Cut Throat (3 page)

His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. He sat up and then swung his legs over the side of the bed, staring at her in disbelief.

“Before I go?”

Cat glanced at him, then looked away, well aware of how this sounded, but it was his own damn fault. He was pushing her into corners where she didn’t want to go.

Wilson stood, towering over her as he paused at the foot of the bed.

Then he grabbed his clothes and started putting them on as quickly as he’d torn them off.

“Hell no, I don’t want any coffee, Catherine. I couldn’t possibly want anything more from you other than the fucking we just had.”

The word was rude, but no ruder than she’d been with him. “Okay, then,” she said, and turned and walked into the bathroom.

When she came out, she paused in the middle of her bedroom, listening to the silence, and knew he was gone. But when she glanced toward the bed, her heart slammed against her chest with a hard, painful thud. She stared until her vision blurred and her throat was thick with tears. Taking a deep breath, she leaned over and picked up the money he’d thrown on her mattress.

A hundred dollars—in twenties.

She didn’t know what the going rate for a whore might be, but he’d made his point.

“Damn you,” she muttered, then drew a slow, shuddering breath, refusing to admit that he’d gotten to her.

Angry with herself, she threw the money into a drawer and then dragged her suitcase from under the bed and finished packing. Her steps were slow as she headed for her office to check her laptop. The blip was motionless, which was good, but according to the map on the screen, it was in the middle of nowhere.

Too tired and too hurt to think about it anymore tonight, she shut the laptop and took it back to her room. Within minutes, she was in bed, with the alarm set for six o’clock. She closed her eyes, trying desperately to sleep, but it was useless. She couldn’t forget the hurt she’d seen on Wilson’s face or the fact that she was the one who’d put it there. Then she rolled over on her side, thumped her pillow angrily and, with a skill she’d honed over years of disappointment and despair, blanked everything from her mind and went to sleep.

Two

Still reeling from Cat’s rejection, Wilson went straight from her apartment to the office. By daybreak, he had a good lead on Paulie Beach, one of his bonds who’d failed to appear, and was packing to go get him. As always, he wore a bulletproof vest under his shirt and his badge on a chain around his neck. There was a can of mace in one pocket of his coat, a Taser in the other, a pair of handcuffs clipped onto the back of his belt and his handgun in a shoulder holster.

Beach had been arrested for B & E—breaking and entering—his third strike for the same offense. That should have been a warning to Wilson, when he’d agreed to bond him out, that Paulie wasn’t the type of man who learned from his mistakes.

Wilson grabbed the file he had on Beach and was walking out of the office as his secretary, LaQueen Baldwin, was coming in.

LaQueen was six feet and two-hundred pounds of Jamaican beauty, and had an opinion about everything, including Wilson’s single state. She had worked for him for four years, was the best secretary he’d ever had and reminded him of that fact on a daily basis.

Even though he never talked about his personal business, she knew all about his fascination with Cat Dupree. She knew when they’d been iced in together during Christmas and when he’d taken off to West Texas in the middle of the night to help Cat after she had discovered her best friend Marsha Benton’s body. She knew when Wilson followed Cat Dupree to Mexico to aid her in catching Marsha’s killer, and, after one look at his face this morning, she knew Wilson McKay was not in a good mood, and she promptly attributed it to Cat.

“Good morning to you,” she said briskly, as he held the door back for her to enter.

“Yeah, it’s a doozy,” he muttered, as he pointed to her desk. “I left you a note.”

LaQueen glanced toward her desk, then back at Wilson.

“Yes. I see that. However…since you are still here, and since I have arrived at this marvelous establishment to devote the next eight hours of my life to it and to you, you may tell me in person just where it is you might be going.”

Wilson caught the tone of her voice and realized he’d pushed one of LaQueen’s buttons, which figured. During the past twenty-four hours, he hadn’t gotten much of anything right with women.

“Paulie Beach was a no-show at court a couple of days ago, and the phone numbers I had on him are disconnects. His mother’s going to lose her house unless I can find the bastard. She cried for ten minutes before finally admitting she might know where he’d gone. I’m going to go get him.”

LaQueen’s lips parted into a smile. She nodded approvingly as she patted him on the arm.

“Ummm…that is good! You go find that sorry excuse for a son and lock him up. His momma hurt enough when she gave birth to him. She don’t deserve to lose her home over the pain he’s causing her now.”

Wilson grinned in spite of himself. LaQueen did have a way with words. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Sorry if I was abrupt.”

LaQueen arched an eyebrow. “So. Is that what they are calling it these days?”

Wilson’s smile slipped. “Calling what?”

“You called it abrupt. I call it a bad night with a woman.” Wilson snorted lightly. “Am I that transparent?”

LaQueen frowned. His pride was damaged. She didn’t intend to make it worse.

“If you might be going past a deli on your way back to the office, I would appreciate a bite of something sweet.”

Wilson grinned in spite of himself. “A sweet for a sweet lady…hmm, yes, I think I can do that.”

LaQueen nodded, then gave him a royal wave as she sailed past him toward her desk.

“Be off with you then. You’re letting in the cold air.”

Wilson’s grin widened as he pushed the door shut, then headed for his SUV. She was maddening, but she really was the best damned secretary he’d ever had.

Paulie Beach was a user. He used people and drugs and situations to slide through life with as little effort as possible. For the second time in his life of crime, his mother had put her home up as collateral to bond him out of jail. Only this time, he’d skipped out on his court date, knowing full well that he would be on his way to prison again if he showed. It bothered him some that his mother was in a bind, but so was he. He couldn’t afford to go back to lockup. He’d left too many enemies behind.

Wilson pulled around behind the Western Trails Motel and parked. According to Paulie’s mother, who’d finally decided her son wasn’t worth losing her home for, he’d called her from here the night before last. Wilson didn’t know if he was still in residence, but he was going to find out soon enough.

He got out and headed for the office. The woman behind the counter glanced up as he walked in, then stood a little straighter when she got a better look.

“Need a room?” she asked, and fingered a loose bleached-yellow curl.

He flashed his badge. “I’m looking for Paulie Beach. Is he still in room 216?”

Her smile turned into a frown. “We’re not supposed to give out—”

Wilson leaned across the counter. “Lady, the man I’m after is willing for his mother to lose her home rather than show his ass in court. I’m not in a very good mood, so don’t start making excuses for your clientele. You and I both know most of them rent by the hour, so if you want me to notify some friends in vice that you’re running a little something on the side, just say the word.”

Her expression shifted to one of defiance, but she didn’t mince words.

“Yeah, he’s still in there, but if you bust somethin’ up when you take him down, you’re payin’ for it.”

“And by the same token, if you call and warn Paulie I’m coming up, I’ll come after you for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”

She blanched, then held up her hands and stepped back as Wilson left the office.

He quickly moved into the shadows of a stairwell, glancing up to the second-level balcony and the long row of motel-room doors. The cold air, mixed with the warmth of his exhaled breath, was marked by small, cloud-like vapors. Despite the chill, he could smell something rotting from a nearby garbage bin and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

As he started up the stairs, he saw the corner of a maid’s cart and knew she was already on her rounds, cleaning rooms. He didn’t think Paulie was armed, but he couldn’t take a chance on getting an innocent person hurt. Once he reached the second level, he hurried down to the open doorway where the maid was cleaning and flashed his badge.

“Stay inside,” he said quickly.

The woman’s fear was evident as he closed the door between them, then hurried down to 216.

The curtains were pulled, and there was a thin layer of frost on the windows. He stood to the side of the door and listened, but heard nothing, no one moving around. Too cold to linger, Wilson knew there was only one way to rouse Beach and only one way out of the room.

Wilson made a fist and pounded on the door, but got no response. He pounded again, this time louder and longer.

“Get lost!” someone shouted from another room. “Paulie! It’s Wilson McKay. Get your ass out here now.”

There was a long moment of silence; then Wilson heard footsteps hit the floor. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the curtains, knowing that Paulie would look out. When he saw the curtains move, he yelled again.

“Open the door, Paulie. You jumped bond on me. I’ve come to take you in.”

Paulie Beach’s expression was a mixture of surprise and anger as he stared at Wilson in disbelief.

“Like hell,” he yelled, as he let the curtains fall back in place.

It was all Wilson needed to see. Impatient and cold and ticked at the world in general, he kicked the door with a vicious blow. It flew inward, revealing Paulie in the act of pulling on his pants.

“Son of a bitch!” Paulie yelped, and bolted for the bathroom.

Wilson caught him by the back of the pants. “Shut your mouth,” he said, as he grabbed the man by the arm and shoved him facedown on the bed.

He snapped on handcuffs and dragged him back up on his feet while Paulie cursed and argued.

Wilson wasn’t in the mood to listen.

“Just shut up, Beach! You’re one sorry bastard, you know that? What the hell were you thinking…pulling a no-show in court and putting your mother in danger of losing her house?”

“Piss off,” Beach muttered.

Wilson grabbed Paulie’s shirt, coat and shoes, and dragged him out the door.

“Hey! It’s cold out here. Give me my shoes, damn it. You can’t take me—” “Yes, I can,” Wilson said.

The little maid was peeking out past the door when Wilson dragged Paulie Beach out of the room and onto the landing.

“He’s checking out,” he told her, and then pulled Paulie down the metal stairs, taking satisfaction in the fact that the little bastard wasn’t wearing any shoes.

He dropped Paulie off at the jail, spent a few minutes listening to the jailer talk about his first Christmas as a father and tried not to hate the man’s guts. It wasn’t the jailer’s fault that Wilson’s personal life was one big mess.

Then, as if fate wasn’t through messing with him, he met Art Ball coming in as he was on the way out. All it did was remind him of the female bounty hunter who kept tearing a hole in his heart. Still, he managed to be cordial without making an ass of himself and asking about her. It wasn’t Art’s fault that Cat was a loner.

Once inside his truck, he jacked the heater up to high, taking comfort in the flow of warm air on his feet, and headed out of the parking lot.

Remembering his promise to LaQueen, he picked up a sack of doughnuts from a deli counter as he filled up with gas, then headed back to the office.

While Wilson was plying his secretary with doughnuts and coffee, Cat was pulling out of a drive-through ATM. She had three-hundred dollars cash in her pocket, a suitcase with several changes of clothes and a pair of tennis shoes, besides the boots she was wearing. There was a to-go cup of coffee in the cup holder on her dash and a small sack of fresh hot pretzels on the seat beside her. Every now and then she took a bite, savoring the crunch of salt between her teeth, as well as the warm, chewy bread.

The rain from last night had passed over, leaving gray but clear skies. The grass in the center median of the interstate was brown and soggy, and there were still a few puddles in the road indentations.

Her cell phone was in the seat beside her, but she’d turned it off. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. The only person who knew what she was doing was Art, and only because she’d had to come clean with him to keep from getting fired. He hadn’t been happy with her news, but he understood how Cat’s mind worked. He had the number to her cell phone, and her promise that she would call him at least every other day, so he would know she was all right.

Once again, Cat was the predator, after her prey.

Solomon Tutuola was not the same man who’d driven Mark Presley into Mexico. The burns on his face and neck had been serious and, though they were finally healing, they would leave scars. Most of the hair on the left side of his head was gone and, from the consensus of the last two doctors he’d seen, it wasn’t going to grow back. There was a large portion of flesh underneath his chin and on the right side of his neck that had burned