Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond

his driver’s license had been suspended, which only made him more prone to stay at home in his room and mess around with his computers.

      Puffing out her cheeks in an exhale, she backed out of the driveway, avoiding eye contact with Mrs. Winningham, and steered the car toward the Lenox Mall. She knew every curve of the road of her commute. The first traffic light would stay red long enough for her to take a long drink of coffee and scan the first three pages of the newspaper. The second light would stay red long enough to allow her to read any article that had caught her eye. The article that caught her eye this morning reported a rash of crimes in the area surrounding the mall where she worked—purse snatchings, muggings at gunpoint, even an attempted assault. There were also some disturbing reports of a ring of identity thieves operating in the Buckhead area. And then she saw it:

      Man Arrested and Charged With Breaking Into Atlanta Courthouse Records—Wesley Wren, 19, of Atlanta was arrested yesterday and charged with hacking into the records of the Atlanta City Courthouse database, a federal offense. A police spokesperson wouldn’t comment on how much data might have been compromised during the break-in, but maintained that records confidentiality and identity theft is a top priority for the department and that hackers will be prosecuted “vigorously.”

      Vigorously. Carlotta scowled. Since Detective Jack Terry had used that exact wording during their conversation, it wasn’t a stretch to identify him as the officer who had leaked the story to the newspaper. And he had pretended to be sympathetic to her situation. The brute.

      The sound of blaring car horns jarred her back to the traffic. The light was green and Atlanta drivers brooked no hesitation. She gunned forward, begrudgingly admitting that the Monte Carlo’s engine did have some pickup, and fumed all the way to work. How many of her co-workers would see the article? And Angela Ashford would be able to tell her girlfriends that she was there when Carlotta had received the call from her jailbird brother—but then, like father, like son, of course.

      With her exit looming, Carlotta wondered idly what would happen if she just kept driving up Interstate 75 and didn’t stop until she was…somewhere else, far away from Atlanta. What would everyone think—that she’d been abducted, or perhaps had suffered some kind of mental breakdown? No, everyone would assume that she had run from her problems, as her parents had. Some might even think she’d gone to join them.

      That thought, combined with the knowledge that she couldn’t abandon Wesley, not when he was in so much trouble, made her put on her signal and take the exit, as she’d done thousands of times over the past ten years.

      A few minutes later she slid into a parking place, jumped out and trotted toward the elevator. She was only a few minutes late, but the general manager, Lindy Russell, was still perturbed with Carlotta over the clothes-borrowing business and was keeping a close eye on her. When Carlotta opened the door to the meeting room, Lindy, who was standing, paused midsentence to frown. “Nice of you to join us, Carlotta.”

      Carlotta flushed and slipped into a seat in the back row, next to Michael Lane.

      “You’re late,” he whispered.

      “Did you take care of Double-A yesterday?” she whispered back.

      “Yes. She was drunk on her pretty ass and not happy with you.”

      She winced. “Sorry.”

      “Don’t worry—I rang up the sale under your employee ID.”

      She grinned. “You’re a gem.”

      “I know.”

      She looked toward the front of the meeting room. “What did I miss?”

      “Nothing. It’s security update time.”

      Sure enough, the mall security director, a tall, wiry man with a crew cut, sat in a chair next to Lindy.

      “With the upswing in crime in the area around the mall,” Lindy was saying, “I asked our security director, Akin Frasier, to sit in on our meeting, and a representative from the Atlanta PD to join us and share some tips to help all of us be more safety conscious.”

      Since safety updates were fairly routine—and routinely boring—Carlotta settled in to enjoy the rest of her coffee.

      “Please welcome Detective Jack Terry.”

      Carlotta choked back her surprise, and then joined in the mild applause as the man rose from a seat near the front and nodded amiably to the crowd. He sent a special smile in her direction.

      She frowned, sinking lower in her seat. Michael eyed her suspiciously.

      “Good morning,” the detective said. His voice was pleasant enough, but for some reason she suspected he hadn’t volunteered for this job. And she noticed his tie was as bad as yesterday’s. Christ, the man must be color-blind.

      “I want to tell you a few things you can do to minimize your chances of becoming a victim,” he said, his voice almost too big for the room. “First, don’t look like a victim. Always be aware of your surroundings. Try to buddy up when you walk to your cars, or ask for a security escort.”

      He continued with a litany of Safety 101 tips, but Carlotta found herself tuning out, distracted by the man himself, trying to ascertain something about him from his body language. He moved with athletic ease as he addressed the crowd, making eye contact and gesturing for emphasis. She wondered what would make someone choose law enforcement as a career. Maybe it was a family legacy. Or perhaps it was a career choice born of his size. A man with such a powerful build would naturally be drawn to a physical occupation. When he lifted his large hands in the air to make a point, she squirmed, remembering him touching her arm yesterday, as if to comfort her. She smirked, glad that she hadn’t fallen for his act.

      His left hand was bare of rings—no surprise there. Jack Terry seemed to fancy himself some kind of ladies’ man, so a wife would probably cramp his style. No doubt he had a girlfriend or three, all of them working jobs that mandated a midriff-baring uniform. His nose and forehead were ruddy from a sunburn—he seemed like the kind of guy who played touch football with his back-slapping buddies on the weekends while consuming enormous amounts of beer.

      “Any questions?” the detective asked, all smiles.

      Carlotta raised her hand.

      His mouth twitched. “Yes?”

      “Detective Terry, doesn’t the police department have better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks to death?”

      Michael elbowed her. “That was rude,” he hissed.

      Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably and Lindy rose to save the detective from answering, but he looked at Carlotta, smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, yes, we do have better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks to death. But we get a sick kind of pleasure out of it. Any other questions?”

      Chuckles sounded around the room. She gave him ten points for being witty, then took them back because it was at her expense. Lindy glared at her, even more so when her cell phone’s ringtone started its rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

      “Uh-oh,” Michael muttered. “The boss lady is going to slay you.”

      But Carlotta didn’t care at the moment because the caller ID said it was her home number. Wesley could be in trouble again. She scrambled out of the row and dashed out of the meeting room, pushing the Incoming Call button as soon as she cleared the door. “Hello?”

      “Is this Carlotta?” a deep, sandpapery voice asked.

      “Yes,” she said, frowning. “Who is this?”

      “I work for Father Thom, and he wanted me to tell you that your brother still owes him a shitload of money. He wants a payment, pronto.”

      Carlotta gripped the phone. “Wh-where’s Wesley?”

      “Right here,” the man said pleasantly. “He didn’t want me to call you, but I convinced him it was the right thing to do.”