LITMIR.BIZ

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her mind. She couldn’t be sure, but the car looked like the one that had nearly run her down in the parking garage today.

      She jerked her attention away and hurriedly swung into her car, frantic to be gone. In her haste she nearly flooded the engine, but finally the ignition caught and she pulled away from the house, her hands clammy, her mind ringing with one truth: It was a good decision to have kept her mouth shut about her run-in with Angela, or that pesky Detective Terry might try to implicate her in the woman’s death by pointing out that she had plenty of motivation for wanting Angela dead.

      Carlotta rubbed at her temple where a headache had settled. As if she didn’t already have enough problems to deal with.

      15

      From his seat in the van, Wesley watched his sister careen out of the neighborhood and shook his head.

      “She’s in a hurry,” Coop observed wryly.

      “I guess this scene shook her up. She was engaged to that Ashford guy.”

      “Hmm.”

      “Kind of weird that she ran into him just a couple of days ago, then again tonight, huh?”

      “Hmm.”

      “And now his wife is dead.”

      “Hmm.”

      Wesley looked at his boss. “Are the husbands usually that calm in a situation like this?”

      Coop took his time answering. “Not usually, but sometimes. Ashford looked drunk to me.”

      Wesley stabbed at his glasses. “Well, I didn’t like the way he cozied up to Carlotta, seeing as how his wife isn’t even in the ground.”

      “It’s good that you watch out for your sister,” Coop said with a little smile, “but I have the feeling that she can take care of herself.”

      His mind flew to the disheveled state of Carlotta’s clothing when she’d arrived home. What had she said? That she’d walked out in front of a car when she’d left work and had decided to sacrifice her outfit.

      No way would Carlotta sacrifice her outfit unless she truly thought she was going to bite a car grill.

      And even though it was probably some soccer mom from Alpharetta trying to beat rush-hour traffic, there was the possibility that it had been someone who’d targeted her, someone who wanted to scare her, to send a message…to him. A sour taste backed up in his mouth. He’d heard rumors about The Carver running people down, and the bumper on his black Caddy did look as if a few objects had bounced off it.

      “Say, Coop, do you know where I could get a gun?”

      Coop’s head pivoted. “Why on earth do you need a gun?”

      Wesley shrugged. “You know—for protection.”

      “You’re on probation, chief, or have you forgotten? Besides, I think you’re overreacting on the protective-brother thing.”

      He chewed on his response for a while, then decided to talk to Coop man-to-man. “Look, I owe money to some bad dudes. One of them keeps showing up at the house and hassling my sister. I just want to be able to protect her, if necessary.”

      Coop scowled. “Maybe you should call the police.”

      “Yeah, right. And the next body-moving call you get will be me.”

      Coop didn’t respond and Wesley wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. His buddy Chance would probably know where he could get a gun with no questions asked. “That detective back there, he’s the guy who arrested me. Jerk.”

      “Jack Terry? We don’t always see eye to eye, but he’s usually just doing his job.”

      “He called you doctor, just like that lady at the nursing home.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “And he asked your opinion on the M.E.’s report.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “So what’s up with that?”

      Coop stretched in his seat and Wesley thought it was another one of those questions his boss would avoid.

      “I used to be a doctor,” Coop said finally.

      “Used to be?”

      Coop shot him an impatient look. “Yeah, as in I’m not anymore.”

      “What happened?”

      The man’s profile hardened and he seemed to turn inside himself. “Long story,” he said, mimicking Wesley’s response of a couple of days ago when Cooper had probed about his family.

      “Some other time, then,” Wesley said.

      “Yeah. We’re here,” Coop said, pulling the van into the parking lot of the city morgue.

      Wesley looked at the nondescript building, the third time he’d accompanied Coop to the place. They pulled around to the back where two guys in scrubs were just finishing a smoke break and going back into the building.

      “Working in a morgue, you’d think they’d know better than to smoke,” Wesley said.

      “Yeah,” Coop replied, “but sometimes the people who know better have the worst vices of all.”

      Something in his voice made Wesley think once again that Cooper Craft had secrets and maybe a shady past. And the set of the man’s mouth told him that something about this body pickup had bothered him more than usual.

      When Coop parked, Wesley jumped out to help him unload the body from the van and place it on a gurney. They rolled it up a ramp where Coop pressed a button on a call box and identified himself and their “delivery.” A few seconds later a buzz sounded, unlocking the door.

      A slender, suited man, maybe in his fifties, met them just inside the door, a thundercloud on his bushy brow.

      “Hello, Dr. Abrams,” Coop said pleasantly.

      The man didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “Is this the Ashford body?”

      “Yes.”

      “My medical examiner just phoned in. He said he ruled the death an accidental drowning.”

      “He did,” Coop said.

      “So why is she here?”

      “Detective Jack Terry told me to bring her here after he interviewed the husband,” Coop said, his voice even. “The M.E. had already left, Bruce.”

      The chief medical examiner’s expression changed to one of suspicion. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with the detective overriding the M.E.’s report.”

      Coop lifted his hands. “Just following orders.”

      The man expelled a long sigh and jammed his hands on his hips. “You’re putting me in a hell of a spot. I extended the transport contract for your family’s funeral home because we go way back, and in spite of everything, I respect you, Coop. But I can’t have you on the scene second-guessing my people.”

      Coop frowned. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to if your people would do their job. The guy barely looked at the body before writing the report and taking off. He didn’t even talk to the next of kin, only the maid.”

      Dr. Abrams made an exasperated noise. “Coop, you of all people know how it is—everyone here is overworked and underpaid. We’re lucky to fill the entry-level jobs, and we got bodies stacked up in here.”

      “Then one more won’t matter,” Coop said, his voice challenging.

      The older man’s expression hardened and his chin went up in the air. “No, Coop. That’s not the way things are run around here anymore. We follow the rules to the letter.”

      Coop’s mouth tightened, and then he shook his

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