Body Movers Read Free Page A

Marcus to come down
    here, and I really need to get back ASAP.”
    The woman blinked slowly. “I need a mil ion dol ars and a
    good man. Have a seat, Ms. Wren.”
    Carlotta sighed—there went her overtime pay this week.
    As she turned toward the teeming waiting room, she made
    eye contact with a tall, striking man wearing a badge
    around his neck, pouring coffee from a corroded glass pot.
    A frown furrowed his brow.
    “Did you say your name was Wren?” he drawled, hinting
    at his roots. South Georgia, she guessed, or maybe an
    Alabama boy. He was block-shouldered with black hair, a
    strong nose, fortyish, with bloodshot eyes, bad taste in ties
    and an apparent aversion to ironing. His haircut was rather
    good, she conceded, in her split-second scrutiny,
    reminiscent of George Clooney in his E.R. days. But this
    guy didn’t seem to have much of a bedside manner.
    “Yes,” she said warily. “I’m Carlotta Wren.”
    He drank from the cup, then winced. “I’m Detective Jack
    Terry. I brought your brother in,” he said and blew on the
    top of his coffee.
    His nonchalance was beyond irritating. “May I ask why?”
    He was stil blowing. “I’ll let him tel you. Hey, are you two
    any relation to Randolph Wren?”
    She clenched her jaw. “He’s our father. What does that
    have to do with this?”
    “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’l 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 bul pen 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 fol owed 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 spil ing
    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, wil you?” He hung up the phone
    and gave Carlotta a flat smile. “It’l 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 yel ow upholstery, Carlotta swallowed.
    “Thanks, I’l 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 general y oblivious to