Stephanie Bond - Body Movers - 3 Men and a Body

“Call me to let me know what you find out. I should be finished in a couple of hours or so.”

Carlotta waved her off, and attempted to relax, trying to find some solace in the beautiful sunny day and the fact that the neighborhood that she’d hated living in was looking quite pretty today. When the trees were leafed out, they hid the shabbiness of most of the homes, their’s included. The gay couple that lived on the other side of them, whom they’d only seen and not met, had made upgrades to their house. Now that she thought about it, she decided her neighbors probably didn’t extend themselves because the Wren place was, as Mrs. Winningham had so often reminded her, “a blight on our good street.”

Ironically, Carlotta had vowed to update their place and make some badly needed repairs just before she’d broken her arm. For extra money, she had even contemplated joining forces with Hannah to go on some body-moving jobs for Coop—much to Hannah’s great delight. But that, too, would have to wait until after Carlotta’s arm healed.

“Come home safe, Wesley,” she whispered. “I have plans for us. You can’t leave me, too.”

In that moment, her hatred for her parents was a palpable black mass in the air around her. She shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. What if something happened to Wesley? Life without her brother was just too impossible to comprehend. She realized with a start how he must have felt when he thought she’d taken a dive off that bridge, before they had learned it was someone pretending to be her.

Their parents’ abandonment had forced them into a closeness that probably wasn’t healthy. She wondered if they would forever be emotionally dependent on each other, or if either would someday make room in their life for someone special. Wesley was particularly resistant to change—he still refused to allow her to take down the aluminum Christmas tree in the living room that their mother had put up mere days before she’d skipped town with their father. So it sat there in the corner, a sagging, tarnished emblem of their family, complete with little gifts underneath that had never been opened.

Except by Jack Terry, when he’d stayed at their house doing “surveillance” in case her parents showed up for the fake funeral. He’d thought he might find clues in them as to their parents’ whereabouts. He’d rewrapped the gifts, but Carlotta had been furious when she discovered what he’d done. Had been hurt. Confused. Torn.

With Jack, everything was muddy.

Meanwhile, the hands on the clock seemed to crawl. The phone didn’t ring. Wesley didn’t materialize. When she called the number on his probation officer’s business card at five minutes after eleven, she was nauseous.

“Eldora Jones speaking.”

“Eldora, this is Carlotta Wren, Wesley’s sister. We met a couple of nights ago at the Elton John concert.”

“How could I forget? Are you out of the hospital?”

“Yes, thanks, and feeling much better. I’m calling about Wesley. Did he make his appointment today?”

“As a matter of fact, he didn’t.”

Carlotta’s heart sank to her ankles. “Did he call to say he wouldn’t be there?”

“No, he didn’t. May I ask what this is about?”

“I hope it’s nothing, but my brother seems to be missing.”

“Missing?”

“He hasn’t been home, no one’s heard from him since yesterday, and he isn’t answering his cell phone.”

The woman paused, then said thoughtfully, “I did receive a call from a Richard McCormick saying that Wesley had impressed him in his interview yesterday morning. He’s set to start his community service with the city computer-security department next Monday.”

“He was supposed to meet me at the hospital after the interview, but he didn’t show.”

“Have you called the police?” Eldora asked hesitantly. Carlotta thought she detected more than professional interest in her tone.

“That’s next on my list.”

“Will you have Wesley phone me as soon as you … see him? He’ll have to make up the missed meeting.”

Carlotta promised she would, then hung up and put her head between her knees to relieve the light-headedness that suddenly overcame her. Please, God. She reached for the phone again and dialed Detective Jack Terry’s number from memory.

Jack had arrested Wesley for hacking into the courthouse computer. He’d reopened their father’s case. He’d investigated a couple of little murders that Carlotta had gotten involved in accidentally. And in between, he’d given her one or three mind-boggling orgasms. Theirs was a lust-hate relationship. After the fiasco at the Fox Theatre, during which he’d broken her fall, she was hoping she wouldn’t have to call him anytime soon.

Here we go again.

“Jack Terry,” said the rough-hewn voice over the line.

It was so unexpectedly comforting, Carlotta’s throat choked with emotion.

“Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”

“Jack,” she cried.

“Carlotta? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Wesley,” she said, openly sobbing now.

“Are you at home?”

“Yes,” she blubbered.

“I’m on my way.”

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.”