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“Nothing that I know of,” he admitted, then took a slurpy drink. “I just wondered.”
“When can I talk to my brother?”
“How about now?” He nodded at the woman behind the Plexiglas. “Brook, I’ll take care of Ms. Wren.”
Brook shook her finger. “Behave, Jack.”
He grinned and Carlotta frowned. Judging from the woman’s comment, some women apparently found his good-old-boy charm appealing. There was just no accounting for taste.
He waved his badge in front of a card reader, then opened a door that led to a noisy bullpen of cubicles. As he held the door for her, she stepped inside and was immediately engulfed by the clatter of conversation, the whir of machines and the drone of announcements over a public-address system.
Carlotta followed the detective through the obstacle course of overflowing desks, jutting legs and fast-moving bodies to an eight-foot-by-eight-foot cubicle marked with a nameplate that read, Det. J. Terry, Major Crimes.
Major crimes? Dread mushroomed in her stomach. This sounded serious.
Stacks of files and papers occupied every square inch of surface in the man’s cubicle. His trash can was spilling over. A bag from the Varsity, Atlanta’s famous fast-food joint on North Avenue, sat in a dusty corner on the floor, emitting iffy odors. The detective rummaged next to his computer, mumbling under his breath, until he found the phone, then yanked up the receiver, punched a button and said, “Janower, it’s Terry. Bring the skinny computer jock to interview room two, will you?” He hung up the phone and gave Carlotta a flat smile. “It’ll be a few minutes, if you want to have a seat. Here, let me clear a spot.”
He leaned over and dumped the stack of files sitting in his visitor’s chair on the floor, but at the sight of the dark stain on the dingy yellow upholstery, Carlotta swallowed. “Thanks, I’ll stand.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then he dropped into his own stained chair and took another drink from his coffee cup.
“So does my brother’s arrest have something to do with computers?” Wesley had been tinkering with them since he was ten. He’d begged for his own PC, and later, when Carlotta couldn’t afford to upgrade the machine, he’d rebuilt the old one himself. Over the years, he’d made spending money by upgrading computers for his friends and their parents, and had even helped some small companies with their software security. He had no less than six computers in his room at any given time, and sat rooted in front of them for the better part of every day, wearing headphones and generally oblivious to the outside world.
Possible scenarios whirled through her mind. Had he stolen computer components? Or could this have something to do with his gambling problem? He was supposed to be on the wagon, but maybe he was running a bookie service or an illegal poker site. She held her breath and steeled herself for the bad news.
The detective worked his mouth from side to side. “Guess it won’t hurt to tell you—it’ll be a matter of public record soon. Your brother was arrested for hacking into the database of the Atlanta city government, specifically, the courthouse.”
Panic blipped in her chest. “How much trouble is he in?”
“A lot,” he said, his voice sober. “We’re talking a felony here. And records tampering and identity theft is high on the department’s priority list. Hackers are vigorously pursued and prosecuted. Accessing the records is bad enough, but we think he might have changed some things while he was in there.”
Carlotta frowned. “Like what?”
“We’re still trying to determine the extent of the tampering.”
She stifled the spike of pride that Wesley was so damn smart—this wasn’t the time to gloat.
“We’re guessing that he might have been planning to sell the information.”
Carlotta’s jaw hardened. If money was involved, that damn Chance Hollander probably had something to do with it. That overgrown brat had been a friend of Wesley’s since they were boys and he’d made a lifestyle out of talking Wesley into doing things that always seemed to result in Wesley getting into trouble and Chance getting a good laugh.
“This isn’t like Wesley,” she murmured, swallowing her rising panic. “He’s mischievous, but he wouldn’t break the law.”
Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Wesley must have been a little fellow when your father, er—”
“Yes, he was.”
“That has to be rough on a kid.”
She nodded and averted her gaze. He had no right prying into their personal lives.
“Who raised your brother?”
“I did.”
He seemed surprised. “What do you do for a living, Ms. Wren?”
“I work for Neiman Marcus.”
He gave her a thorough once-over, his gaze lingering on her legs. The cad. “I hear that’s a nice place.”
She crossed her arms. “When and where was Wesley arrested?”
“This morning, at his residence. I assume it’s your home, actually, since your name is on the mortgage?”
Her heart accelerated. “You were in our home?”
He nodded. “We traced his online activity to the house. I arrested him there and confiscated his equipment.”
She covered her mouth. This couldn’t be happening.
He gave her a little smile. “Don’t worry—we didn’t trash your place. That only happens on TV.”
Carlotta narrowed her eyes. “You think this is funny?”
His smile vanished. “No. Sorry. Does your brother live with you full-time?”
She tingled under his scrutiny and felt her defenses rise. “Yes, it’s his home, too. And for all that Wesley’s been through, I think he’s turned into a pretty decent kid.”
He pursed his mouth. “He might still seem like a kid to you, Ms. Wren, but your brother is an adult in the eyes of the law. And no offense, but he’s making bad choices that are going to mess up his life, just like your father did.”
His words cut her to the quick. For the past ten years, her consuming goal had been to do what was best for Wesley, to teach him right from wrong, especially considering the criminal legacy their father had left behind. It seemed she had failed…miserably.
She blinked back sudden tears. “What do you know about my father?”
The detective’s face went stony. “I know that he made a living bilking people out of their hard-earned money while he lived like a king. And when he got caught, instead of facing his punishment like a man, he skipped bail and abandoned his children, one of whom seems on the verge of following in his footsteps.”
Carlotta’s defenses surged against his attack on her family. “What are you, a one-man judge and jury? You don’t know everything, Mr. Terry.”
“Detective Terry,” he corrected amiably.
“Detective Terry, why aren’t you out arresting real criminals instead of picking on my brother?”
His geniality fled. “Ms. Wren, your brother is a real criminal.”
She wanted to scream a denial, to flail and blame everything on her parents, to rail against the unfairness of it all. She had given up her twenties because her parents had bailed on their responsibility, but had always told herself it was worth it to be the best possible replacement for their parents to her little brother. Had it all been for nothing?
Suddenly