Nine Lives (10 page)

He hesitated, then remembered the car.

“I can tell you that Ms. Benton's Lexus showed up on one of the exits off the freeway. It had been stripped clean but was identified by the VIN number. We're looking at the possibility that it might have quit on her and she took out on her own to get help. Maybe met with foul play from that angle.”

Cat rolled her eyes.

“Did you check the calls on her cell phone?”

Bradley frowned.

“We've requested the list.”

“I can tell you one thing. Marsha wouldn't have walked across the street when she could have ridden. If she had car trouble, she would have called immediately for help.”

Bradley fired back. “Not if her cell phone was dead. They do go dead, you know.”

“Her car was equipped with all kinds of high-tech stuff. I know there was a built-in phone, as well as a GPS mapping system with a built-in phone. If one thing quit, she had a half-dozen other gadgets at her fingertips. She called me. Remember?”

He glanced down at the answering machine and sighed.

Cat continued to hammer him with questions.

“Had the car been wrecked?”

“No, but—”

“Then it was dumped,” Cat said.

At that point Bradley thanked her for calling and left.

Frustrated, Cat paced from room to room until her stomach growled. She went to the kitchen, opened a can of soup, ate it straight out of the pan in which she'd heated it, then went to bed.

She fell asleep within minutes, unaware that the rain that had been falling since evening had turned to sleet, or that the roads were becoming impassable.

As she slept, she began to dream, but instead of a continuous scene, it consisted of images flashing through her mind, like looking at old pictures in an album.

 

Cat was sitting at the kitchen table. Her mother was standing beside her, laughing as she set a birthday cake in front of her. There were four candles on her cake, and her daddy was taking a picture.

“Smile,” he'd said.

She looked up just as the flash went off.

 

She was still blinking from the flash when the image shifted. It was cold. The blowing wind burned her skin. She was at a cemetery, staring down at a small, flat marker. Cat couldn't read, but somehow she knew it bore her
mother's name. She could hear her father crying. It scared her worse than the fact that her mother had gone away.

“Daddy…where did she go?”

“Heaven.”

“Is it far?”

“Yes.”

“Can we go, too?”

 

She never heard his answer, because the image shifted again. This time, she was being led through a long series of hallways. The smell of orange oil from wood polish burned her nose. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the tiled floors. Yesterday she'd been in the hospital. She'd asked to go home. But someone had told her she couldn't go home because there was no one left to take care of her. The horror of that knowledge had frightened her so much that she'd been afraid to ask what came next.

She walked through an open door as a woman said her name. The woman took her by the hand, and they walked away. She couldn't see the woman's face. She never remembered the faces, and it didn't matter, because they never stayed the same.

 

When the image shifted again, she was with Marsha. They were standing in front of a mirror, putting on makeup. Marsha was laughing at the blob of mascara on Cat's eyelid. Cat stuck out her tongue.

It was the night of their high school prom and they'd gone without dates. They were seventeen.

When the image shifted again, Cat and Marsha were putting icicles on a Christmas tree. It was their first tree, in their first apartment. It had a single strand of lights and a gold-foil star. Marsha was bending down, hanging the last of her icicles on the bottom of the tree. As she did, Cat hung the last of her icicles on Marsha's butt.

Marsha stood up, laughing, then flung hers at Cat.

 

A siren sounded, sweeping past Cat's apartment in a blaze of lights and noise. She woke up with her heart pounding, her cheeks covered with tears. The dream had been so real. Even though the rational part of her knew it was nothing but an old memory, she still had to get up and see if there was a Christmas tree in the living room.

Her heart was pounding as she walked down the hall and checked. Disappointment was shattering. The reality of her life was far different from her dreams. There was no tree. There was no Marsha. Not here. Not anywhere—ever again.

The siren that had awakened her was fading in the distance. The silence in her apartment should have been comforting—like a promise that all was well—but it made everything seem empty, instead. Only after she started walking back to her bedroom did she realize that her feet were freezing. She hurried down the hall, then, once in her room, got a clean pair of socks before jumping back into bed. She put the socks on beneath the covers, taking comfort in their softness and extra warmth, and tried to go back to sleep, but she couldn't.

She rolled over onto her back, then pulled the covers up beneath her chin and stared at the shadows her night light was making on the ceiling. There was a huge weight in the middle of her chest, and she kept repressing the urge to wail.

She couldn't prove it—but she knew it. Mimi was dead.

Three simple words that, used together, became something obscene.

 

Morning came in a blast of cold wind, with the roads dangerously slick, coated in a good inch of sleet and ice. Even though she'd been willing to brave the weather, everything she'd planned to do had to be delayed. Cat was still willing, but the rest of the city had come to a halt.

After a half-dozen phone calls, it became apparent that the businesses that were open were operating on half staff, while the rest of them hadn't bothered to open at all. It left her with renewed frustration as she was forced, once again, to delay her search.

Being a bounty hunter, she knew how to find bail jumpers. For the most part, they weren't very smart, and most of them had a tendency to hide out in their old neighborhoods, either with an old girlfriend or some family member. It was just a matter of checking out the addresses, then running them down.

But Mimi's disappearance was different. Whatever had happened to her had been beyond her choice or control. Cat was firmly convinced that Mark Presley had done it, but with the resources he had at his fingertips, he could make anyone disappear.

Then there was the phone message she'd left on Cat's machine. If the last place Mimi had been with him had been in a helicopter, that meant her body could be anywhere—even out of state.

Frustrated, Cat stood at the windows overlooking the highway, watching the traffic. Very few cars were on the roads, but the few that were, were sliding all over the place. Even as she was standing there, she witnessed a three-car pile-up. When the drivers got out to survey the damage, two of them wound up falling, and only one got up. She winced at the pain on the fallen driver's face. From the way everyone was behaving, he'd most likely broken a bone.

She thought about going down to help, then realized that she wouldn't be able to do anything more than what the others were already trying to do. One of them was on a cell phone, obviously calling for help, while the other was kneeling beside the fallen driver.

When she finally saw a police cruiser and an ambulance approaching, she walked back to the sofa, picked up the remote and then sank down onto the cushions. She'd never been any good at mindlessly watching television, but there wasn't a lot left to do. She glanced at the phone, thinking about calling Wilson McKay, and then changed her mind.

But the longer she sat there, the more antsy she became. Whether it was his go-to-hell attitude or his less than proper buzz-cut and earring, he was hard to ignore. He'd promised to help. She could at least call and see how his investigation was going. As she was going to get the phone, it rang.

“Hello?”

“Cat, it's me, Wilson.”

The sound of his voice eased her sense of isolation.

“Everything's a mess outside,” she said.

“Yeah, I know, but I have some info. I just don't know if it's going to help our situation,” he said, as he stretched lazily, then strode toward the windows.

Ice was layered on everything. If it hadn't been so dangerous, it would have been beautiful. He remembered then that Detective Bradley had been going to her place yesterday.

“Did Bradley show up?”

“Yes. He took the machine. Said he'd put their techs on it and see if they could sort any kind of background noise from what we heard.”

“They'll do their best,” he said. “Did he mention anything about Presley?”

“No. If he's talked to him, he didn't share what he knew.”

“That's probably because there's nothing to tell,” Wilson reminded her.

“He did say they found Mimi's car.”

“The hell you say? Where?”

“Somewhere on the freeway.”

“Wrecked?”

“No. Just stripped and abandoned.”

“Damn. That doesn't help much.”

“I know,” Cat said, and then added, “What about the stuff you found on line?”

“I printed off a bunch of information.”

“Good.”

“Let me ask you something,” Wilson said.

“Anything.”

“Did you ever think about him hiring someone to do her in and dump her?”

“No. What was between them was personal. I don't think he would have wanted to advertise the problem to anyone.”

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

“So, Wilson, you said you printed out the stuff you found on Presley and Mimi, right?”

“Yes.”

“Fax it to me.”

“Yeah, I can do that. Give me your number.”

She rattled it off, then hung up without saying goodbye.

Wilson stared at the phone, wondering if this was how a woman felt who'd just been fucked and dumped without comment. While he hadn't had sex with her, he was being used. Trouble was, he'd offered, so he could hardly be pissed that she wasn't being as appreciative as he would have liked.

He tore off the page from his notepad where he'd scribbled her fax number and headed for his office.

M
ark Presley handed his credit card to the jeweler, then smiled benevolently as the sales clerk wrapped the Christmas gift he'd just purchased for his wife. Tahoe was a place that catered to wealth, and this jewelry store was no exception. The necklace Mark had chosen was elegant, the teardrop diamond a perfect shade of yellow. He knew the exact moment when he was going to present it to her, too. It would be on the pillow beside her when she woke up Christmas morning. She would squeal, open the gift, then cry. She would throw her arms around his neck and shower him with kisses, after which he would strip her naked and make mad, passionate love, or what passed for it.

Penny wasn't exactly the type of woman who was willing to branch out and try something new. She wanted it missionary style, three times a week, and usually in the dark. Only once in a while did she get frisky, but whenever it happened, Mark was happy to oblige. After all, she was directly responsible for his current lifestyle, and he wasn't going to do anything to mess that up. There was always a time later for Mark's predilection for erotica, and plenty of women who were willing to participate.

Only now and again did Marsha Benton cross his mind, and when she did, it was without guilt. What had occurred between them was unfortunate, but he felt as if he'd handled a sticky situation successfully. He had no fears that he would be connected to her disappearance, or that she would be found. He believed that, as surely as he knew his name. He believed it because he knew how the system worked. She was an orphan, unmarried, unattached. He was Mark Presley, a mover and shaker.

Satisfied that his world was back in order, he pocketed the gift and strutted out of the jewelry store. The sun was bright, and the reflection coming off the snow-packed streets was almost blinding. But the weather was clear and the skiing perfect. The evenings at the lodge were successful from a professional perspective, too. He'd already acquired two new customers over hot buttered rum, as well as met a half-dozen men whose only jobs in life were investing their inherited millions as they saw fit.

He strode down the sidewalks, admiring the elegant window decorations and the holiday music being piped out into the streets. Tahoe was a haven for those who had, rather than the have nots. Fitting in gave him a great sense of pride.

“Hello there, Mr. Presley,” someone called.

Mark turned and waved at the middle-aged woman in après ski gear sweeping off the steps at the front of her store.

“Hello yourself,” he called back, and moved with a jauntier step.

Being recognized was as important to Mark as being in charge. By the time he got to the hotel, he was positively beaming.

Penny had left him a message that she'd gone to the spa for a massage, then a shampoo and styling. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time for a drink down at the bar. He took the little package from the jewelry store and hid it in his sock drawer, then headed for the lobby.

 

Cat had been going through the info Wilson had sent. She'd made lists upon lists, separating information, then sorting it together, trying to make it fit—wishing for a neon sign with an “x marks the spot” to show where Mimi might be. She'd looked at the stuff for so long that, in her mind, it was all running together.

She wondered if this was the way caged animals felt—able to see freedom but unable to attain it. Between getting sick, then being iced in, she'd been stuck in her apartment for almost a week. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, but she'd never felt less like celebrating.

She was something of a cynic, although she knew what the holidays were supposed to be all about. Mimi, however, had been over the moon about doing all the right things—helping to serve Christmas dinner at the Salvation Army, going to the neighborhood church to see the children's Christmas pageant—everything she thought “real” families did.

But she and Mimi had always been the outsiders. They didn't have family to go home to, so there were no family dinners. They didn't have husbands or children, so Cat found no reason or joy in putting up decorations. But Mimi did. She read the Christmas story from the Bible every year, then insisted they open their presents to each other at the same time. Cat freely admitted that if Mimi hadn't insisted on the tradition, she never would have bothered with the holiday at all.

Yet now Cat was so despondent that she wished she could sleep through the entire holiday. Being iced in and knowing Mimi was out there somewhere was like being in a never-ending horror story. Cat's need for revenge was at the point of making her sick. She needed to see justice done. Someone needed to pay for what they'd done, but the weather wasn't cooperating, and while she was fuming, Christmas arrived.

 

Cat woke up in tears on Christmas Day. She was so despondent that it hurt to draw breath, and her head had been aching for hours. Still, it was nothing to the ache in her heart. She had been pacing the floor since daybreak and was on the verge of screaming when her doorbell rang.

She was so startled by the sound that she stumbled and almost fell on her way to answer. With most of her neighbors also iced in, she was guessing it was someone coming to borrow something. She was willing to share anything she had except toilet paper. If the weather didn't let up, that was going to become a precious commodity.

She opened the door.

It was Wilson, wearing a red and white fuzzy Santa Claus hat.

“Well? Aren't you going to ask me in?”

Cat felt her face turn red, and then she heard herself stuttering.

“Yes, well…I didn't expect—”

He held a piece of mistletoe over her head, kissed her square on the mouth, then took himself inside and closed the door.

She was still frowning when he handed her the mistletoe.

“Want to reciprocate?”

She tossed it in the trash.

He grinned.

“There's coffee,” she said.

“Is that an invitation to drink a cup, or were you just giving me the lowdown on what you've accomplished today?”

Cat glared. “You're a smart ass, aren't you, McKay?”

His smile spread. “I've been accused of it now and then.”

She wasn't buying into the frivolity. “So do you want some coffee or not?”

“Yes, please,” he said, took off his hat and coat, and hung them on the hall tree, then followed her to the kitchen.

He felt a little awkward about being here. He wanted to help her. He'd offered to help her. But there was a part of him that wondered if he was doing it for the right reasons. Somewhere around three o'clock this morning, he'd realized he'd been thinking about sex—with Catherine Dupree.

He'd tried to shame himself out of the notion, aware that she tolerated him only because she needed help. Trouble was, she was driving him crazy. He thought that if they just did it, then he could get it off his mind. But at the same time, it made him feel like a heel, knowing that, if given the chance, he would take it without a conscious thought that he might be catching her at a weak moment.

However, he'd consoled himself with the fact that even though he'd decided to spend the day with her so she wouldn't be alone, instead of braving the weather and driving home for Christmas, he wouldn't make a pass. Even he couldn't stoop so low as to catch her when she was at a weak moment.

“How do you take your coffee?” she asked.

“Black.”

She reached for a cup. He reached over her head and got the cup down himself.

“Don't fuss. I've been here before, remember?”

Cat looked startled; then, slowly, understanding dawned.

“Barely. That's the sickest I've been in years, so I don't remember a lot of those three days.”

“Pity,” Wilson said. “It was a memorable time for me.”

Cat glanced back at him, uncertain what he meant by that comment, then saw his eyes glittering. He was teasing her.

“You lie,” she said shortly.

Wilson grinned. As much as he would like to tease her about it, this was not the time to bring up the pink butterfly tattoo.

“I never lie. Now, about that coffee,” he said, and filled the cup, sniffing the aroma with appreciation as he let the coffee cool. As he did, he glanced around the kitchen, then back at her. “I don't smell the traditional turkey or ham cooking. What were you planning to do for Christmas?”

“Nothing,” she said shortly.

“Why not?” Wilson asked.

Cat's vision suddenly blurred. “Because I always spent Christmas with Mimi…ever since we were teenagers…always with—”

She caught her breath and then looked away.

Wilson gave himself a mental kick in the butt.

“I'm sorry.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Because I like emotional torture.”

“What?”

He sighed. “Nothing. I was just muttering,” he said.

She frowned. “Why are you really here, Wilson?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” he said softly, and resisted the urge to kiss her again, this time without the excuse of mistletoe. “What have you learned from the stuff I faxed over?”

“It's hard to say,” she said. “I've looked at it so many times that…sorry for the lame analogy, but I think my problem is that I can't see the forest for the trees.”

“I can imagine,” Wilson said. “You do know that everything I'm gave you was obtained without a search warrant, which means that a lot of the information is a violation of his privacy. If your friend is indeed dead, and if you find her body through information you got here, it's not going to be admissible in court.”

“I know that,” Cat said. “But if I use this information to find her body and it's proven that the baby she was carrying is indeed Mark Presley's child, then doesn't that give the district attorney enough information to start looking seriously at Presley as the possible killer?”

“Exactly,” Wilson said. “And it would be in your best interests not to go into detail about how you went about finding her, if or when you do.”

“I won't give you up, if that's what you're worrying about,” Cat said, and then, to her horror, she choked on a sob. “Damn it,” she muttered, and swiped away tears. “I can't believe I'm talking about Mimi's murder as if I was debating the pros and cons of a pair of shoes.”

She slammed her hand against the wall, then ran from the room. He reached for her and missed, then followed, catching up with her in the hall. He grabbed her by the shoulders first, then turned her around.

Cat wouldn't look at him as she struggled to pull free.

Wilson didn't let go.

“Let me go!” she cried, then covered her face with her hands.

Wilson cupped the back of her head as he held her close. The more Cat struggled, the firmer he held her, until, finally, he felt her resistance fade.

“It's okay to cry.”

All the fight in her stopped. He felt her shoulders beginning to shake. He eased his grip on her arms and then wrapped his own around her.

Her voice was angry and shaking. “Why is it that the people I love most keep dying?”

“I don't know,” he said softly. “But I'm so sorry it's happening.”

His empathy was the final straw.

Wilson felt her body give way as she started to sob. He pulled her close, then tightened his grip. Her pain was almost more than he could bear. She clung to him as a drowning person might cling to a life preserver, and he let her, wishing he could make everything okay.

Cat cried until she was sick. She felt out of control, even lost. What if she never found Mimi? What if Mark Presley got away with murder?

Cat's breakdown was tearing Wilson apart. Finally he picked her up in his arms and carried her into her bedroom, then laid her on the bed.

Cat curled up like a baby, covering her head with her arms.

Wilson sat down beside her, then laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Cat…Catherine…we'll find her. I'll help all I can, okay? You don't have to do this alone.”

“I can't believe this is happening. How can this be happening?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Bad things happen to good people all the time. That's what our jobs are all about.”

She shuddered on a sob, then closed her eyes. All the past days of losing sleep were catching up with her.

“I'm so tired.”

“Then sleep,” Wilson said.

“I need to find Mimi.”

“Honey…we can't do anything until this weather clears. I nearly broke my fool neck just getting here. Sleep while you can.”

“Are you going to stay?” Cat asked.

Wilson felt a kick in the pit of his stomach.

“Maybe…if it's okay with you.”

There was a brief moment of silence, then she answered. “It's okay.”