Six Killer Bodies (11 page)

know couldn’t have kil ed those women.”

“So help me.”

The waiter brought their drinks and set the platter of food

between them. Carlotta took a healthy swallow from her

glass and Rainie fol owed, then cradled the stem.

“What can I do?”

“Are there any details you can give me, any leads to

fol ow?”

“Why don’t you ask Detective Terry? I thought you two

were…friends.”

“The GBI booted him off the case. You probably know

more than he does.”

“Such as?”

Carlotta leaned forward. “Dr. Abrams told me the state

crime lab was supposed to return DNA from one of the

crime scenes. What was it?”

Rainie shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Can you find out? And if it matched Coop?”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“And there’s one more thing.”

“What?”

“Last week my brother saw Coop at Piedmont Hospital,

and fol owed him to the office of a neurologist. When I

asked Coop about it, he went off and basically told me to

mind my own business. Can you look into it?”

“Sure. I’l poke around.”

“And one more thing…”

The redhead scoffed. “Just one?”

“Can you help me flush out Michael Lane?”

Rainie blinked. “How?”

“I don’t know. It would have to be something he’d find

irresistible.” Carlotta laughed. “Like a sale on Gucci.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea. Let me give it some

thought.”

“Oh, and all this needs to be on the Q.T.”

“Wil I get an exclusive if Lane shows?”

Carlotta lifted her glass. “Absolutely.”

Rainie clinked her glass to Carlotta’s. “Deal. You have a lot

riding on Michael Lane being The Charmed Kil er, don’t

you?”

“Why do you say that?”

The reporter gave her a pointed smile. “Because if Coop

didn’t kil those women, and if Michael Lane didn’t do it,

either, then that leaves your father as next best suspect,

right?”

Instead of answering, Carlotta picked up a loaded potato

skin and took a bite.

Rainie reached for a stuffed mushroom. “Girl, I thought I

had man problems. What’s up with you and that Ashford

guy I saw you with at the country club auction?”

“Peter and I go way back. I’m staying at his place until this

al blows over.”

“Didn’t he win one of the romantic getaway vacations?”

Carlotta nodded.

“I assume for the two of you?”

She nodded again. “He thinks it would be safer if I were

out of town.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Rainie said. “Which means he’s

not hip to this little fact-finding mission of yours?”

“Right.”

“Carlotta, you’re a dog with three bones.”

She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Remember Aesop’s fable? A dog with a nice meaty bone

is crossing a bridge and looks down to see another dog

holding a bone that’s even bigger. The dog drops his bone

to go after the bigger one and guess what?”

“The dog winds up losing the bone,” Carlotta finished.

“Righto.”

Carlotta bit her lip. “So who’s the nice meaty bone in my

mouth?”

Rainie laughed. “You’re going to have to figure that one

out for yourself.”

They finished lunch and Carlotta picked up the tab, then

they made their way back to the parking lot to Carlotta’s

car. She snagged Rainie’s arm to hold her back while she

unlocked the Civic with the keyless remote. When nothing

detonated, Carlotta exhaled and walked forward.

“Do the police think Michael Lane planted the explosive

device under your car?” Rainie asked.

“For lack of a better suspect. Detective Marquez said that

Michael wants to get rid of me because in his mind, he’l

be locked away if I testify against him for the identity-theft

murders.” Then she shook her head. “Although I can’t

imagine why Michael would’ve gone to the trouble of

planting a bomb when he could’ve easily kil ed me in my

bed when he was hiding in our house.”

“Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to do it up close.” Rainie

made a face. “But that doesn’t mesh with someone who

then goes on a kil ing spree.”

Carlotta swung her head to look at the reporter. “It’s been

suggested that Michael is doing this to avoid kil ing me.”

“You mean, an extreme form of projection?”

“Maybe.”

“If that’s the case, Carlotta, this isn’t your fault. Michael

Lane is sick and needs to be stopped.”

“I know.”

“We’ll think of a way to draw him out,” Rainie promised.

“It’s Michael Lane who belongs behind bars, not Coop.”

Carlotta dropped off Rainie at the AJC office and waved

goodbye with a heaviness in her stomach that went

beyond a self-indulgent lunch. While she felt better

knowing that Rainie also believed in Coop’s innocence, she

wondered if the reporter would change her mind if

Carlotta told her about Coop’s bookstore connection with

the first victim and the sighting of the white van in Shawna

Whitt’s neighborhood.

Puzzled and apprehensive, Carlotta drove to the Perimeter

Mall and spent most of the afternoon flashing Michael

Lane’s photo to people who worked in shops sel ing

charms, but again with no results. She cruised by the

Betsey Johnson and Stuart Weitzman stores for a quick

looky-loo at the newest arrivals, and was able to get a

walk-in appointment at DASS salon to have her split ends

trimmed.

While she was sitting in a chair covered with a poncho and

reading People magazine, Carlotta felt a prickle of

awareness, as if she was being watched. With her senses

on alert, she slowly pivoted her head…and found herself in

the crosshairs of one Tracey Tul y Lowenstein.

Carlotta swallowed a groan. Tracey was the daughter of

Walt Tul y, her father’s former partner at the investment

firm. Walt was her and Wesley’s godfather, although the

man hadn’t checked on them a single time after Randolph

and Valerie had disappeared. And Tracey, who had gone to

the same private girls’ school as Carlotta, had done

everything in her power to ostracize Carlotta from their

social circle. Meanwhile, Tracey had snagged herself a

doctor—a creepy OB/GYN—and loved parading him

around while sabotaging Carlotta’s struggling relationship

with Peter because Tracey didn’t cotton to hobnobbing

with a lowly retail clerk.

Carlotta gave Tracey a tight little smile, then looked back

to her magazine and wil ed the hairdresser to hurry. But as

luck would have it, she and Tracey wound up at the

checkout counter together.

“Carlotta, I’ve never seen you in here before.”

“First time,” Carlotta offered cheerfully.

Tracey surveyed Carlotta’s hair. “Next time you should ask

for the deep-conditioning treatment. It would help with

the frizz.”

Carlotta stuck her tongue into her cheek. “Thanks.”

“Goodness, you must be so relieved that the police

arrested The Charmed Kil er.”

“I…yes.”

“It lets your dad off the hook, doesn’t it? Wel , at least for

this crime.”

“Yes,” Carlotta murmured, seething.

“I understand the psycho they arrested worked for the

morgue. Since you’ve been moonlighting as a body

mover—” she paused to shudder “—you must know him.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Carlotta said evenly.

Tracey tsk, tsked. “Honestly, Carlotta, the company you

keep. From that Goth-girl to serial kil ers. Peter must be

positively mortified.”

Carlotta gritted her teeth. “Peter lets me be my own

person.”

Tracey leaned in. “But doesn’t Peter deserve better?

You’ve really gone to the dogs, Carlotta. Even that red

dress you wore to the club auction the other night looked

off-the-rack.”

“Gee, your husband didn’t seem to mind. He practically

gave me a pelvic exam with his eyes.”

Tracey gasped and recoiled.

Carlotta took advantage of the pause to escape the vile

woman’s presence. True, Tracey had been friends with

Peter’s former wife, Angela, so maybe some of Tracey’s

reaction to Carlotta was out of loyalty to her dead friend.

But she didn’t have to go out of her way to be so nasty. At

the club auction, Tracey had made a big deal out of the

fact that her important husband, Dr. Frederick Lowenstein,

had to leave the event to deliver a baby. The woman used

her husband’s position as a social lever, and she wielded

her power maliciously. Carlotta wondered if Tracey

overcompensated because deep down, she knew her

husband was a lecherous cad. Or maybe she was just in

complete denial.

Carlotta pursed her mouth. Not that she herself was such a

great judge of character—hadn’t Michael’s gruesome

betrayal taught her that? Jack had once told her that

everyone was capable of murder, given the right

circumstances. Which meant that anyone walking around

this mall, the people she came into casual contact with

every day, could be harboring horrible, secret

compulsions.

She slowed and hugged herself as people passed by her on

all sides. Irrational fear seized her. She glanced at their

faces, wondering which ones contemplated horrible acts

at this very moment, and which ones harbored dark

fantasies that might erupt as a result of some random

emotional trigger.

And conceding that, according to Jack, there was the

tiniest possibility that after years of working with the dead

and avoiding the living, Coop’s random emotional trigger

had somehow been tripped.

11

Wesley parked his bike next to Liz Fischer’s garage and

slowly walked toward her guest house, where they always

met to screw. His balls had their own memory because

they tingled with anticipation, but his stomach was tied in

knots.

Sure, having sex with Liz guaranteed fifteen minutes of

pure physical pleasure. But he kept thinking about Meg

and the way she’d fussed over the raggedy flowers he’d

bought her and the daisy she’d put in her hair, and it left

him feeling…torn. Like he shouldn’t sleep with Liz, that he

should—he grimaced—save himself or something.

Christ, he was turning into a wuss over a girl who probably

just felt sorry for him after he’d unloaded his whole sad

family saga on her.

It was stil early, around seven, but the low-hanging clouds

made it seem later. Shadows encroached as he walked up

to the French doors of the guest house and knocked.

When Liz didn’t answer, he peered through the door, but it

was dark inside. Then he noticed a note taped to the glass.

Come to the back door of the house.

He frowned, then peeled off the note and headed across

the manicured grass in the direction of the main house.

He’d never been inside Liz’s home, and he wondered why

tonight was any different.

Liz’s brown brick house was tucked into an older,

expensive community. The dwel ings weren’t huge, but

they were al well-appointed with guest houses and pools,

and situated for maximum privacy. Thick trees shielded

him—and Liz’s other lovers, he presumed—from prying

eyes. A curving concrete walk led up to the back door,

flanked by tiered planting beds and pots of geraniums. He

had trouble picturing Liz getting her hands dirty, but he

supposed the woman had a life outside of her job, and

gardening was tres chic these days.

He stopped at the back door and pressed a button that

sent a little buzzing sensation through his finger. The half

caplet of Oxy he’d just chewed made everything vivid and

experiential—the weight of humid night air on his neck,

the shriek of horny crickets in his ears, the sharp scent of

evergreen bushes in his nostrils.

The door swung open and Liz stood in the threshold

wearing chinos and an untucked button-up white blouse,

holding a drink. A pang of disappointment stabbed him

that she was dressed at all, but compared to what she

typically wore, her outfit was a little dowdy. Her blond

hair, commonly coiffed into a French twist, was loose

around her shoulders. Her face was free of makeup,

making her look softer…and a little old.

Suddenly he relaxed—it was a ploy. Underneath the floppy

white shirt, she was probably wearing a latex corset. Or an

edible bra.

“Hi, Wes. Come on in.”

Her smile was friendly instead of flirtatious, throwing him

off a little. Stepping inside, he scanned the room while he

closed the door. The kitchen was straight out of Southern

Living, with white painted cabinetry, black granite

countertops, and wood floors. Two lidded pans emitting

nice smells sat on top of the commercial-grade stainless

steel stove. Through a doorway leading deeper into the

house, he saw pale, overstuffed furniture and thick rugs.

Elvis Costello’s “Al ison” sounded from the next room.

Wesley frowned. The setting seemed…cozy.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

Conscious of Chance’s stern warning not to drink alcohol

with the Oxy, he swallowed past a dry throat. “Water

would be great.”