“Ooh, nice fixtures,” Hannah called from the bathroom, her voice echoing. “I didn’t notice before because the body was taking up so much room in here.” The shower came on, then went off. “Good water pressure!”
“Be careful—we don’t want to disturb any potential evidence.”
“What exactly should I be looking for?”
She opened the closet door and poked around. “I’m not sure...something suspicious that proves he didn’t slip on mouthwash.”
“Like a homicidal banana peel?”
“Very funny. Or something that would point to motivation. It looks to me as if he was expecting company—maybe he was having a last-minute fling before he walked down the aisle.”
“And you think his girlfriend did him in?”
She lifted the lid on a wooden box that was a catchall for jewelry, odd keys, paperclips and ticket stubs. “You felt his body—rigor hadn’t set in, he hadn’t been dead very long. Iris had been working out with Tracey, remember?”
“Maybe they’re in on it together.”
Carlotta pursed her mouth at the unlikely scenario.
“Or maybe,” Hannah said in a sing-song voice, “like Coop said, he slipped on mouthwash and whacked his head on the tub and that was that.”
Carlotta sighed—Coop was probably right. She lifted the pillows from the bed and felt along the sheet. When she came across a small lump, she looked underneath to find a red acrylic fingernail.
“Someone’s back was getting scratched,” Hannah observed from the doorway.
“Not by Iris,” Carlotta said, holding it up between finger and thumb. “This is a press-on nail. I think that’s a little beneath her manicure grade.”
Hannah clapped. “This is getting good.”
A sound of the door opening and closing reached them. Her first thought was the manager had returned...until she heard female voices.
“Why are the lights on?”
“Whose purse is that?”
She met Hannah’s wide-eyed gaze. They were trapped.
“Who’s there?” a woman called.
“I have a weapon!” another female voice cried.
With nowhere to hide, Carlotta led the way out. “It’s okay, it’s just—” She stopped at the sight of Iris Kline and Tracey Lowenstein. “—us.”
Tracey gasped. “You two!” She wielded a large wooden spoon.
“Were you going to spank us?” Hannah asked.
Tracey lowered her weapon, her face a mottled red. “What are you doing here?”
“How did you get in?” Iris demanded.
Carlotta opened her mouth. “We...we’re...that is—”
“I’m taking over the lease,” Hannah blurted.
Jaws dropped, faces contorted, Iris covered her mouth with her hand.
“That’s just—” The woman broke off in a sob.
“Sick,” Tracey chirped.
Carlotta felt Hannah bristle, so she spoke up before any more damage was done. “The manager was kind enough to let Hannah take another look while he finished the paperwork. If we had any idea you would be coming by, Iris, we wouldn’t have dreamed of imposing. We’re very sorry.” She bumped Hannah.
“Right. Sorry.”
Iris seemed to believe them, sniffed mightily and nodded. “I wanted to get some personal items.”
“We didn’t bother anything,” Carlotta assured her.
From the bathroom came a crash, a clatter of glass on porcelain.
Hannah grunted. “I might have glanced inside the medicine cabinet.”
Tracey glared and pointed to the door. “Get out!”
“We’re going,” Carlotta said, stopping to pick up her purse. Then she turned back. “Tracey...I was very sorry to hear about Walt.”
Tracey’s eyes watered. “You should be. It’s your father’s fault.”
“Hey,” Hannah said, hands on hips. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true,” Tracey said, sending lasers at Carlotta. “My father’s been cleaning up your father’s mess ever since he ran like the thief he is.”
Anger sparked in her stomach, but she recognized that Tracey was lashing out from worry over her father’s condition. “We’re all hoping for a speedy recovery.” Carlotta tugged Hannah toward the entrance.
Once they were out in the hallway, Carlotta exhaled.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Hannah said.
“It’s okay,” Carlotta said. “Tracey’s entitled to vent. And there’s probably a lot of truth in what she said.” Still, the encounter had left her shaken. As they descended to the first floor she held onto the handrail a little more tightly than she had going up.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard the sound of a faint bark and followed it.
“What is it?”
“I was going to ask the manager for the apartment number of a woman I saw when we were here before, but I think I can find it on my own.”
“What woman?”
“The officer said a neighbor who dog sat for Greg found his body. I want to talk to her.”
The closer they walked to the apartment at the end of the hall, the louder the barking. Carlotta knocked on the door, and the barking escalated.
“What are you going to ask her?”
“Just if she noticed anything.”
In a few seconds, the door opened, revealing the woman Carlotta had seen before. She was pretty and curvy, and snuggled the black terrier in some of Greg Pena’s photographs. “Yes?”
“Hi,” Carlotta said with a smile. She searched her memory banks for the name the officer had given to Iris, who’d been curious about which neighbor had found her boyfriend—and curiously irritated when she heard it was the dog sitter. “It’s Emma, right?”
The woman nodded. “I recognize you. You two were here Friday...when Greg died.”
“That’s right,” Carlotta said. “We know you’re a friend of Greg’s.”
She tightened her grip on the little dog until it yelped. “Yes.”
“That’s his dog, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mind keeping Peppy. I was going to take him anyway, when Greg got married. His girlfriend doesn’t like dogs.”
“That’s very nice of you. I recall that you were the one who found Greg.”
Emma teared up and nodded.
“What do you think happened to him?”
“I don’t know. When I came in, he was lying in the bathroom floor.” She sniffed. “He must’ve had a heart attack or something.”
“How did you get in?”
She hesitated. “The door was open.”
“Did he always leave the door open?”
She pressed her lips together, then shook her head.
“But he was expecting you?”
“I...I...yes, he was...because I...was going to walk Peppy.”
“Were Greg and his girlfriend getting along?”
Emma bit into her lip.
“It’s okay,” Carlotta urged with a conspiratorial smile. “You can tell me what you think.”
“Greg was having second thoughts about getting married. He said he was going to break up with Iris.” She teared up. “But he didn’t get a chance.”
Carlotta made a sympathetic noise. “Thank you for answering our questions.” She started to turn away, then gestured to the woman’s hands. “I like your nail polish.”
She held up her red-tipped fingers and smiled. “Oh, these are just press-on nails.”
“I see you lost one,” Hannah piped up.
Emma frowned at the naked nail on her pinkie finger. “Yeah...that happens sometimes.”
“Have a nice day,” Carlotta said, then smiled and turned away.
When they walked out of earshot, Hannah said, “So she was sleeping with Greg.”
“Looks that way.”
“Just because the guy was fooling around on the side doesn’t mean he was murdered.”
“I know. I’m just asking a few questions.” She pulled out her phone and dialed Rainie Stephens’s number. After a couple of rings, Rainie answered.
“Hi, Carlotta. What can I do for you?”
“A favor, I hope.”
“If I can.”
“A list of the obituaries of single men in the metro area who died in the last thirty days.”
“Should I ask why?”
“If it turns out to be something, the scoop is yours.”
“Okay. Might take me a couple of days. Since I have you on the phone, any more news about Walt Tully’s condition?”
“Not since we talked earlier. How about on your end?”
“Still digging.”
“Okay. Let me know when you get those obits.”
When she ended the call, Hannah was staring at her. “Don’t you have enough going on right now?”
Carlotta bit into her lip, then sighed. “Apparently not.”
Chapter Twenty-three
UNDER THE TABLE IN THE APD INTERVIEW ROOM, Wesley’s leg jumped as if he were high, but this time there was no Oxy coursing through his system—just pure, white-hot fear. He noticed a ragged edge on his thumbnail and bit it off. Too late, he realized he’d bitten it down to the quick. His thumb began to throb. Between this interview and having to face Meg afterward, he’d be down to the knuckle soon.
“Relax,” Liz said, pushing his hand away from his mouth. “Even if they can prove you mailed in the note with the victim’s name, they can’t prove you knew anything about his death.”
Wes nodded, then couldn’t seem to stop bobbing his head. The repetitive movement was calming somehow. Along with the knowledge that Liz was probably going to do everything she could to keep her baby-daddy out of the clink.
The door opened and Jack Terry walked in, all attitude. He was flanked by a suited slender black woman who also wore a badge.
“Hello,” Jack said in a brusque tone. “Wes, Liz, this is Detective Salyers. Detective, this is Wesley Wren and his attorney Liz Fischer.”
“Wren?” Salyers asked. “Any relation to Carlotta Wren?”
They all turned to look at Salyers.
“I know her from another case,” Salyers murmured.
No one seemed surprised.
“She’s my sister,” Wes supplied.
“Enough of the family tree,” Jack said with a frown. “I have to be somewhere, so let’s make this quick.”
Liz crossed her long legs that looked great encased in sheer hose. “I’m surprised you’re here at all, Jack. I heard you were suspended.”
A muscle worked in Jack’s jaw. “You heard wrong. I’m just taking a few days of vacation. But I thought this was worth coming in on my day off.” From an accordion folder, he removed an evidence bag and slid it onto the table. “Look familiar, Wes?”
At the sight of the scrap of paper he’d mailed from Piedmont Hospital along with envelope he’d sent it in, Wes decided his fingernails could use another trim...the bonus of having his fingers in his mouth was he didn’t have to talk.
Liz leaned forward. “It’s not familiar to me, Jack. What are we looking at?”
“The APD received this anonymous note a few days ago. On one side it reads ‘Decapitated man in county morgue,’ and on the other side it reads ‘Crosby
Newell or maybe Croswell Newton.’ And then ‘Newt Crossen’ with a question mark.”
“And what do you make of it?” Liz asked mildly.
“That the person who sent the note was offering up the identity of the headless John Doe in the morgue.”
Liz pursed her lips. “Looks like two different handwritings to me.”
Jack nodded. “But only one set of prints—Wes’s.”
“That doesn’t mean he sent the note.”
“It’s a self-sealing envelope, but we can have the stamp checked for DNA.” Jack looked at Wes. “Why don’t you save the taxpayers some money and just tell us what we already know—that you sent the note.”
Wes glanced at Liz and she gave a little nod.
“Okay, I sent the note,” he said on an exhale. “But I didn’t kill the guy.”
“Who did?” Jack asked.
Liz put her hand on Wes’s arm. “My client doesn’t know.”
“He clearly has some knowledge of the crime,” Salyers said.
Liz smiled. “Wes occasionally works for the county morgue as a body mover, so he knew about the John Doe. He also knew the body had a tattoo that had been lasered off. He decided to play detective and found someone who thought they recognized the tattoo. Those were the names his source gave him.” She glanced back to Jack. “Have you been able to identify the body?”
Jack nodded. “His name is Croswell Newton.”
“Ah, so the tip actually helped. The way I see it, instead of treating Wesley like a criminal, you should be giving him some sort of medal.”
Jack gave her a flat little smile. “Maybe we will. Especially if he’s the anonymous phone tipster.”
Wes frowned. “Huh?”
“The anonymous phone tipster who told us he knew who had committed the murder.”
Wes’s heartbeat began to pound in his head. “I didn’t make the call.”
“Are you sure? Think about it...because if it
was
you, then I would assume you weren’t involved. But if it
wasn’t
you, then I might be forced to put you on the suspect list.”
Wes’s mind raced as he chewed on his nails. If this phone tipster knew who did it, maybe the guy would give the police what they needed, and he’d be off the hook. Because while he’d hate to see Mouse get locked up, at least it wouldn’t be because Wes had snitched on him.
“Give me and my client a chance to confer,” Liz said.
“I’m not the phone tipster,” he blurted. “But I didn’t have anything to do with the murder—I swear.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “Then maybe you can corroborate some of the details the caller gave us.”
Wes shrugged. “I’ll try.”
“He said he has the jacket the perp was wearing when he committed the murder. He said the victim’s blood is all over it. Do you know anything about that?
Wes felt faint...it was his jacket, complete with his monogram inside. He could explain that he’d left it in the trunk of Mouse’s car and when he’d later tried to retrieve it, had found a severed finger wrapped inside and had thought better. But who would believe that? He gave Liz a panicked look.
“This interview is over,” Liz said, pushing to her feet. “My client has told you everything he knows. Come on, Wes, let’s get out of here.”
“This isn’t over,” Jack said.
Liz smirked. “Enjoy the rest of your
vacation
, Jack.”
Wes followed her out of the interview room, feeling numb. How had things gotten so screwed up?