Authors: Stephanie Bond
and into clean clothes. I gave you a tablet of Valium and
you fel back to sleep.” She pushed a plate of eggs toward
him and poured a glass of orange Gatorade. “So…how do
you feel?”
He shoveled the eggs into his mouth and within a few
bites, he could feel his energy returning. The drug had
released its hold on him. “I’m good,” he said, stuffing
buttered toast in his mouth. “Got any jel y?”
She smiled and retrieved a jar of strawberry preserves
from the refrigerator. “So…did it stick?”
“What?”
“The detox,” she said, wearing her mom face. “Have you
quit Oxy for good?”
Wes swallowed the food in his mouth, then took another
drink and set down the glass. When he considered how
lucky he was to have people around him who cared about
him—maybe more than he cared about himself—he
started to choke up. He cleared his throat and thumped his
fist on his chest to regain his composure. Then he lifted his
gaze to Carlotta’s and said, “Sis, I swear, I’l never do drugs
again. That stuff wil eat your brain—I was stupid on Oxy.”
She smiled and reached across the bar to hug his neck. “I
love you.”
He made a face. “I love you, too.”
Carlotta laughed. “I know that hurt, but thanks. It’s good
to have you back.”
He dove back into his breakfast with gusto. “So what did I
miss?”
From the way Carlotta’s face blanched, he knew
something bad had happened. With brimming tears, she
told him about Maria Marquez’s murder and Coop’s
disappearance. When she told him that the burned body
had been identified and also linked to Coop by several
eyewitnesses—her included—his heart sank.
“So Coop real y is The Charmed Kil er?” he said.
Carlotta didn’t respond, just busied herself cleaning up the
kitchen. He could tel the stress of worrying about Coop
was wearing on her.
“Coop has dug his own grave,” Wes said. “You gotta let it
go, Sis.”
She raked the remnants of his plate into the sink disposal
with jerky motions. “I know.” She turned on the machine,
and a few seconds later when she flipped it off, she
seemed to have pushed aside the dark thoughts for the
moment. “Liz wants you to call her. She said it was
important.”
“Okay.” But inside he was wincing. He hadn’t spoken to Liz
since fleeing from her offer to sleep over last weekend.
She was probably pissed, but she’d have to wait.
He had another girl to see.
The sound of the pounding he’d heard earlier had
resumed. “What’s that noise?”
“Peter’s fountain is being repaired,” she murmured.
“While he’s busy supervising, I think I’l run a couple of
errands.”
“Can I catch a ride to midtown?”
She frowned. “Shouldn’t you rest?”
“It’s important. Besides, I feel better than I have in a long
time.”
“Okay. I laundered your clothes—they’re in the closet in
your room. Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”
“Fifteen,” he said, then raced downstairs for a quick
shower. He checked his accumulated cel phone messages.
One Meg had left Wednesday night saying she was at the
movies and had he changed his mind? The rest were from
Carlotta, Chance, Hannah, and Liz, all wondering where he
was and would he please call. Kendall Abrams had called
several times asking for his help with body pickups. The
guy sounded desperate.
As Wesley tucked in his shirt, he conceded Meg was
probably furious that he hadn’t showed up for their date,
but maybe she was a little worried about him since he’d
missed work Thursday and Friday.
On the drive, he was especial y aware of sensory details—
the new-car smel of the rental, the sound of Carlotta’s
buoyant laughter, the indigo hue of the sky, and the
cloying moisture in the hot summer air. He had thought
the Oxy made everything better, but it was so damned
good to have a clear head again.
“Where shall I drop you?” Carlotta asked.
“Um…somewhere close to Georgia Tech would be fine.”
She gave him an amused smile. “Which dorm is Meg’s?”
Sheepishly he gave her directions and when she slowed
the car, he jumped out. “I’l get a ride back,” he said.
“Okay. Wes?”
“Yeah?”
“I keep forgetting to thank you for getting rid of the fire
ants in our yard. Mrs. Winningham was impressed.”
Wes frowned. “Sorry, Sis. I meant to take care of it, but I
forgot. The ants must’ve found a better yard. See ya.”
He turned and jogged up the sidewalk to Meg’s dorm.
Passing coeds stared at him, and he wondered if he stil
looked a mess from the detox. He’d lost at least five
pounds, and he didn’t have many to spare. He walked into
the lobby and punched in Meg’s number on his cel . His
hands were shaking, but at least it wasn’t from drugs.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hey, it’s Wes.”
She scoffed. “Not the Wes who stood me up Wednesday
night. Because he would know better than to call me four
days later with some lame excuse.”
“I’m sorry about that. Something came up.”
“I gathered as much when you ditched work Thursday and
Friday.”
“Can I see you? I’m in the lobby of your dorm.”
She sighed. “I’m actually on my way down.”
He smiled into the mouthpiece. “I’l be waiting.” He ended
the call and paced the length of the room, eager to tel
Meg that he was clean and they could start over.
When the elevator doors opened and she stepped off
wearing a yel ow sundress and pink sandals, he couldn’t
hold back a sappy smile. “Hi.”
She looked somewhat less happy to see him. “What, are
you stalking me now?”
“You look nice.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m going out.”
He balked. “On a date?”
When she smiled at someone behind him, he turned to
see Preppy Mark standing there, dressed like a Ralph
Lauren magazine ad…in a gay magazine. He smiled at Wes.
“Hey, Schwinn.”
Wes glared at him.
“Wes,” Meg said, “did you want something?”
He looked back to her, suddenly tongue-tied. “I, uh,
wanted to apologize for…Wednesday night.”
“No biggie,” she said with a shrug. “Is that all?”
“No. I…I got clean, like you said.”
“Good for you. See you later.” She turned away and
walked up to Mark, giving him a blinding smile. “Ready?”
Wes watched them walk out the door and rubbed his
breastbone. The detox had done a number on his body. He
was feeling strange things in strange places that he’d
never felt before.
27
Carlotta handed money to the clerk at the dry cleaners
drive-through and her charm bracelet clinked. She stared
at the charms and mentally ticked back through the ones
they’d found on all the victims of The Charmed Kil er.
Wesley was right—except for the lipstick charm found in
Maria’s mouth, they all pointed to Coop. The GBI would
say that he was taunting them, daring them to figure out
his clues.
But what if the charms were a clever way to frame Coop?
And why did the charms before Maria’s murder skew
neutral or masculine, and then suddenly skew feminine? It
didn’t track…just like the fact that the victims had seemed
random, or at least innocent, up to that point.
Then a thought curled into her brain. What if Maria’s
murder had been a copycat crime, meant to look as if The
Charmed Kil er had done it?
Her pulse raced. If so, the obvious culprit would be Rueben
Garza. What if Garza was the kind of man who wouldn’t
accept Maria’s decision to leave? He was a police officer,
who would naturally be fol owing The Charmed Kil er case.
He’d have the strength and the know-how to kil …and a
unique signature under which to disguise his deed.
Comments that Maria had made came back to her. I was
married, but that’s over…You’re putting your faith in the
wrong guy, and I know what that’s like. It would explain
why Maria had always seemed withdrawn, and why she
would shy away from a relationship with Jack.
Jack…
She thought back to the night at the restaurant. Jack had
said Maria had invited him, but Maria had gone out of her
way to assure Carlotta they weren’t on a date. And when
they’d heard a noise from the tree line, Maria had
instantly drawn her weapon, tel ing Carlotta to go inside,
and not to get Jack—that she could handle it.
What if the noise hadn’t been made by a dog, as Maria
had claimed? What if she thought she was being
stalked…by her ex-husband? Maybe she’d invited Jack to
dinner thinking that if Garza confronted them, Jack could
take care of himself.
Or shoot the man, if necessary.
If Garza was getting his information from the newspaper,
or from inside sources, he might not have realized that all
the charms had been of a neutral or male bent.
And then she remembered a small detail—the charm
removed from the mouth of victim number five, Marna
Col ins, was a pair of handcuffs. But it had been reported
erroneously in the paper as being a woman’s shoe.
With that piece of flawed information, planting a lipstick
charm would seem believable.
Carlotta itched to tell Jack her theory, but without proof,
she knew he would blow her off.
“Ma’am?”
She jerked her head around to see the irritated clerk
waving her change. “There’s a line behind you.”
“Oh. Thanks.” She took the money, then pul ed over in the
parking lot and called the midtown police precinct.
“Atlanta PD,” a woman’s voice said.
“Brooklyn?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Brook, it’s Carlotta Wren. I need a favor.”
“What?” the woman asked in a voice that was more
interested than cautious.
“Do you know if the police department covered the
arrangements for Maria Marquez’s ex-husband Rueben
Garza to come to the funeral?”
“Yeah, we paid for it, him being a cop and all. Professional
courtesy.”
“Can you find out if he’s stil in town and where he’s
staying?”
“Hm. Might take me a few.”
“Call me back on this number.” She ended the call and
tapped on the steering wheel nervously until Brook called
her back.
“He’s at the Four Seasons, girl, room 535, paid for through
tonight.”
“Thank you so much. And, Brook…don’t mention this to
Jack.”
“I kinda thought you might say that. Don’t worry. I don’t
wanna know what you’re up to and if I get called to the
stand, I have no problem committing perjury. Goodbye.”
Carlotta smiled, then disconnected the call and headed to
the Four Seasons. The last time she’d been at the hotel,
she’d crashed an upscale party and had been reunited
with Peter. That seemed like ages ago, but in reality, it had
been only a few months.
So she remembered the layout of the hotel perfectly.
After parking along the street, she jammed on dark
sunglasses and walked to the entrance. It was a lovely
place—the doormen were gracious, the lobby was
luxurious, the air was perfumed. With her chin held high,
she walked through the lobby to a house phone and dialed
room 535, prepared to hang up if Garza answered. But if
the man had done what she suspected him of, he would
not be holed up in his room on a pretty Saturday,
mourning his dead ex-wife.
She let the phone ring until it rol ed over to voice mail. The
she hung up and called again, just in case he was sleeping.
Again, no answer.
Carlotta returned the receiver and headed toward the
elevator bay. Then she walked around the corner to a
service elevator and rode down to the basement. There
she fol owed the hum and the heat to the laundry room
and knocked on the half door that led into the humid,
noisy place. A sweaty man hurried over, his expression
concerned.
“Yes, ma’am?”
She sighed dramatically. “I’ve called housekeeping three
times for a robe with no response, so I decided to come
down and get one myself.”
He winced. “Your room, ma’am?”
“535.”
“Last name?”
“Garza.”
He hurried to a phone and made a quick call, presumably
to the front desk. Then he came back, looking contrite.
“Sorry, ma’am, how many robes do you need?”
“Just one wil do,” she chirped.
He left and came back with a white waffle-weave robe,
freshly laundered and folded to crisp perfection. “Here you
are, ma’am. So sorry.”
“Thank you.” She handed him a five dol ar tip, then turned
on her heel and made her way back to the service
elevator.
She rode to the fifth floor and found the ice machine
room. There she quickly removed her clothes down to her
underwear and shrugged into the robe. Her cel phone and
wal et went into the pockets of the robe, then she stuffed
her clothes into her purse and stowed it behind the ice
machine. Someone had left a glass sitting on top of the
machine, so she grabbed it and fil ed it with ice before
making her way back down the hallway until she spotted a