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He reached in to help her slide to the passenger side, then she heard him curse and felt herself being ripped out of the seat. A horrific crash sounded, followed by the splintering of glass.
When Jack set her on her feet, she turned around. The top of the concrete fountain had fallen through the windshield of the Porsche and was now resting in the driver’s seat among torn metal and leather, exactly where she’d been sitting. Water from the broken fountain gushed into the open convertible.
Jack made a rueful noise. “Okay, now Peter’s going to kill you.”
7
Carlotta waved as Peter drove away in his SUV.
“Ashford took it better than I would have,” Jack admitted as he held open the door for her at the midtown APD precinct.
“It’s just a car,” Carlotta muttered, feeling like a naughty child.
“Right. It’s a good thing you’re wearing that belt you call a skirt.”
“Peter’s a reasonable man. He knows it was an accident. Besides, like he said—his insurance will pay for the car.”
“True. Now he can get next year’s model,” Jack said drily.
“See? All is well.”
“Meanwhile, what are you going to do for transportation?”
She sighed. “Peter said he could get me a rental, but for now I think I’d feel less destructive riding the train.”
“Since we still don’t know who planted that bomb under your Monte Carlo, I have to agree. But last time I checked, MARTA doesn’t run past Ashford’s subdivision.”
“I’ll figure out something,” she murmured.
He stopped to check Carlotta in at the front desk. She said hello to her friend Brooklyn and followed Jack through a secured door into the bull-pen area that housed workstations, cubicles and offices. The area hummed with voices, printers and the ringing of telephones.
Her grip on her purse was slippery and her pulse ratcheted higher. “I’m nervous about the interview.”
Jack scoffed. “You already wrecked a Porsche this morning, what else can you do? The way I see it, the day has nowhere to go but up.”
“Very funny. You’ll be in there with me, won’t you, Jack?”
His mouth flattened into a line. “I’ll be watching. Just remember that you’re here of your own volition. You can stop the interview if you feel uncomfortable.”
“You’re late,” chided a female voice.
Carlotta turned to see Detective Maria Marquez approaching. The woman managed to look fresh yet threatening in a pale blue pantsuit and shoulder holster. Her demeanor toward Jack was territorial, but Carlotta wondered if Jack even noticed.
“There was a mishap,” Jack said, pouring a cup of coffee.
Maria eyed Carlotta knowingly. “Right. Well, the state guys are getting restless.”
“How did your session go?” Jack asked, taking a drink from the steaming cup.
Maria shrugged. “They asked questions, I answered.” Her glance cut to Carlotta, then back. “We can talk about it later.”
Carlotta pursed her mouth. The woman was purposely excluding her, while letting her know that she and Jack had plenty of private time.
“Did they offer up the state lab to process our evidence?” Jack asked.
“When we get some.”
Jack swallowed coffee and nodded. “Fair enough.”
“They’re waiting for Carlotta in interview room two,” Maria offered, then walked away.
Jack topped off his coffee and looked at Carlotta. “Ready?”
“I guess so.”
He led her down a hallway to a closed door. “I’ll be right on the other side of the glass. Just be truthful. Everyone’s after the same thing here—to get you cleared.”
“And my father,” she added. But at the sight of the muscle jumping in Jack’s jaw, she frowned. “And my father, right, Jack?”
“Carlotta, this is about you. Let your father take care of himself. From what I’ve seen, he’s pretty good at it.”
He rapped his knuckles on the door, then opened it. Two suited men sat adjacent to each other at a rectangular table that was piled high with files. She assumed that one of them was Randolph’s, one was Wesley’s and one was hers. Her pulse kicked up a notch. The men stood and adjusted their waistbands as Carlotta and Jack walked in.
“Agents Wick and Green,” Jack said, nodding to the slim black man and the stocky white guy, respectively, “this is Carlotta Wren.”
The men said hello and she responded in kind.
“Ms. Wren has agreed to voluntarily answer whatever questions you have about The Charmed Killer case. She’s eager to help, aren’t you, Carlotta?”
She nodded, suddenly realizing that both men’s eyes were locked on her legs. Jack cleared his throat, and the men were suddenly all business.
“Have a seat, Ms. Wren.”
“Can we get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” she said, lowering herself into the empty chair.
Both agents looked at Jack expectantly.
“I’ll be outside,” he said unnecessarily. After making eye contact with Carlotta, he backed out of the room.
Once the door was closed, Agent Wick gave Carlotta a friendly smile and eased out of his jacket. “I’m originally from Buffalo and I haven’t acclimated to the Southern heat yet.”
“I told him he’ll get used to it,” Agent Green said to her, as if he and she were on the same team and Wick was the outsider. Translation: Green—good cop, Wick—bad cop. They both sat down and made a great show of getting settled, adjusting ties, sipping coffee and scooting chairs closer to the table.
Carlotta smiled. “I don’t mean to be rude, gentlemen, but I have to be at work soon, so…what can I do for you?”
Wick pursed his mouth. “Okay, let’s do this.” He took a folder that Green passed to him and opened it. “What do you do for a living, Ms. Wren?”
She glanced at the glass behind Wick and imagined Jack’s comforting presence behind it. “I’m a sales associate at Neiman Marcus at the Lenox Square Mall.”
Green jotted down her answer. Apparently, he was the note-taker.
“That’s where Michael Lane worked,” Wick said.
Carlotta nodded. “Yes, that’s where I met Michael.”
“You were friends?”
“Yes. Good friends, actually.”
“What changed that?”
She shifted in her chair. “The night I realized he was behind an identity-theft ring and was responsible for the deaths of two women.”
“You confronted him?”
“That’s right. We were in the Fox Theater at the time, and he tried to kill me.”
Wick took another sip of coffee. “How?”
“By pushing me over a balcony.”
“You obviously survived,” Green interrupted.
“Yeah, I was lucky. Someone broke my fall.” She glanced at the glass again.
“Have you seen Michael Lane since that time?” Wick resumed.
“Only on television, after he escaped, when he was being chased by the police.”
“I understand that when he jumped over the bridge, you were the one who informed the police that Michael couldn’t swim.”
“That’s right, Michael once told me himself.”
“So you assumed he’d died in the fall?”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t.”
She sighed—this was going to be tedious. “Apparently not. I found evidence that Michael Lane broke into the home I share with my brother and was living in our guest room, unbeknownst to us.”
“That’s quite a story,” Wick said wryly.
Carlotta didn’t respond.
“Your brother,” Green broke in, glancing over the file in front of him. “That would be Wesley Wren?”
“That’s correct.”
“And both of you have records?” Wick asked, taking the file. “Your brother for computer crimes and you for assault?”
Carlotta squirmed. “I once used a tire iron on a man my brother owed money to, but that was in self-defense.”
“And your brother’s computer hacking? Was that also in self-defense?”
“No,” she conceded. “But Wes is on probation and doing community service. He’s paying for his crime.”
“Your father is Randolph Wren, is that right?” Wick asked.
She tried not to react. “Yes.”
“And he’s a fugitive.”
“Isn’t that what your file says?”
Wick smiled. “Yes, it does. Do you know where your father is?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
A few weeks ago at a Florida rest area. “Just before Christmas, my senior year of high school.”
“He and your mother abandoned you and your brother?”
“Hey, ease up, partner,” Green said, then gave Carlotta a sympathetic look.
They were playing her. “Yes, my parents abandoned me and my brother.”
“Must’ve been tough,” Green offered.
“Wesley and I both are fine,” she said evenly.
Wick made a rueful noise in his throat. “Your files say otherwise. It says here that last year you were questioned in the murder of a man named Gary Hagan.”
“And does it also say I was cleared?” she asked. “He was found dead at a party I attended—everyone was questioned.”
“It says here that you crashed that party.”
She shrugged. “Party crashing isn’t a capital offense. Besides…I don’t do that anymore.” Unless she had a very good reason.
Wick scanned the file, using his finger as a pointer. “You were also a suspect in the murder of, let’s see…Angela Ashford?”
“And cleared again,” she said. “Angela was the wife of a good friend of mine.”
“Hmm. Then you reportedly jumped off an overpass and committed suicide?”
“That was actually Barbara Rook, a woman who stole my identity. And she didn’t jump—she was murdered. The D.A. asked me to go along and plan my own funeral to draw out the murderer, who turned out to be Michael Lane, by the way.”
“It’s our understanding that you were asked to plan your own funeral to draw out your parents, not the murderer.”
She hardened her jaw. “Well…it didn’t work.” Only Wesley and Coop knew that Randolph had shown up in disguise. She hadn’t even known it until she found the note he’d slipped into her pocket.
“But wasn’t your father a suspect in the Barbara Rook case?” Wick asked.
“My father seems to be a convenient suspect when there’s no one else to pin things on.”
Wick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Looks to me as if trouble runs in the family. I understand you were also on the scenes when three of the victims of The Charmed Killer were discovered.”
“I was there, but after the fact. I was helping to remove the bodies from the scene.”
Wick leaned forward. “You’re a salesclerk at Neiman’s, but you moonlight as a body mover?”
Her hairline felt moist. “Yes?”
Wick squinted. “I’m sorry, is that a question?”
Carlotta swallowed hard. “I mean yes…I sort of got into body moving accidentally.”
“Let me guess—you just happened onto a crime scene one night and started folding and stacking body bags?”
She frowned. “No. My brother began working with Cooper Craft, who contracts with the morgue to haul bodies. I went along a few times to help.”
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