Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body

3

Six minutes later, Detective Jack Terry walked through her door. Carlotta had pulled herself together and had promised herself she’d behave professionally with Jack, just like anyone else would report a potential crime to any police officer.

Instead, she went into his arms and pressed her wet face against his ugly tie. He just held her and rubbed circles on her back.

“You have to give me something to go on here,” he finally said into her hair.

She sniffled and lifted her head. “Wesley’s missing.”

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her for an awkward one-hand nose blow. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me what’s going on.”

They settled on the couch and she relayed what she knew, from how Wesley hadn’t shown up at the hospital the previous day to the fact that he’d missed the meeting with his probation officer.

Jack’s expression was serious, but not concerned. “So he’s been missing for less than twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, but something’s wrong, I know it.”

“Has he ever disappeared before?”

Carlotta hesitated. “This is different.”

Jack’s face relaxed. “Probably not. He could be with a buddy, hanging out, or maybe he found a card game.”

“His friend Chance Hollander called here. He doesn’t know where Wesley is.”

“That’s the guy who gave us the tip in the Angela Ashford murder, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “I don’t trust him. I think he’s into something illegal.”

“His friend could’ve been covering for him. Maybe Wesley was right in front of him, stoned, or sleeping off a hangover. Doesn’t Wesley have more than one buddy?”

“Not really,” she said, then frowned. “Not that I know of. But there’s a woman.”

“A woman?”

“I don’t know who she is, but sometimes he comes home smelling of expensive perfume.”

“I think I caught a whiff of that myself the night of the drive-by shooting,” he said, nodding. “That could be where he is.” He winked and thumbed away a tear from her cheek. “See, nothing to worry about.”

“But remember what those guys you arrested here said about Wesley being in trouble with The Carver.”

“I remember. I also remember telling you that if Wesley has gotten himself in deep with these guys, he’s going to have to figure a way to get out of it.”

“But what if they hurt him?”

His mouth twitched downward. “He’s young. He’ll heal. And maybe a beating is what he needs to convince him that these aren’t people he wants to do business with.”

She gasped. “But what if they kill him?”

“That’s not likely. An intelligent young guy like Wesley is more valuable to them alive.”

That made her smile slightly. “You think he’s intelligent?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, he’s not very smart.”

“He’s only nineteen.”

“He’s not a kid, Carlotta. When I was nineteen, I’d traveled halfway around the world.”

“In the military?”

He nodded. “Don’t baby him. If you do, you’ll never have a life of your own.”

“So you’re telling me there’s nothing I can do?”

“Legally, not until he’s been missing for twenty-four hours. Off the record, though, I’ll do a little nosing around.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Jack.” She reached up to stroke the bruise around his eye. “I see your shiner is fading.”

“Yeah.” He caught her hand and folded it into his.

His eyes were the color of amber, bright and direct. Sexy.

“How’s your arm?” he murmured in a husky tone that implied he was asking how incapacitated she was.

“My arm.” She felt the pull of his body on hers, like a force field. But she remembered too well the negative fallout the last time she’d given in to that attraction.

Besides, if the note from her fugitive father fell out of her bra, it would probably kill the mood. “My arm is itching, actually.” She made a face and wiggled her finger under the edge of the cast.

He smiled, and the surface tension dissipated. He pushed himself to his feet. “I should go. I’ll call you if I find anything. Meanwhile, if Wesley shows up, let me know.”

“Okay. I’m sorry for the drama,” she added sheepishly.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Wesley’s lucky to have someone who cares about him. I’m not sure he deserves it.”

“Do any of you male types deserve it?” she asked lightly.

“Touché.” He left, grinning.

Carlotta stood at the edge of the window and watched him drive away, wishing she could put her finger on her feelings for the man. Then she shook her head at the futility of such an exercise. The next time she and Jack crossed paths, they could be at each other’s throats.

But he had made her feel better … and empowered to do something more than wait to get a call from Wesley—or the morgue.

She called Hannah, who answered after the third ring. “Any news?”

“No. But I was wondering if you’d like to take a little field trip when you got off work. I need your muscle.”

“You got it. Pick you up in an hour.”

She was waiting outside, holding a fire extinguisher, when Hannah pulled up in her refrigerated catering van.

“Are we going to a fire?” Hannah asked, looking like the Goth Chef in her white smock.

Carlotta tossed the extinguisher on the floorboard, then climbed in awkwardly. “No, but it was the closest thing I had to a weapon. Chance Hollander is into all kinds of shady stuff. I just want to be prepared in case we have to fight our way out of there.”

“Gee, if it’s a weapon you need, I have an arsenal.”

Carlotta squinted at her. “I don’t think I want to know that.”

“Knives, I mean. I’ve got a bagful in the back—from paring to cleavers, straight edge, chisel ground, hollow edge, serrated.” She bounced in her seat with excitement. “Who are we going to hurt?”

“No one, hopefully. But I want to question Chance Hollander to his smarmy face, and who knows what kind of people I might run into at his place.”

“So I should arm myself.”

“One knife, Hannah. Just one. And let me do the talking.”

They parked in the visitor lot for his building and climbed out. “We need to grab some empty food boxes so we look like we’re catering a party,” Carlotta said. Hannah stacked empty boxes on a handcart and wheeled them toward the entrance. Carlotta followed, carrying the fire extinguisher. The concierge buzzed them in.

“We’re catering a party for Chance Hollander,” Carlotta said, then smiled apologetically. “But I’ve forgotten his unit number.”

The concierge not only gave her the unit number, but held the elevator door for them. She tipped him five dollars.

“Nice work,” Hannah murmured.

“All the party-crashing subterfuge we’ve learned occasionally comes in handy.”

They got off on the top floor and Carlotta took in the upscale decor with a twinge of envy.

“Wow, Wesley’s friend must be wealthy,” Hannah remarked.

“Chance Hollander is a trust fund baby, with lots of idle time on his hands.” They found his door. Carlotta rang the doorbell and pushed Hannah in front of the peephole. “If something’s going on, he won’t open the door to me. Try to look friendly.”

Hannah’s attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace, but a few seconds later, Chance Hollander greeted them, dressed in a short Hefner-esque paisley robe. He was blond and tanned, with the chuffy body and casual posture of a person who enjoyed excess.

“Yeah?” As soon as he spotted Carlotta, he tried to shut the door, but he was no match for Hannah. She shoved him so hard he stumbled backward and landed on his ass on a zebra-striped rug shaped like an animal hide, in the middle of a room crammed with black leather furniture.

Carlotta rolled her eyes. Why was it that people with money usually had no taste?

They walked in and Carlotta closed the door behind them. “We just want to talk, Chance.”

“I don’t know where Wesley is,” he said.

Carlotta narrowed her eyes at him. “You know something, you little shit. And you’d better tell me.”

He got a surly look on his face as he reclined on his elbows. The robe had fallen away to reveal baggy briefs and a spare tire. “Or what?”

She handed the fire extinguisher to Hannah. “Would you pull the pin, please?”

“Here, trade me.” Hannah pulled a gleaming twelve-inch cleaver from a box. “This only takes one hand.”

Carlotta’s eyes widened, but Chance’s startled yelp vanquished the reprimand on the tip of her tongue.

She hefted the heavy cleaver while Hannah aimed the hose at Chance’s dingy briefs. “Christ, what is it with you rich people and underwear? A three-pack of Hanes at Target for ten bucks—give it some thought.”

Chance grinned. “Where did you get the dog, Carlotta? I kind of like her.”

Hannah blasted his crotch with foam, eliciting a scream from him. When the dust settled, Hannah leaned closer. “The cleaver is next, fat boy. Start talking.”

“It was Wesley’s idea.”

Carlotta’s stomach churned. “What was his idea?”

Chance sat up, defeated. “He thought The Carver was behind the drive-by shooting at your place. He was scared that you were going to get hurt. So he came up with a plan to blackmail the guy.”

“Blackmail The Carver? How?”

Chance grinned. “It was genius, really. We got a transvestite to go to a strip club with us where the guy was hanging out with his cronies. When he went to the can, we sent in our himbo, and got some incriminating photos. Wesley told The Carver if you got hurt, the photos would be posted on the ‘Net.”

Carlotta shook her head in confusion. “But the man responsible for the drive-by shooting is in jail. He had nothing to do with The Carver.”

Chance winced. “I know. That part kind of sucks.”

Carlotta exchanged a horrified glance with Hannah. “We have to go.”

Chance slowly got to his feet and struck a cocky pose. “Hey, Goth Girl, can I persuade you to stay?”

Hannah blasted him with the extinguisher again, then grabbed her handcart and followed Carlotta out. They sprinted back to the van, where Carlotta punched in Jack’s number with a shaking hand.

4

Wesley twisted his handcuffed wrists to glance at his watch. He’d been locked in this bathroom for twenty-four hours. He’d missed the meeting with E., his probation officer. Carlotta was probably worried to death.

He was sitting in a grimy green bathtub, his head leaned back against the cool tile on the wall. No matter what he did, he seemed to screw up. He’d thought he was protecting his sister when he and Chance had embarked on the Great Strip Club Caper. Instead he had humiliated one of the most dangerous men in Atlanta for no reason—a man he still owed a great deal of money.

Wesley gave a little laugh. They’d just had a fake funeral for Carlotta, and his parents hadn’t bothered to show. He’d told Carlotta that their father had smelled a setup, but with so much time on his hands to think in this grimy, stinky john, he’d begun to wonder if Carlotta had been right all these years—that their parents didn’t give a damn about them, and wouldn’t risk apprehension even if one of their kids was lying in a pine box.

No, he told himself with a mental shake. The fact that he was doubting his father was just proof of how isolation and lack of food could mess with your mind.

It was his own fault if The Carver decided to carve him up and scatter his parts all over the city. He’d come to the shabby warehouse office in East Atlanta with a peace offering—the memory chip holding the photos he’d taken of the man with Cherry, a well-endowed transvestite, and a payment of nine hundred dollars on his loan. But before he could state his good intentions, he’d been hauled off his bike, relieved of his wallet, handcuffed, then tossed in this box.

They hadn’t fed him, but he’d drunk from the sink faucet to keep from becoming dehydrated. Mouse, The Carver’s collections man, told him they were keeping him until the boss decided what to do with him.

Wesley surveyed the tub he was in, wondering how many other people The Carver had dissected here, allowing their blood to run down the drain before gathering their limbs in garbage bags and disposing of them with the junk mail.

A scratch sounded at the door. Wesley glanced at the crack at the floor to see the shadows of two sets of shoes—Mouse had brought company this time. Wes’s heart jumped to his throat.

The dead bolt slid open, then the knob turned and the door swung wide. Mouse and another man walked in and unceremoniously hauled him up out of the bathtub.

“What’s new, fellas?” Wesley asked congenially.

“Shut up,” Mouse told him as they half dragged him out of the room and down a hallway. The floor was concrete and the studded walls had been gutted of drywall. “The boss wants to talk to you.”

“I can talk better with my hands,” Wesley said. “How about uncuffing me?”

Mouse clocked him up the side of the head. “I said shut up.”

Wesley blinked until the starbursts faded, and decided to take Mouse’s sage advice. They deposited him in an office—if thugs had offices. It was pretty much just a windowless room with a rickety straight-back chair and some menacing-looking stains on the concrete floor. There was a drain in the corner—just in case the room had to be hosed down, he guessed.

They slammed him into the chair and left, closing the door behind them.

He concentrated on not sweating, visualized glaciers and avalanches and other cold scenes. Ice fishing … igloos … polar bears … Klondike bars.

But when the door burst open, so did his pores. The last time he’d seen The Carver, the man had been inebriated and sitting on the john with his pants around his ankles, a piece of duct tape over his mouth, his wrists bound with a cable tie.

He had recovered well.

The loan shark was impeccably groomed, his skin tanned and glowing, his salt-and-pepper hair smoothed back from his face, every strand in place. Wesley didn’t know much about clothes, but the brown suit and collarless shirt looked expensive, as well as the square-toed shoes. The only thing that hinted the man was a gangster was the thick rope of gold around his neck.

Oh, and the switchblade in his hand.

With one click, a six-inch blade appeared. Wesley leaned forward and vomited the water that had been sitting in his stomach, splashing the man’s expensive square-toed shoes.

“Christ,” the loan shark said, taking a few steps back. “Are you going to piss yourself next?”

Wesley lifted his head and licked his dry lips. “I hope not.”

“Me, too.” The Carver leaned down to get in Wesley’s face. “You stupid little shit, I ought to gut you for what you did to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Wesley mumbled.

He looked incredulous. “You’re sorry?”

“Someone shot up my house when my sister was home. I thought it was your guys. I was wrong.”

The Carver paced all around him. Wesley tensed, expecting to feel the blade plunge into his bony body, disemboweling him. Sweat rolled off his nose and dripped onto the floor.

“I brought the memory chip from the camera to give you,” he offered.

“Where is it?”

Wesley kicked off one of his tennis shoes. “Under the insole.”

The Carver used the knife to lift the insole, then withdrew the blue memory card, pierced on the tip. “This is the only copy of the pictures?”

“Yes.”

The man dropped the punctured card on the floor, then stomped on it for good measure. Every time his heel came down on the chip, Wesley flinched.

When The Carver stopped, he was panting and slightly disheveled. Using his hand, he smoothed his hair back in place, then bestowed a slow smile on Wesley. “But I can understand that you were trying to protect your sister.”

Wesley swallowed hard. “You can?”

“Sure. I have sisters. That’s why I’m going to let you live.”

Relief flooded Wesley’s body.

“In return for a fee.”

“Fee?”

The man began grooming his nails with the tip of the knife. “For pain and suffering.”

“H-how much?”

“Twenty-five large.”

Wesley felt weak again. “I don’t have twenty-five grand.”

“Then you need to raise it, Wesley. By five o’clock.”

“I don’t know anyone who has money like that.”

“Think hard,” the loan shark said. “Because if you don’t come up with the money, you’re a dead man. Then who’s going to protect your sister?”

Wesley bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

“I’m a busy man, so you’d better be thinking of who you need to call. I’m going to have a sandwich. I’m sending Mouse in with your cell phone—he’ll make the calls for you. If you try to signal someone or get the police involved, your sister is as good as dead.” He walked closer. “Here’s a little incentive.”

The Carver grabbed Wesley’s arm and with a twist of his wrist, sliced a two-inch letter C into Wesley’s forearm.

The pain was intense. Wesley gasped as his blood dripped onto the floor to mix with the other stains. Since his hands were still cuffed, he pressed his arm to his chest to stem the bleeding. He ground his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.

“With every phone call, you get another letter,” The Carver said, his voice deadly calm. “So unless you want my entire name tattooed on your arm, you’d better make them count.”

The man strode out of the room and nodded to someone. Mouse walked in holding Wesley’s cell phone, all business. “Who do you want me to call?”

Wesley’s mind raced.

“You don’t want to keep the boss waiting,” Mouse advised.

“Chance Hollander.”

“Is the number in your phone?”

“Yeah.” His arm was throbbing. “Can you uncuff me, man? My hands are numb.”

“No can do.” Mouse operated the phone with his fat fingers, then held it to Wesley’s ear. “The volume is turned up so that I can hear everything. No funny stuff, got it?”

“I lost my sense of humor on the floor,” Wesley said. “Watch your step.”

He prayed that Chance would pick up. After two rings, he did. “Wes?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Where the fuck are you, man? Your sister is worried sick. She came over with some pierced chick and they kicked my ass—”

“Dude, listen. I’m in a bind and I need twenty-five grand. Can you help me out?”

“Twenty-five grand, are you nuts? Have you been kidnapped or something?”

“Or something. Can you get it?”

“Yeah, sure. But it’ll take me a couple of days.”

“I don’t have a couple of days. What can you scrape together in a couple of hours?”

“Bad timing, dude. I just paid my carriers, and my girls, and I bought a new hot tub—”

“How much?”

“It was a steal—a ten-thousand-dollar model, but I got it for five.”

Mouse rolled his eyes and Wesley grimaced. “Not the hot tub! How much can you get together?”

“I could probably find a grand in the couch cushions, but that’s about it.”

Wesley swallowed against his disappointment. “Okay, thanks anyway.”

“Dude, where are you—”

Mouse closed the phone. “You know what this means.”

“Come on, man,” Wesley pleaded. “Give me a mulligan.”

Mouse frowned. “What’s a mulligan?”

Note to self: Don’t use golf terms when negotiating with street criminals. “A freebie. No one has to know.”

“No can do.” The big man went to the door, opened it and shook his head.

The Carver came in still chewing his sandwich, and sighed heavily, as if Wesley were causing him to miss his favorite TV show. He opened the switchblade. “Hold him, Mouse.”