Читать книгу Nine Lives - Sharon Sala - Страница 7

Four

Cat had been home for three hours before her patience wore thin. Despite the cold and rain, she’d driven back over to Mimi’s townhouse again and had staked out the building, intent on confronting her the moment she arrived. But when sunset came and then went, and the street lights came on, she got a knot in her belly. She left message after message on Mimi’s cell phone but never got an answer. All night, she sat outside the building, growing more fearful by the hour. When sunrise was only a heartbeat away, she picked the lock on Mimi’s apartment one more time. This time, she was going to go through the place like she owned it.

Two hours passed as she went through everything there was to see. She found note pads where Mimi had been doodling Mark Presley’s name. There were notes to herself to pick up her dry cleaning, a grocery list that had yet to be filled and a note to call the doctor. Still Cat could find nothing identifying which obstetrician Mimi might have chosen out of the hundreds in the city. All her suitcases were in the extra bedroom where she always kept them, and the closets were full. She should have been there, but she wasn’t. Sick with a growing panic, Cat went back to her car and drove away.

Wilson had been wondering why he hadn’t heard from Cat Dupree. She’d seemed so excited that he’d found her charm; then, when he’d called her, she’d all but brushed him off. He’d gone about his business, telling himself that if it was meant to be, they would run into each other again.

He’d been in court for part of the day, testifying at a trial, and had gone from there to the police station to drop off some papers. It was one of the few times he hadn’t been thinking of her, and then she walked into the building.

He saw her pause and speak to a uniformed officer who was going out the door. The officer spoke to her briefly, then pointed up. At that point she walked toward an elevator. Curious, Wilson watched her get in; then, against his better judgment, he followed, taking the stairs in a run.

He caught a glimpse of her backside as he exited the stairwell. She was going toward Homicide. He frowned and continued to follow.

He had a couple of good friends in the department and was ready to use them for an excuse when he walked in. Almost immediately, he saw the back of her head. He grinned to himself. Luck was holding. She was sitting at his buddy Joe Flannery’s desk.

Cat was worried sick, but even more, she was certain this visit was going to be a bust. It had occurred to her that she should report first to Missing Persons, but she knew they wouldn’t take her seriously until a certain length of time had passed. Too scared to wait and with no evidence to back up her fears, she was going to go out on a limb. She would happily take some hard knocks from the cops if they would just listen and believe.

She’d been directed to the desk at which she was now sitting with the information that a Detective Flannery would be right with her. The longer she sat, the more certain she was that this had been a mistake. She should have gathered more evidence before coming here.

She had started to get up and walk out when she heard someone say her name.

“Cat? Is that you?”

She looked over her shoulder. Wilson McKay was walking toward her.

“It is you,” he said, smiling as he reached her chair. “If I’d known I was going to see you here, I would have brought your charm.”

“I was…uh, I came to—”

Before she could stammer out an answer, the detective arrived.

Joe Flannery grinned when he saw Wilson, then slapped him on the back and shook his hand.

“Hey, you. You’ve been dodging me for weeks. What’s wrong? Scared I’ll beat you at handball again?”

“You didn’t beat me the first time,” Wilson drawled. “I got a phone call and had to leave, remember?”

Flannery laughed and cuffed Wilson again, and, believing that Cat was with Wilson, included her in the moment.

“You’re taking a big chance hanging out with such a lowlife,” he teased.

Cat didn’t smile back.

“I’m not with him,” she said. “I think something’s happened to a friend of mine. I think she’s dead.”

Both Flannery and Wilson shifted mental gears so suddenly that the effort was visible on their faces.

“I’m sorry. I misunderstood,” Flannery said, and quickly sat down.

Wilson frowned. Suddenly all of the brush-offs she’d been giving him began to make sense. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled up another chair and sat down beside Cat. When she gave him a questioning look, he put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

“Moral support,” he said.

Cat was past caring who listened to her story. The more people who believed her, the better it would be. Still, she clenched her hands into fists to keep them from trembling as she turned her attention to the detective.

Flannery glanced at Wilson. “You know her?”

Wilson nodded.

Flannery looked at the woman. She wasn’t objecting, so he let it slide.

“Ma’am, would you please tell me your name?”

“Catherine Dupree.”

Flannery noticed the odd, husky quality to her voice as he flipped open a page in his notebook and jotted down her name. It wasn’t until he’d written Dupree that he frowned and looked up.

“Don’t I know you?”

She held her gaze firm. “I don’t know you.”

“What’s your occupation?” he asked.

“I work for Art Ball.”

Flannery shifted in his chair as he looked at the woman with new interest. As he did, he noticed a thick, ugly scar extending halfway around her neck and then quickly looked away, ashamed to be caught staring.

“The bounty hunter…you’re his bounty hunter, aren’t you?”

“My occupation isn’t the issue here,” she said.

He made a note by her name, just the same.

“You’re claiming a friend of yours is dead…is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me what happened?”

“She’s gone.”

“Have you reported her to Missing Persons?”

Cat sighed. This wasn’t going to go well. “No.”

“Why not?” Flannery asked.

“Because I don’t believe she’s missing. I believe she’s dead.”

“Why do you think that?”

A muscle jerked in Cat’s jaw, but her voice remained calm. “Because she told me she’d been threatened.”

“By whom?”

“Her boss.”

At that point Wilson interrupted. “How long has she been missing?” he asked.

Flannery frowned. “I’m asking the questions here,” he said.

“Sorry,” Wilson said, but he still waited for Cat’s answer. He watched her face, expecting a mirror of her emotions, but she gave nothing away.

“I last talked to her yesterday morning. She had been crying,” Cat said.

“Why?” Flannery asked.

“Because she’d just been fired.”

“By the same boss who threatened her?” Flannery asked.

“Yes.”

“And this boss’s name is…?”

“Mark Presley.”

Flannery’s pen ran off the end of his notebook onto his desk, making a slight scratching sound as it dug through years of old varnish.

“Mark Presley of the Presley Corporation?” he asked.

“Yes. She’s been his personal assistant for years.”

“Did she say why she’d been fired?”

“They were having an affair. She got pregnant. He wanted her to have an abortion. She wouldn’t. He fired her.”

A muscle jerked in Flannery’s jaw as he laid his pen down beside the notebook and then raised his head. He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“What makes you think she isn’t complying with his request? Maybe she’s at some clinic now and just not up to answering your calls.”

Cat answered his sarcasm with anger.

“They broke up because she wouldn’t have an abortion. I had lunch with her just the other day. She was scared.”

“Of Presley?”

“Yes. She said he’d threatened her.”

He picked the pen up again. “Did she say how?”

“What she said was that he’d made threats to her, and she used the words, ‘six feet under.’ Then, yesterday, after she told me that he’d fired her, I wanted to get together with her, but she said she was going to go to a doctor’s appointment first and then she’d come over to my place. I didn’t think to ask which doctor, but she did tell me that as soon as she got out, she would give me a call. I waited all day. She didn’t call.”

“Maybe she’s just not in the mood to talk to—”

“She’s not home. I staked out her apartment last night. I searched it this morning. She never showed. Something has happened to her.”

“What’s the make and model of her car?”

“She drives a silver Lexus. New this year. The license is one of those vanity tags. Hers says ALLMINE.”

Wilson frowned as he listened to Cat’s story. None of this sounded good, but he wasn’t a cop.

Flannery rubbed at a mole behind his right ear. It was something he did when he was frustrated.

“Look, Miss Dupree, I understand your concern. But this isn’t a case for Homicide. In fact, it’s not yet a case for Missing Persons. Your friend is an adult. She has the right to come and go without notifying anyone. She could be anywhere. Maybe she rethought her decision not to have the abortion and has gone somewhere to recuperate.”

Cat’s anger was evident by the fact that her fists tightened until her knuckles went white. It was Flannery’s good fortune that she still had her hands in her lap.

“We grew up in the system. We knew what it was like to be unwanted kids. The last thing she would ever do is reject a child of her own. Don’t argue with me about that, because you don’t know a fucking thing about our lives.”

“I don’t appreciate your language,” Flannery said.

“And I don’t appreciate your piss-poor attitude,” Cat fired back.

Flannery knew he wasn’t handling this well and wished Wilson was somewhere else. Fortunately Wilson interrupted by putting a hand on Cat’s shoulder.

“Anger isn’t going to find your friend,” he said.

Cat stood abruptly.

“Doesn’t look like the police are going to make an effort, either. I knew I was wasting my time when I came here, but I didn’t do this for myself. I’m doing it for Marsha. I don’t think she’s missing. I think she’s dead. Presley threatened her, and I think he made good on the threat.”

“Look, Cat…murder is a big accusation,” Wilson said.

Her eyes were flashing, but her voice was clipped and steady.

“I know you two don’t know me, and you also don’t know Mimi. But trust me when I tell you…she would never kill her own child, and she would not leave town without telling me. Never.”

Wilson heard more than anger in Cat’s voice. She was scared—as scared as a person could be and not be screaming.

“Cat…”

She turned on him, directing her fury with one succinct word. “What?”

“Maybe when you turn in a missing person’s report tomorrow and—”

“Tomorrow?” She threw her arms over her head and then slapped her hands hard against her thighs. “Tomorrow. And what about tonight? She didn’t sleep in her bed last night. She won’t be sleeping in it tonight. She’s pregnant. Her life was threatened. She’s missing.” She pointed angrily at Wilson. “You report her missing tomorrow.” Then she jabbed a finger in Flannery’s chest. “Or maybe you do it. Oh, wait. I know! Let’s just wait until there’s no hope in hell of finding her before she rots, and then we can identify her from dental records and the broken arm from when she was seven. How’s that?”

Then she turned angrily, grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, and strode out of the office with her head up and her jaw clenched. She hit the door with the flat of her hand and slammed it shut behind her so hard that a coffee mug someone had left on a nearby file cabinet vibrated off the edge and shattered when it hit the floor.

Wilson looked at Joe. “I think that went well.”

Joe grimaced. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s pissed.”

“What do you think she’s going to do?”

Wilson shrugged. “Hard to say, but I would bet money that whatever happens next, you’ll have to hear it from someone besides her.”

‘What do you mean?”

“She won’t come back and ask for help a second time,” Wilson said. “You saw her face. She doesn’t trust the system, and from the little she just said about her background, you can’t blame her.”

There was a message from Art on Cat’s cell phone. She called him back on her way to her car.

The message was the same old thing. He had bonded out a woman who’d been picked up for writing hot checks, but she’d been a no-show in court earlier that day.

He needed her brought in.

Cat needed something to do to keep herself from going crazy.

She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. Art answered on the third ring, and, as always, coughed into the phone as he answered. Cat immediately lit into him.

“Damn it, Art, you need to quit smoking. One day that cough is going to be the last thing to come out of your mouth.”

Art coughed again, took a quick drag of his cigar, then put it out in an ashtray already overflowing with ashes and butts.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always say,” he said.

“So fax me the particulars on Charity Ann Kingman.”

“You sound all pissy and fierce. I want her back in one piece,” Art growled.

Fear she wouldn’t admit to was making her sick to her stomach. Here she was, going about her business as if nothing was different in her world, when in truth, she knew it was crumbling about her ears. She just couldn’t make anyone believe.

“That’s because I am all pissy and fierce,” she muttered. “I won’t break your bail jumper. In fact, I won’t even bend her. Now fax the info. I need to be busy.”

“You needin’ money, hon?”

Cat looked down at her shoes, trying hard not to scream. Art thought of himself as her father. Most of the time she appreciated his concern, but not today.

“No. I just need something to do.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “And don’t give me no runaround. We’ve known each other too long for that.”

Cat swallowed past the knot in her throat.

“Mimi is missing. I think something bad has happened to her.”

“Oh hell, honey. I’m sure sorry to hear that. You go to the cops with it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s good. That’s good. Still, I’ll bet she shows soon, and you’ll see that you was all worried for nothin’.”

Cat shoved a hand through her hair as she unlocked the door to her SUV and got in. The cops were as useless to her as a third tit, and Art’s “it’ll be all right” attitude was no better.

“Yeah, sure,” she mumbled.

“So, I’ll be faxin’ that info to you now. Call me if you run into trouble.”

“Okay,” Cat said, and hung up, then headed home.

She was moving fast when she got back to her apartment. She hurried to her office, grabbing the fax that had already come through. She picked up a couple of other pages that had obviously been faxed earlier and walked to the window for a better look.

As always, they were of men with tattoos. She had a network of people all over the United States who, on a regular basis, faxed her mug shots with rap sheets. She was determined to find the man who’d killed her father. So far, she had yet to get a hit, but she wasn’t going to give up.

She tossed the two sheets into a box on the floor that was already overflowing with similar papers, made a file from the papers Art had faxed her regarding Charity Kingman and walked out of the room. She hurried to her bedroom, packed the bag she normally took on a stakeout and left without thinking to check the answering machine in the kitchen. It was a quarter to eleven in the morning. Even though her world felt as if it was coming to an end, the day wasn’t even half over.

* * *

Charity Kingman considered herself streetwise and sharp, although she was facing a second stay in lockup for bad paper, which even she knew didn’t really back up her opinion of herself. However, she knew she was looking good. Her skirt was short; her legs were long. She had rock-hard abs, and what nature had shorted her on, she hid with what she called “personality.”

She knew Art Ball would be mad about yesterday, but she’d never intended to show up for court. She didn’t have any defense. She’d written the hot checks, and she’d gotten caught. But what else was a girl to do when she needed to look good and was a little short on cash? Besides, she had a plan. All it was going to take was a quick make-over at a cushy day spa and she would be set to go.

Cat read the particulars on Charity Kingman while eating most of a breakfast burrito in her car. She passed a lot of time and had a lot of meals in there, and was finishing her coffee as she finished the file Art had sent her. As the last swallow went down, she reached for her cell phone. Her first call was to the nail salon Charity normally frequented, the second was to her landlord. When she found out that Charity was behind on her rent, Cat knew she wouldn’t be hiding out in her apartment. The call she made to the salon where Charity had her nails done was revealing as well. Charity had a standing appointment, but she’d called in and canceled yesterday. After a couple of follow-up questions, though, her nail tech had let it slip that Charity was planning a trip.

The timing added up. Charity Kingman needed to make herself scarce. All Cat could hope for was to catch her before she ran.

But where had she gone?

She went back to the file again and began to study it. Charity was from the Midwest, a little town outside of Cleveland. Since coming to Dallas six years earlier, she had never held a job for more than six months. She’d been arrested for soliciting, for bad checks, and for busting the windshield of a boyfriend who’d dumped her for another woman. She wasn’t what Art called a “bad ass,” but she was constantly in trouble and dumb enough to keep getting caught. The way Cat looked at it, finding Charity had to happen within the next twenty-four hours or it was probably going to be too late to find her easily. She didn’t strike Cat as the kind of woman who would go running home, so she mentally crossed off Ohio as a place she would go.

Halfway through the file, she ran across a notation regarding a former roommate named Danni Chester, and an old address on the south side of the city. It was the only thing in the file that could be construed as a permanent link to another person. It was almost a year old, but it was a place to start.

She checked her cell phone for messages, but there were none. As she was gathering up her trash, it occurred to her that she hadn’t checked the answering machine at her apartment. She got out of her car, dumped her trash, and was just about to call home to check it when her cell phone rang. When she saw who was calling, she decided not to answer it, but then changed her mind.

“Hello.”

Wilson winced. The clipped tone of her voice didn’t bode well for this becoming any kind of a pleasant conversation.

“Cat, it’s me, Wilson.”

“What do you want?”

He winced again.

“I thought maybe I could come by with your charm.”

“I’m not home. I’m working. Call me later.”

She hung up in his ear.

He disconnected. Then, disgusted with her and also with himself for still trying to connect with what appeared to be a certified bitch, he threw his cell phone on the bed and kicked a throw pillow that had fallen on the floor.

Wilson’s call distracted Cat enough that when she hung up, she forgot she’d been going to call home. Instead, she got back in her vehicle, slammed the door and drove out of the parking lot in a huff, leaving rubber behind as she went.

* * *

Charity considered her new look a sure cure for the warrant that was bound to be out for her arrest. Her long blond hair was now short and red. She’d had her eyebrows dyed to match, and was wearing five earrings on each ear, the fake kind that looked pierced but really weren’t. She’d traded her designer clothes for an off-the-rack mini-skirt and little-bit-of-nothing top covered by a white fake fur coat that barely cupped the bottom of her backside. She’d found a pair of high-topped black boots in a thrift store that went over her knees, and for a last bit of flash, wrapped a thin red scarf around her neck.

Finally she was ready to split. All she needed to do was pick up her stuff from Danni’s apartment and get to the bus station. After that, her troubles would be over.

Cat hadn’t been outside Danni Chester’s apartment building for more than fifteen minutes when she saw a cab pull up to the curb. She tensed, leaning forward as she watched the door open, but when she saw the female getting out, she leaned back. Wrong woman. She noted that the cab didn’t leave, then went back to watching for Charity.

A few minutes passed, and then the same redheaded woman came back out, this time carrying a small suitcase. Another woman walked out with her, her arm over the redhead’s shoulder. When they hugged, Cat’s focus moved from the redhead to the other woman.

She grabbed the file on the seat beside her and thumbed through the pages until she found a mug shot of Danni Chester, who’d been arrested more than once for prostitution. After a couple of glances, she recognized the woman standing by the cab as Danni Chester, which told Cat she needed to check out the redhead, if for no other reason than to exclude her from the hunt.

She checked the mug shot of Charity one more time, then tossed the file onto the seat beside her and got out of her car. She patted the outside of her coat, making sure her gun and handcuffs were still in the waistband of her pants, and then started across the street.

The closer she got, the faster she went. By the time the redhead was opening the door to get into the cab, Cat was at the back rear fender.

“Hey, Charity…love your new do,” she called out.

Charity Kingman was smiling as she turned. It wasn’t until she saw that Cat was a stranger that she realized she’d just given herself away. Then she saw Cat’s badge and the handcuffs in her hand.

“Well, shit,” she muttered.

Danni Chester started to shove Charity into the cab when Cat pointed at her.

“What? You in a big hurry to go to lock up with her?”

Charity sighed. Danni was a friend. She didn’t want to get her in trouble, too.

“Don’t, Danni. You don’t want to fight Cat Dupree.”

“Never heard of her,” Danni said, giving Cat a rude lookover.

“She’s Art Ball’s bounty hunter. Everyone knows her,” Charity said.

“Never heard of you, either,” Cat said and pointed at Danni. “Get out of my way.”

Danni blinked rapidly and took a couple of steps backward. On closer inspection, the Dupree woman looked a little too scary to mess with.

Charity spat out the gum she’d been chewing as Cat calmly handcuffed her.

“Hey, honey, button up my coat for me, will ya? I’m freezing here.”

Cat eyed the long stretch of bare legs between the hem of the mini-skirt and the top of the black boots, then the size of the breasts pushing at the low-cut sweater, and snorted lightly.

“Cold boobs are the least of your worries,” she stated, and then took Charity by the arm.

“Wait!” she cried. “My bag. Danni, get my bag out of the cab!”

Danni took the bag and sent the cab driver on his way.

“Please,” she asked, as she held the bag out to Cat. “Can’t she even have her things?”

Cat kept on walking, pushing Charity along in front of her.

“The state of Texas is about to provide all she’s going to need for the next year or so.”

“Danni, keep my things for me,” Charity asked.

“Let me know where you’re going!” Danni called after her.

Cat opened the back door to her SUV and gave Charity a little push as she got her inside. Then she leaned in and buckled the seat belt.

“Thanks so much,” Charity snapped.

Cat eyed her without answering.

Charity opened her mouth to say something else, then Cat leaned in.

“I didn’t put you in this position, you put yourself in it. So don’t give me any crap. I’m not in the mood.”

Charity’s nostrils flared in anger, but she stayed quiet. She didn’t have to like the bitch, even if she was right.