4 Bodies and a Funeral. Stephanie Bond
Читать онлайн книгу.
they’re gone. Want me to pick one up for you?”
“I actually have a charm bracelet at home,” Carlotta murmured. From her teenage years. A gift from her father, it was somewhere in the depths of her jewelry box. She had buried so many things from that period in her life. “Thanks anyway,” she added begrudgingly. Patricia wasn’t so bad, she was just … persnickety.
“Looks like we have a lull,” Patricia said. “I’ll be right back.”
Carlotta glanced around and decided to take advantage of the break in the crowd to get a pain pill from her purse. Her arm hadn’t hurt like this in a while.
She made her way to the employee break room and gave the locker of her former coworker Michael Lane a wistful glance. It had been emptied, but was still tagged with police evidence tape. No one would touch it, as if they might catch whatever it was that had taken hold of Michael. Carlotta opened her own locker to remove her purse. She checked her cell phone for messages, hoping Wesley hadn’t forgotten his promise to call and let her know what happened with the D.A. But there were no messages, leaving her to fear the worst. Jack had once warned her that the D.A. despised her father so much that he might try to take it out on Wesley.
With growing apprehension, Carlotta pulled the prescription bottle of Percocet from her bag and removed the lid. When the last pill rolled out into her hand, she frowned. She’d barely touched the bottle of painkillers, and had even turned down the doctor’s offer for extra refills because she hadn’t wanted to become dependent on them.
She used her cell phone to dial the pharmacy and request one of the refills she had left.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there are no more refills on this prescription.”
“But I’m looking at the pill bottle, and it says I have two more.”
In the background was the sound of computer keys clicking. “According to our records, the prescription was refilled two weeks ago and again last week.”
“But that’s impossible—” Carlotta began to argue, then cut herself off. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She hadn’t taken the bottle of pain pills, and she hadn’t gotten the prescription refilled. Which left only one other person in the house who could have.
“Thank you,” she said hastily, then disconnected the call. Her eyes pooled with sudden moisture. Had Wesley taken the painkillers recreationally? Sold them?
Or was he hooked on them?
She put a hand over her heavy heart and murmured, “Oh, Wesley. What have you gotten yourself into now?”
2
Wesley glanced all around as he hurried into the building on Pryor Street that housed, among other government agencies, the offices of the Fulton County District Attorney. He was a nervous freaking wreck after riding his bike in a circuitous route just in case anyone from The Carver’s camp knew about the appointment and decided to intercept him, then persuade him not to agree to a plea deal in return for testifying against the brutal loan shark.
When he’d agreed to help The Carver’s men swipe the body of a starlet, Wesley had told himself he was killing several birds with one stone, so to speak.
The woman was already dead, after all. It was an olive branch to offer the loan shark for an embarrassing stunt Wesley had orchestrated on him at a strip club. And The Carver had promised to erase the rest of Wesley’s gambling debt in return for the favor. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d been given the option of refusing the man who had already carved the first three letters of his last name into Wesley’s arm for a former offense.
At the memory, Wesley rubbed his arm through the jacket he’d worn as directed by his attorney. Underneath, the newly healed wounds itched where the skin had drawn tight.
Thinking back to the body-snatching scheme, Wesley shook his head. Why did he think he could do it? At the last minute he’d balked and when it was over, he’d come clean with his boss, Cooper, and the police. The D.A., an asshole named Kelvin Lucas who had indicted his dad, had wanted to nail Wesley to the wall. But his attorney, Liz, had managed to persuade the D.A. that Hollis Carver was a bigger fish. Since Wesley still owed The Carver a shitload of money, it was in his best interests if The Carver went to jail for a long time.
On the other hand, The Carver could probably pull strings no matter where he was. If he found out that Wesley had turned on him, he might have the rest of his name and his address cut into Wesley’s skinny body.
Once inside the lobby, Wesley slowed his pace so as not to attract attention from the security guards, and joined the line of bored people going through a metal detector. He jammed his hands in his pockets, trying to calm his nerves, but his brain was firing like a machine gun. Sweat trailed down his back, and behind his glasses his left eye ticked nervously. It was the OxyContin—or rather, the lack of it—kicking in.
He was really making an effort this time to stay away from the stuff. The Percocet he’d pinched from Carlotta’s purse and the two refills he’d gotten had bridged the worst of his withdrawal symptoms, but he had only one pill left. He fingered the capsule in the corner of his pants pocket, yearning to swallow it, but drawing some comfort from its mere presence.
He’d hardly left the house the last couple of weeks except to go to ASS, Atlanta Security Systems, where he was poking around in his dad’s trial files under the guise of doing community service for hacking into the courthouse computer. So he’d definitely noticed that the house was being watched. The first appearance of the black SUV at the curb in front of the town house where he and Carlotta lived had nearly made him piss his pants. He’d gathered up anything that could be used as a weapon: a hammer, a few butcher knives, a cast-iron skillet, even a can of hair-spray from Carlotta’s bathroom. But when no one had emerged from the SUV with guns drawn to storm the place—the vehicle had simply left and returned at different hours of the day—he’d wondered if someone was looking out for him. Maybe Jack Terry had sent a fellow cop to patrol the house, at least until Wesley could strike his deal.
He pivoted as the line moved forward, looking for signs of trouble. When he was two people back from reaching the detector, he spotted Mouse, The Carver’s head henchman, entering the front door of the building.
Wesley almost swallowed his tongue and pecked on the shoulder of the stout woman in front of him. “I’m late for a meeting. Would you mind if I go ahead of you?”
The woman frowned. “We’re all in a hurry. You’re gonna have to wait your turn like everybody else.”
He hunched his shoulders and tried to look inconspicuous, but Mouse noticed him and came charging toward him.
The woman was chatting with the security officer, taking her sweet, fat time.
“Hey, could you put some wheels on it?” Wesley said, moving his hand in a rolling motion. His heart was galloping like a racehorse’s.
She frowned, but lumbered through the metal detector. Mouse lunged for him and Wesley practically humped the woman trying to get through the narrow opening behind her. He felt a tug on his shoulders as Mouse grabbed the neck of his jacket to yank him back. Wesley held his arms behind him and walked out of the garment.
He looked back to see Mouse glaring at him, holding the jacket. Wesley gave him a little salute. No way was Mouse walking through the metal detector—the man probably had weapons stowed in his cheeks.
“You have to come out sometime,” Mouse called.
Wesley swallowed and continued walking across the lobby and down a hall to the elevators. Liz Fischer, his attorney, was standing to the side, checking her watch. She was a triple threat—beautiful, blond and bossy. When she glanced up, her red mouth lifted in a chiding smile. “I was just getting ready to call you. It wouldn’t look good for you to arrive late for your own plea bargain.”
“It took longer to get here than I’d planned.”
She frowned. “I thought I told