see
anything suspicious.”
“Jack, tel me the truth. Do you think Michael is The
Charmed Kil er, or don’t you?”
He looked uneasy. “It doesn’t matter what I think—we
can’t take any chances. Pay attention to everything and
everyone around you.” He wet his lips. “And stick close to
Ashford. I’l see you tomorrow when you come in to take
the polygraph.”
“Any tips for when I take it?”
“Yeah—try to tel the truth.” He waved, then pul ed away,
watching her in his side mirror.
Carlotta waved after him, muttering, “Easier said than
done.”
She removed the helmet and stored it in a compartment
beneath the scooter seat. Just looking at the Vespa gave
her a rush of pleasure—and guilt. It was an extravagant
gift and she shouldn’t accept it, but it was a gorgeous little
plaything, and frankly, it felt good to have something
pretty to take her mind off serial kil ers, exploding cars and
long-lost fathers for the time that it took to buzz up and
down Peachtree Street.
She jogged in to Neiman’s, late as usual these days, and
removed her cel phone from her purse before dumping it
in her locker in the employee break room. She jumped on
the up escalator, but when she saw her boss, Lindy Russel ,
riding on the down escalator, she tried to hide her face.
“I see you,” Lindy said as they passed. “You’re late.”
“I have a good excuse.”
“You always do,” her boss offered over her shoulder. “I
expect you to sel your tail off today.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Carlotta murmured, then turned to face
forward. Lindy had let her off the hook so many times,
she’d lost count. She loved this job and had nearly gone
crazy when she’d been off work while her broken arm
healed. Retail was her life, and she was really good at it—
her name had been at the top of the sales charts more
than any other associate at this location.
Until lately.
Recently, events had converged to distract, digress and
divert her from what she thought was her calling. Wesley’s
involvement with body moving and with Coop had
overlapped into her life, and Coop had on more than one
occasion confronted her, challenging her to do more with
her life, and with her mind.
She fingered the puzzle piece on her charm bracelet. Coop
had told her she was good at solving puzzles, at helping
people.
Then she frowned. And Maria Marquez had told her she
was good at insinuating herself into investigations.
Carlotta tripped on the top step of the escalator, but
caught herself. A good reminder that she needed to get
her head back where it belonged.
When she reached her designated department, she
noticed a stocky guy in an il -fitting sport coat loitering
between racks of women’s clothes. Christ, all he needed
was a ball cap that read Undercover. He gave her a
conspicuous nod, then proceeded to scan the faces of
shoppers in the department with al the subtlety of an X-
ray machine.
But his presence did make her feel safer. Carlotta
immersed herself in her job, switching on and reading
customers to better understand how she could help them
find what they were looking for. Valerie Wren hadn’t been
much of a mother, but she’d taken the time to tutor
Carlotta from a young age on good tailoring and how to
mix and match unusual color combinations and fabric
textures. Both talents served her well when catering to the
Neiman’s clientele who came to her wanting a fresh look.
She had the added insight of knowing how her customers’
minds worked, the places they frequented and the social
competition they faced, because the Wrens had once
moved in those same circles.
Today the store was hopping. Customers congregated in
the aisles, wide-eyed and talking in low tones. They
seemed antsy and eager to buy, probably for much the
same reason that she was so wil ing to keep the pink
scooter—because it made her feel better. Apparently,
serial kil ing was good for the economy.
Despite the
anything suspicious.”
“Jack, tel me the truth. Do you think Michael is The
Charmed Kil er, or don’t you?”
He looked uneasy. “It doesn’t matter what I think—we
can’t take any chances. Pay attention to everything and
everyone around you.” He wet his lips. “And stick close to
Ashford. I’l see you tomorrow when you come in to take
the polygraph.”
“Any tips for when I take it?”
“Yeah—try to tel the truth.” He waved, then pul ed away,
watching her in his side mirror.
Carlotta waved after him, muttering, “Easier said than
done.”
She removed the helmet and stored it in a compartment
beneath the scooter seat. Just looking at the Vespa gave
her a rush of pleasure—and guilt. It was an extravagant
gift and she shouldn’t accept it, but it was a gorgeous little
plaything, and frankly, it felt good to have something
pretty to take her mind off serial kil ers, exploding cars and
long-lost fathers for the time that it took to buzz up and
down Peachtree Street.
She jogged in to Neiman’s, late as usual these days, and
removed her cel phone from her purse before dumping it
in her locker in the employee break room. She jumped on
the up escalator, but when she saw her boss, Lindy Russel ,
riding on the down escalator, she tried to hide her face.
“I see you,” Lindy said as they passed. “You’re late.”
“I have a good excuse.”
“You always do,” her boss offered over her shoulder. “I
expect you to sel your tail off today.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Carlotta murmured, then turned to face
forward. Lindy had let her off the hook so many times,
she’d lost count. She loved this job and had nearly gone
crazy when she’d been off work while her broken arm
healed. Retail was her life, and she was really good at it—
her name had been at the top of the sales charts more
than any other associate at this location.
Until lately.
Recently, events had converged to distract, digress and
divert her from what she thought was her calling. Wesley’s
involvement with body moving and with Coop had
overlapped into her life, and Coop had on more than one
occasion confronted her, challenging her to do more with
her life, and with her mind.
She fingered the puzzle piece on her charm bracelet. Coop
had told her she was good at solving puzzles, at helping
people.
Then she frowned. And Maria Marquez had told her she
was good at insinuating herself into investigations.
Carlotta tripped on the top step of the escalator, but
caught herself. A good reminder that she needed to get
her head back where it belonged.
When she reached her designated department, she
noticed a stocky guy in an il -fitting sport coat loitering
between racks of women’s clothes. Christ, all he needed
was a ball cap that read Undercover. He gave her a
conspicuous nod, then proceeded to scan the faces of
shoppers in the department with al the subtlety of an X-
ray machine.
But his presence did make her feel safer. Carlotta
immersed herself in her job, switching on and reading
customers to better understand how she could help them
find what they were looking for. Valerie Wren hadn’t been
much of a mother, but she’d taken the time to tutor
Carlotta from a young age on good tailoring and how to
mix and match unusual color combinations and fabric
textures. Both talents served her well when catering to the
Neiman’s clientele who came to her wanting a fresh look.
She had the added insight of knowing how her customers’
minds worked, the places they frequented and the social
competition they faced, because the Wrens had once
moved in those same circles.
Today the store was hopping. Customers congregated in
the aisles, wide-eyed and talking in low tones. They
seemed antsy and eager to buy, probably for much the
same reason that she was so wil ing to keep the pink
scooter—because it made her feel better. Apparently,
serial kil ing was good for the economy.
Despite the
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