gotten on

with theirs.”

Anger sparked in his stomach, but he didn’t want to

alienate this woman. She was too valuable in his search for

the truth. Plus, she was wearing a pink satin bra beneath

the white shirt, and that was real y hot. “Do you know

where my father is?”

Liz Fischer’s expression hardened, giving the first hint of

her age. “No, and if I did, I’d go straight to the police. Now,

let’s get back to the matter at hand and see if I can get you

out of here.”

After answering a few more questions and receiving a

stern warning not to discuss his case with anyone, Wesley

inhaled one last lungful of the woman’s cologne, then

went back to the cel with his cuffed hands in front of him

to hide his hard-on. One of these days, he’d be a rich,

accomplished man, and women like Liz Fischer would look

at him with respect. When he won the World Series of

Poker. When he cleared his father’s name. He would be

happy then, and everyone who meant something to him

would be happy, too.

When he returned to the holding cel , a poker game was in

ful swing. He retreated to a corner to avoid Leg Warmers

and to watch the interplay of the men and the game,

nodding in satisfaction when he predicted hands correctly.

He could do the odds in his head, but so could lots of card-

players. He was good at poker because he was good at

observing people, and he was wil ing to be patient for the

payoff.

He would use the same skil s to solve his father’s case. He

had time.

Less than an hour later, thank goodness, he was escorted

to a small courtroom for his bail hearing. He spotted

Carlotta’s anxious face in the sparse gallery and gave her a

thumbs-up that was somewhat hampered by his

handcuffed wrists. Liz Fischer’s presence next to him was

assuring—and alluring—but his pulse ratcheted higher as

he listened to the charges against him: federal charges of

computer intrusion and unlawful use of passwords. Two

counts each. Federal.

This might be more serious than he thought.

Addressing the judge, his attorney tried to pass off his

hacking as a childish prank that he deeply regretted. “I

request that my client be released on his own

recognizance.”

But the stern-faced judge seemed to be studying the

papers in front of him rather than listening to counsel.

When he finally lifted his head, he said, “It’s been brought

to my attention that your client is the son of a fugitive stil

wanted by the Atlanta Police Department.”

Wesley shifted beneath the man’s condemning gaze.

“Your Honor,” Liz said, “with all due respect, I don’t see

what bearing my client’s father’s situation has on this case.

My client hasn’t seen his father since he was a little boy.”

The judge frowned. “Stil , I’d be remiss if I didn’t take it

into consideration. Bail is set at twenty thousand dol ars.

See the court cashier.”

“Your Honor,” Liz said with alarm in her voice. “That wil

cause undue hardship on my client—”

“Then perhaps your client would be more comfortable in

jail until his arraignment, Ms. Fischer.” He banged his

gavel. “Next case.”

Wesley’s mind churned at the unexpected turn of events.

Twenty thousand dol ars? They didn’t even have the cash

to pay ten percent to a bail bondsman. On the other hand,

it was kind of cool that the judge thought he was worth

that much.

“Wesley,” Liz said slowly, “this is a little unorthodox, but if

you need a loan—”

“We don’t,” Carlotta said, walking up to stand near him.

She looked pale, and her hand shook as she held up a

manila file. “I brought all the information to post a

property bond.”

“Hel o, Carlotta,” Liz said.

“Hel o,” Carlotta said.

His sister’s voice was pleasant enough, but Wesley could

feel the animosity rol ing off his sister in waves toward the

other woman. What was it with chicks?

“You certainly came prepared,” Liz said lightly.

“I look out for my family. Wesley, let’s go home.” She

turned and walked toward the exit.

He hesitated, then looked up at Liz Fischer. “Thank you for

your help…Liz.”

“No problem,” she said smoothly. “Your arraignment is

Monday morning. I’l be in touch.” She picked up her

briefcase and walked in the direction opposite from the

one that Carlotta had taken. He noticed that the woman

turned back and eyed his sister intently before continuing.

Escorted by a bailiff, Wesley caught up with Carlotta and

watched with apprehension as she pledged the equity in

their town home against the fact that he would appear in

court when summoned. He had every intention of being

there, but what if something happened? His sister’s faith

in him was a little unnerving. Even after his handcuffs were

removed, his stomach was in knots, but he kept tel ing

himself that the end justified the means.

As part of his sentence, he planned to offer his expertise

to help the courthouse develop better safety firewal s,

ones that only he could penetrate. If that failed, he had

left himself a back door in the courthouse records

database so when everything died down, he’d be able to

go back in and explore. This arrest would be worth the

inconvenience if it helped him gather information to

help—and find—his father. He glanced at his sister’s

troubled profile and felt a twist in his gut. Someday,

Carlotta would agree with him.

He hoped.

4

Carlotta’s eyes popped open from a restless sleep, with

elusive dreams of her parents sliding into the dark corners

of her subconscious. Merciful y, the dreams had become

less frequent over the years, and she hoped this

recurrence was an isolated incident. A glutton for

punishment, she allowed herself to wonder where her

parents were waking up, and if she and Wesley ever

crossed their minds. Then the events of yesterday—

Wesley’s arrest and bail hearing—came crashing back, and

she squeezed her eyes shut.

Her family was going to be the death of her.

She turned her head on her pil ow to look at the alarm

clock and groaned. She’d meant to get up early to make up

for the hours she’d missed yesterday, but now she’d be

lucky to make it to the morning staff meeting on time.

While she stood and yanked up the duvet cover to make

her bed, she thought of Angela Ashford and the

commission she’d walked away from yesterday. And she

wondered how much of her phone conversation with

Wesley the woman had overheard—enough to fuel

another gossipy lunch with her girlfriends?

She tamped down her resentment toward Angela,

recognizing that it was mostly rooted in the fact that the

woman had married Peter, which, truthful y, only proved

that Angela was…smart. Peter had graduated from

Vanderbilt and returned to Atlanta to launch a successful

career and join the ranks of his fabulously rich family.

Angela enjoyed social status and all the perks that came

with being a third-generation Buckhead wife.

Carlotta frowned. Although, considering the fact that the

woman was sneaking booze in the department-store

dressing room, her life might not be as rosy as the picture

she’d painted for Carlotta.

After a quick shower, Carlotta opened the door to her

closet, which always lifted her spirits. Working at Neiman

Marcus for the better part of her adult life had afforded

her a fabulous wardrobe on her employee discount. She

had eased off her habit of “borrowing” clothes to wear for

a special occasion and then returning them after nearly

getting herself and her friends Jolie and Hannah in trouble

last Christmas when they’d “borrowed” outfits to crash an

upscale pajama party where a man had wound up dead.

Since they’d been the only uninvited guests at the party

and had drawn attention to themselves by accidentally

falling into the pool ful y clothed, they’d been fingered as

the prime murder suspects. They’d managed to clear

themselves, but had been stuck with paying for thousands

of dol ars’ of ruined silk pj’s and robes. She stil hadn’t paid

off her Neiman Marcus credit card.

Thinking of Jolie made her smile. Her friend and coworker

had moved to Costa Rica with the man of her dreams, and

her parting gift to Carlotta had been a pink leather

autograph book to replace the one ful of celebrity

autographs that had been ruined by the fall in the pool,

and two thousand dol ars in cash to satisfy the loan shark

that had been hounding Carlotta for money that Wesley

owed.

Jolie had saved their lives…or at least their kneecaps.

Carlotta flipped through her bulging wardrobe and

decided to go all out today. Dressing to the nines always

made her feel better.

She pul ed out a black miniskirt, a teal-colored tunic, one

of the vintage Judith Leiber huge “breastplate” necklaces

from her mother’s col ection and tall Prada boots. She

pul ed her long black hair—her best feature, she thought—

into a low ponytail, and added dangling glass earrings. She

popped in her blue contact lenses, always amazed that

they covered her dark brown irises so wel . Blessed with

good skin, she was able to skip foundation, but took time

to stroke several coats of mascara onto her lashes to play

up her eyes, add a touch of blush to the apple of her

cheeks and smooth on red, red lipstick. When she made a

final check in the mirror, though, she couldn’t help but

compare her dark coloring to Angela Ashford’s golden

good looks. Not only was Angela patently gorgeous and

rail thin, she was wel connected, with a long southern

lineage. Yes, Angela was definitely the better match for

Peter and the life he was destined for.

Carlotta sighed and turned to face the life she was