Body Movers Books 1-3

“That doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.”

“Jack Terry said you used to be a medical examiner.”

Coop frowned. “Jack Terry talks too much, too.”

“Is it too late to check?” she asked, her heart thudding against her breastbone.

“No,” he murmured. “Not until the body is cremated.” Then he folded his arms. “Carlotta, you must have been close to Angela Ashford.”

“Not really,” Carlotta admitted. “Like I said in there—friends, a lifetime ago. But no matter what’s happened since, I can’t just let her be overlooked.”

Coop glanced in the direction of the parlor, then back. “Not even if it means your former boyfriend might somehow be involved?”

Carlotta swallowed hard, battling a bout of vertigo, as if she were balanced on a precipice, rocking back and forth between the past and the future. “N-not even.”

She said goodbye and walked out the front door, staring straight ahead and ignoring the people and things in her peripheral vision. Hannah stood leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette.

“Got another one of those?” Carlotta asked, opening the driver’s-side door.

“You betcha.”

Carlotta swung into the driver’s seat and accepted a cigarette that Hannah offered but her hand was shaking so badly, Hannah had to light it for her.

“Jeez, what did you and the delectable undertaker have to talk about that’s got you so hot and bothered?”

“Nothing important,” Carlotta said, then took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled in blessed release. She looked at the cigarette. “God, this is good. Why did I stop smoking?”

“Because it’ll kill you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Carlotta said, then thought of Angela and the fact that there were lots of things that would kill a person faster than smoking. “If I start up again, I can’t let Wesley know—he’ll start up, too.” Thoughts of her brother sent pangs of anxiety to her stomach. Tomorrow, and every Tuesday into the foreseeable future, was pay-up day. There was no way her brother would have a grand pulled together to pay that brute, Tick. Her gaze went to her Coach bag with the Cartier ring box stowed inside.

“Hannah, do you know a reputable pawnshop?”

“Sure. What do you want to sell?”

Carlotta took another drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “My soul.”

19

The woman behind the counter sucked her teeth. “Name?”

“Wesley Wren. I’m here to see—” He checked the slip of paper he held. “E. Jones.”

The woman tapped on a computer keyboard. “Spell the name.”

“J-O-N-E-S.”

Eye roll. “I meant your name, hotshot.”

“Oh. W-R-E-N.”

“Date of birth?”

He told her. More tapping ensued, then the woman jerked her thumb to the left. “Down the hall, second door on the right. Knock before you go in.”

He did as he was told, but dread cramped his intestines. With his luck, his probation officer would be one of those hard-ass military types with a crew cut and ripped arms, bent on scaring his charges straight. Wesley stopped at the door and knocked.

“Come in,” a muffled voice sounded.

He opened the door and stared at the back of his probation officer—all five foot and ten willowy inches of her.

“Park it,” she said over her shoulder as she walked her fingers through hanging files in a cabinet drawer.

Wesley settled into a chair facing the desk and busied himself studying the shapely E. Jones’s rear end, encased in snug khaki-colored pants. No crew cut here—instead, glossy auburn hair was twisted in a knot on the back of her head and secured with a pencil stuck down through it. But her arms were ripped—lean and tanned beneath the short-sleeve yellow shirt she wore. He could only hope that her front was as hot as her back.

She whirled around and pinned him to the chair with blazing green eyes. Damn, she was…gorgeous.

“What’s your name?” she barked, dropping into the chair behind her desk.

Name? “Uh, Wesley,” he stammered. “Wesley Wren.” He leaned forward and handed her the slip of paper that he’d received in the mail.

She glanced at the paper, then sifted through a stack of folders on her desk and pulled one from the pile. She didn’t look up, but Wesley didn’t mind because it allowed him to study her unobserved. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and she moved like a cat, with no wasted motion. Her lashes were dark and incredibly long, her nose petite, her mouth full and pink, although it was at the moment tightened in a disapproving little bow.

“So, Mr. Wren,” she said without looking up, “you’re a bad computer hacker.”

He bristled. “I got in, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and you got caught.” She sat back in her chair and assessed him with narrowed eyes. “You’re what, eighteen?”

“Nineteen,” he said, sitting straighter.

She seemed unimpressed. “Okay, I’m supposed to help you get a job.”

“I already got a job,” he was glad to report.

“Where?”

“It’s not in a location. I’m a body mover.”

“Excuse me?”

“I work with a guy who contracts with the morgue for body retrieval.”

She pursed her pink mouth and nodded. “It’s a niche. But I’ll need a note from your employer, or a paycheck stub.”

“Okay.”

“And you need to set up a payment schedule with the court to pay your five-thousand-dollar fine.”