of test aims in his mirror. Then he glanced around for a hiding place, trying to think of somewhere that Carlotta—and the police—would never look. He considered and discarded the top of his closet, the clothes hamper and a boot. Then he glanced at Einstein’s enclosure and smiled. No one would look there.
He unlocked the pin, slid the screen top aside and reached in to place the small revolver and box of shells in the base of a driftwood decoration that he seemed to like more than Einstein did. As he expected, Einstein barely moved.
“Hungry yet?” He retrieved the squeaking mouse from its temporary home and dangled it in front of the python, without consequence. “A few more days and I’ll have to force-feed you,” Wesley warned, returning the mouse to its container. “Just don’t swallow my gun. I’d have a hell of a time explaining that one to the veterinarian.”
And to Carlotta. She’d never understand that having the gun within reach made him feel better able to protect her. He smirked, thinking of his green-eyed, flame-haired probation officer. If she knew he had a gun, she, too, would have his hide.
He lay down on his bed and crossed his hands behind his head. Of course, that might be fun.
Yes, things were definitely looking up.
20
“Is everything okay, Carlotta?”
Carlotta started from her reverie as she nodded to her boss. “Fine, thanks.”
“Glad to hear it,” Lindy said. “You’ve seemed preoccupied of late. Last week’s sales reports just crossed my desk and for the first time that I can remember, your name wasn’t at the top.”
A flush burned its way up Carlotta’s face. “Um, I guess I’m going through a little slump.”
“It happens,” Lindy said. “I just hope it doesn’t last too long. There are lots of sales associates who’d love to have a crack at your department.”
Carlotta’s stomach did a little flip and she dipped her chin. The fact that Neiman’s prided itself on having the best, sharpest employees was what had attracted her to the company in the first place—next to the employee discount, of course. “I understand, Lindy. Don’t worry, things are…back to normal.”
“Good,” Lindy said. “Carry on.”
Watching her boss stride away, Carlotta gave herself a mental shake. She had to get her mind back on her job and off the preoccupations that threatened to drive her insane, namely, Angela’s death, and Peter’s possible involvement.
Oh, and then there was everything else that was wrong in her life.
It had been three days since Angela’s funeral, three days since she’d spoken with Coop about the men’s jacket and her suspicions concerning Angela’s death, and the more time that passed, the more she wished she’d kept her big mouth shut.
Detective Terry was right—her deep-seated guilt over her feelings for Peter were driving her to make preposterous assumptions about the jacket issue, which could’ve been innocent and completely unrelated to Angela’s marriage and drowning.
Scowling at her own stupidity and determined to be rid of the jacket, she went to the dressing-room area and searched through a long rack of items tagged to be returned to the floor or to the manufacturer. She located the jacket and decided the best place for it was the trash—it was paid for, and no one was going to claim it. And with the heavy scent of smoke clinging to it, clearly it couldn’t be returned to the floor.
She took the jacket from the hanger and wadded it up, cursing herself for even getting involved, and felt something unyielding in the inside breast pocket. Curious, she reached inside and pulled out a cigar encased in a small plastic bag with a zip top. Peter had an aversion to smoke—surely the cigar wasn’t his. She held up the jacket and checked the size. When Angela had purchased the jacket, Carlotta had assumed that Peter had filled out in the past ten years, but now that she’d seen him, this jacket was way too big for Peter. She squinted, recalling the thin frame of Angela’s father. This jacket was way too big for him as well.
The hair on the back of her neck tingled as she considered the jacket and the cigar. She carefully rehung the jacket and covered it with a garment bag. There was no way she could smuggle it out and take it home—employees’ bags were checked when they left the store.
But the cigar…
She studied the eight-inch brown cylinder, wondering if it could help her locate the person who had purchased it. On the back of the plastic zip bag was a gold seal. She squinted to make out the letters: Moody’s Cigar Bar, Atlanta, Georgia.
She considered calling Detective Terry and telling him about this new development, but the thought of his sarcastic reaction stopped her short. She had enough trouble with the man as it was. Besides, the cigar might lead to nothing at all, and it would be easy enough for her to locate Moody’s and ask a few discreet questions herself. A quick check of the phone book at the checkout counter gave her a street address—on the fringes of downtown Atlanta in an unpredictable part of town.
Despite her promise to Lindy and to herself to get her mind back on her job, she was distracted and jumpy until her shift ended, then blew off Michael in the employee locker room in her rush to get to her car. Traffic was horrible, as usual, the roads choked with commuters vying to get home and tourists flocking to the aquarium. She craved a cigarette in the worst way—God, it didn’t take long to fall back into a bad habit.
Like Peter, for instance.
Toying with the radio buttons and tapping on the steering wheel helped to keep her hands busy, but her mind continued to rehash the events of the past couple of weeks. She had hoped that selling his engagement ring would help her to sever the bond she had foolishly maintained with Peter’s life. Yet with this little field trip, would she open yet another can of worms? Insinuate herself further into his affairs? She kept telling herself that she should just let it go, but something compelled her to keep moving.
She got lost twice trying to find the address, but finally spotted the small neon sign—Moody’s—in a dark window, and darted in front of another car to nab a lone parking space. The area was on the verge of gentrification, but Moody’s, sandwiched between a new trendy-looking coffee shop and an adult video store, appeared to be part of the old neighborhood.
She climbed out, dropped a few coins in the parking meter and made her way inside. A brass bell tinkled when she opened the big, solid door with a leaded glass insert. The shop was what the name implied—a dark, atmospheric space housed in a deep, narrow storefront with tall ceilings, art deco light fixtures and original black-and-red checkerboard linoleum tile floors. The lazy swirl of low-hanging ceiling fans did little to dispel the acrid odor of tobacco that permeated the air, tickling her nose and throat, making her want a cigarette even more.
A horseshoe-shaped black lacquered counter dominated the center of the store. The walls were lined with glass cabinets housing boxes of cigars and clear canisters filled with fragrant blends of loose tobacco. A scratchy recording of big band music sounded from an unseen source. The crammed, quaint space gave her the feeling that she’d stepped back in time, back to when pompadours and polka-dot dresses were in style, when men wore sock suspenders and hats with their suits.
She liked it instantly.
The sound of footsteps drew her attention to a stairway near the back of the room that she hadn’t noticed.
