Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond
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he’d be a rich, accomplished man, and women like Liz Fischer would look at him with respect. When he won the World Series of Poker. When he cleared his father’s name. He would be happy then, and everyone who meant something to him would be happy, too.
When he returned to the holding cell, a poker game was in full swing. He retreated to a corner to avoid Leg Warmers and to watch the interplay of the men and the game, nodding in satisfaction when he predicted hands correctly. He could do the odds in his head, but so could lots of card-players. He was good at poker because he was good at observing people, and he was willing to be patient for the payoff.
He would use the same skills to solve his father’s case. He had time.
Less than an hour later, thank goodness, he was escorted to a small courtroom for his bail hearing. He spotted Carlotta’s anxious face in the sparse gallery and gave her a thumbs-up that was somewhat hampered by his handcuffed wrists. Liz Fischer’s presence next to him was assuring—and alluring—but his pulse ratcheted higher as he listened to the charges against him: federal charges of computer intrusion and unlawful use of passwords. Two counts each. Federal.
This might be more serious than he thought.
Addressing the judge, his attorney tried to pass off his hacking as a childish prank that he deeply regretted. “I request that my client be released on his own recognizance.”
But the stern-faced judge seemed to be studying the papers in front of him rather than listening to counsel. When he finally lifted his head, he said, “It’s been brought to my attention that your client is the son of a fugitive still wanted by the Atlanta Police Department.”
Wesley shifted beneath the man’s condemning gaze.
“Your Honor,” Liz said, “with all due respect, I don’t see what bearing my client’s father’s situation has on this case. My client hasn’t seen his father since he was a little boy.”
The judge frowned. “Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t take it into consideration. Bail is set at twenty thousand dollars. See the court cashier.”
“Your Honor,” Liz said with alarm in her voice. “That will cause undue hardship on my client—”
“Then perhaps your client would be more comfortable in jail until his arraignment, Ms. Fischer.” He banged his gavel. “Next case.”
Wesley’s mind churned at the unexpected turn of events. Twenty thousand dollars? They didn’t even have the cash to pay ten percent to a bail bondsman. On the other hand, it was kind of cool that the judge thought he was worth that much.
“Wesley,” Liz said slowly, “this is a little unorthodox, but if you need a loan—”
“We don’t,” Carlotta said, walking up to stand near him. She looked pale, and her hand shook as she held up a manila file. “I brought all the information to post a property bond.”
“Hello, Carlotta,” Liz said.
“Hello,” Carlotta said.
His sister’s voice was pleasant enough, but Wesley could feel the animosity rolling off his sister in waves toward the other woman. What was it with chicks?
“You certainly came prepared,” Liz said lightly.
“I look out for my family. Wesley, let’s go home.” She turned and walked toward the exit.
He hesitated, then looked up at Liz Fischer. “Thank you for your help…Liz.”
“No problem,” she said smoothly. “Your arraignment is Monday morning. I’ll be in touch.” She picked up her briefcase and walked in the direction opposite from the one that Carlotta had taken. He noticed that the woman turned back and eyed his sister intently before continuing.
Escorted by a bailiff, Wesley caught up with Carlotta and watched with apprehension as she pledged the equity in their town home against the fact that he would appear in court when summoned. He had every intention of being there, but what if something happened? His sister’s faith in him was a little unnerving. Even after his handcuffs were removed, his stomach was in knots, but he kept telling himself that the end justified the means.
As part of his sentence, he planned to offer his expertise to help the courthouse develop better safety firewalls, ones that only he could penetrate. If that failed, he had left himself a back door in the courthouse records database so when everything died down, he’d be able to go back in and explore. This arrest would be worth the inconvenience if it helped him gather information to help—and find—his father. He glanced at his sister’s troubled profile and felt a twist in his gut. Someday, Carlotta would agree with him.
He hoped.
4
Carlotta’s eyes popped open from a restless sleep, with elusive dreams of her parents sliding into the dark corners of her subconscious. Mercifully, the dreams had become less frequent over the years, and she hoped this recurrence was an isolated incident. A glutton for punishment, she allowed herself to wonder where her parents were waking up, and if she and Wesley ever crossed their minds. Then the events of yesterday—Wesley’s arrest and bail hearing—came crashing back, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Her family was going to be the death of her.
She turned her head on her pillow to look at the alarm clock and groaned. She’d meant to get up early to make up for the hours she’d missed yesterday, but now she’d be lucky to make it to the morning staff meeting on time. While she stood and yanked up the duvet cover to make her bed, she thought of Angela Ashford and the commission she’d walked away from yesterday. And she wondered how much of her phone conversation with Wesley the woman had overheard—enough to fuel another gossipy lunch with her girlfriends?
She tamped down her resentment toward Angela, recognizing that it was mostly rooted in the fact that the woman had married Peter, which, truthfully, only proved that Angela was…smart. Peter had graduated from Vanderbilt and returned to Atlanta to launch a successful career and join the ranks of his fabulously rich family. Angela enjoyed social status and all the perks that came with being a third-generation Buckhead wife.
Carlotta frowned. Although, considering the fact that the woman was sneaking booze in the department-store dressing room, her life might not be as rosy as the picture she’d painted for Carlotta.
After a quick shower, Carlotta opened the door to her closet, which always lifted her spirits. Working at Neiman Marcus for the better part of her adult life had afforded her a fabulous wardrobe on her employee discount. She had eased off her habit of “borrowing” clothes to wear for a special occasion and then returning them after nearly getting herself and her friends Jolie and Hannah in trouble last Christmas when they’d “borrowed” outfits to crash an upscale pajama party where a man had wound up dead. Since they’d been the only uninvited guests at the party and had drawn attention to themselves by accidentally falling into the pool fully clothed, they’d been fingered as the prime murder suspects. They’d managed to clear themselves, but had been stuck with paying for thousands of dollars’ of ruined silk pj’s and robes. She still hadn’t paid off her Neiman Marcus credit card.
Thinking of Jolie made her smile. Her friend and coworker had moved to Costa Rica with the man of her dreams, and her parting gift to Carlotta had been a pink leather autograph book to replace the one full of celebrity autographs that had been ruined by the fall in the pool, and two thousand dollars in cash to satisfy the loan shark that had been hounding Carlotta for money that Wesley owed.
Jolie had saved their lives…or at least their kneecaps.
Carlotta flipped through her bulging wardrobe and decided to go all out today. Dressing to the nines always made her feel better.
She pulled out a black miniskirt, a teal-colored tunic, one of the vintage Judith Leiber huge “breastplate” necklaces from her mother’s collection and tall Prada boots. She pulled her long black hair—her best feature, she thought—into a low ponytail, and added dangling glass earrings. She