she corrected. “And Jack is having a CSI team go over the town house, so you should come, too. Peter has plenty of room.”
He remembered the man’s huge home from when he and Coop had gone there to remove the body of Peter’s wife after she’d drowned in the pool. “Thanks, but I’ll probably crash with Chance.”
“Okay,” she said, although he could feel her disapproval vibrating over the line. Carlotta didn’t like his buddy Chance Hollander—she thought Chance was a bad influence on him. Little did she know that he’d just performed oral surgery on a severed head while Chance was probably watching cartoons.
“Wes, there’s something else. It looks like Michael stole your money before he left.”
His stomach fell. “No…no…. no. Are you sure?”
“I didn’t touch it, so if it’s gone, that only leaves Michael.”
He leaned his head back and groaned.
“I’m sorry, I know you had plans for that money. But in the scheme of things, we’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yeah, I know. But still.”
“So, how’s the courier job going?” she asked cheerfully.
He glanced down at the cup of teeth in the console and his intestines cramped. “Fine and dandy.”
“Good. I’ll have my cell phone with me, and here’s the number at Peter’s.”
“Okay,” he said, taking down the information. “Later.”
He disconnected the call and sighed.
“Trouble at home?” Mouse asked.
“You know it.” Now he really needed a hit of Oxy. Reaching into his backpack, he palmed a pill into his mouth and chewed.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Whatever you just put in your mouth, smart-ass.”
Wesley frowned. “What do you care?”
“Didn’t take you for a druggie,” Mouse said, looking almost disappointed.
“Don’t sweat it, man. It’s just something to take the edge off.” He wrapped his fingers around the section of his arm where The Carver had lived up to his nickname by etching the first three letters of his name into Wesley’s forearm after Wesley had humiliated The Carver in a stunt at a strip club. “My arm still hurts, dude.”
“Maybe so, but drugs’ll mess you up.”
Wesley lifted an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“I’m just saying, little man, watch yourself.”
The cool pleasure of the Oxy coursed through his system, making the day’s events a rosy haze. Still, high or not, he realized that he needed cash, and Mouse wasn’t the kind of guy to pass out bonuses. “Are we through for the day?”
“Yeah. I have to go to my niece’s dance recital. Where can I drop you?”
“Not at the house—the police are there.” Wes lifted his hand. “Don’t ask, man, it’s a long story.” On impulse, he pulled out his phone and brought up Coop’s cell number. After a few rings, Coop answered.
“Hey, Wes, what’s up?”
He wet his lips, suddenly nervous to talk to the man he’d let down by conspiring to steal a body they’d been transporting. “I was wondering if you had any work for me tonight?”
The silence on the other end indicated that Coop wasn’t going to be easily persuaded to trust Wesley again. “I don’t know. We need to talk.”
“Okay, where are you?”
“At the morgue, working in the lab.”
“Can I come by?”
Coop sighed into the phone, then made a frustrated noise. “Uh, sure.”
“Great. See ya.” He closed the phone and glanced at Mouse. “Can you drop me at the morgue?”
Mouse nodded. “Sure.”
“Turn at the next street.”
Mouse laughed and put on his signal. “I know the way, little man. I know the way.”
Wesley swallowed, picturing Mouse driving by the morgue and pitching out bodies like apple cores. He leaned his head back on the headrest. What had he gotten himself into?
3
“When you pull up to the gate,” Peter said, “just enter my code—four three nine nine.” He demonstrated. “And the gates will open.”
They did, swinging back like great black wings, welcoming Carlotta into the privileged neighborhood of Martinique Estates. Peter’s Porsche two-seater surged forward, like a giant cougar. The guard at the pristinely designed gatehouse waved as they drove by.
Cruising past palatial custom homes, Carlotta was struck with a sense of déjà vu. She and her family had once lived in a private subdivision like this one. They’d belonged to the neighborhood pool and volleyed on the neighborhood tennis courts. But these days, in addition to the multiple pools and other shared amenities, individual home owners, like Peter, were likely to have their own pool and their own private add-ons.
Each home was its own little estate.
When he pulled in to the downward-sloping driveway of his sprawling brick home, Carlotta had to catch her breath. She had seen it before, of course, but not in daylight, and not through the eyes of someone who would be living there. The house was impressive, with a paved circular driveway in front that featured a huge fountain, with wide steps leading to the two-story entryway. Palladium windows and gleaming white trim gave the eye a pleasing break from the intimidating mass of brick. The landscaping was lush and flawlessly manicured.
To the right of the house was the pool. Carlotta was glad it was daylight. The memory of seeing Peter’s wife, Angela, lying under night-lights next to the pool where she’d drowned was branded onto Carlotta’s brain. But in the brightness of day, with the sun high and the trees full, it was tempting to believe that the tragedy hadn’t happened in this perfect neighborhood.
Peter touched a button on his visor and one of the doors to a four-car garage opened, revealing his other vehicle, an SUV. She assumed he’d sold Angela’s Jaguar.
“My insurance company is sending a rental car tomorrow,” she murmured, remembering her own transportation situation. As much as she’d hated the blue Monte Carlo, she hadn’t wanted to see it blown to smithereens, not when she owed more on it than it was worth.
“Nonsense,” Peter said. “You can drive the convertible, or the SUV, whichever you prefer.”
“Peter, I couldn’t.”
