Nine Lives (16 page)

“It must be nice to belong to a big family,” she said.

“They'd have a different story to tell,” Wilson said. “Next holiday, you'll have to come home with me and see for yourself.”

Next holiday? This was beginning to sound like a relationship with substance. Not just a meeting of two healthy people who enjoyed each other—and sex.

“Maybe,” Cat said.

Wilson felt her pulling away again and kept quiet, letting her direct the conversation.

“Tell me your best memory,” she said finally.

“There are so many,” Wilson said. “Why don't you tell me yours, instead?”

Cat went still—so still that Wilson feared he'd said the wrong thing by bringing up any part of her past. Just when he was about to change the subject, she answered.

“I think I was about four or five, although I'm not sure. I do know that Mother was still alive, and it was summer. A carnival had come to town, and I wanted to ride on the merry-go-round, but I was afraid to do it by myself. So Daddy bought three tickets instead of just the one for me, then Mother lifted me onto the horse, and she and Daddy got on either side of me. When the music began to play and the horse started going up and down, I squealed. I remember the smell of cotton candy, the sound of their laughter and the wind blowing through my hair. It was the best day.”

Wilson nodded, but there was a big knot in the back of his throat as he thought about Catherine Dupree's life. Most of it had been one kick in the teeth after another.

“That's a good one. What was your mother's name?”

“Catherine…like mine.”

“Do you look like her?”

“No. Like Daddy. Mother was small, with light brown hair and green eyes. I get my height and coloring from him.”

“You're beautiful, you know,” Wilson said.

Cat frowned. “I'm too thin.”

“You're beautiful.”

Cat pushed at Wilson's hands with her foot. He turned it loose and picked up her other one without missing a beat.

“You don't have to say that,” she said.

He rubbed at her toes, then began rubbing between them. It felt so good to Cat, she was mentally comparing the sensation to an orgasm when he answered.

“It's called a compliment, and don't tell me you've never had them,” he said.

“Not one that came without something else attached.”

He frowned, then dropped her foot and stood up.

“Just for the record, you're the most aggravating female I've ever known. You'd think by that look on your face that I'd just said a bad word. For God's sake, don't get yourself all in a twist. It's not like I'm fishing around on the off chance we might make love.”

“We have sex,” she said.

His eyes narrowed angrily. “I'm a liberal. You call it what you want to.”

For some reason his defiance was making her nervous. She wasn't afraid of him. She just wasn't sure what she'd said that was pushing his buttons.

“Thank you again for today,” she said.

A muscle jerked at the side of his jaw, but he didn't react.

“You're welcome,” he said. “Now try to get some sleep.”

 

The next morning was hectic. They overslept and then rushed to get ready. Breakfast was fast food on the way to the sheriff's office. Cat got through the interview dry-eyed and stone-jawed, leaving Sheriff Sam Lohman with the opinion that she pursued her beliefs with a passion that was close to dangerous.

She'd begun by explaining her suspicions about Mark Presley with regard to what Marsha had told her, then lightly brushed over the accumulation of information she'd gathered through Wilson's expertise before going on to the strange message from Marsha's cell phone that had been left on her machine. She tied it all up with the comment that the sum total had led her to this area.

It was after eleven a.m. when they left the sheriff's office and started the trip back to Dallas. Wilson made sure she had everything she might need—a bottle of water, something to read and a couple of snacks, should she get hungry again.

Cat smiled in all the right places, and said please and thank you when the need arose, but she was already mentally withdrawing from the closeness they had shared. It was nothing more complicated than an instinctive need to protect herself.

They hadn't cleared the city limits of Tyler before Wilson felt the distance between them. He didn't like it, but he didn't know how to get her back. Within an hour, she was asleep, and she stayed that way most of the way back to Dallas.

They were on the outskirts of the city before she woke up. Wilson heard her stirring and glanced over. Her breasts pushed at the fabric of her sweater as she stretched. Remembering the weight of them in his hands made him ache, so he turned his attention back to the road and shifted his emotions to neutral.

“You got a good sleep. Do you feel better?”

The lack of expression in his voice made his words sound cold. She knew she was responsible for the wall between them, but it was the way it had to be.

“Yes, I feel fine.”

“Good,” he said.

“Wilson?”

“Yeah?”

“I need to tell you something.”

A knot tied itself into his stomach. “No, you don't.”

Cat frowned. “Yes, I do. You have to understand that when it comes to relationships, I don't know how to have them or keep them, and most of the time I don't even want them.”

Wilson felt well and truly put in his place. What was strange was, he could remember a good half-dozen times in his past when he'd said almost the same thing to women he'd known. It felt a bit strange being on the other end of the situation. He cleared his throat.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Cat fisted her hands in her lap.

“I didn't expect to see you yesterday, but you will never know what it meant to me that you came. Last night was hell. You helped me get through it.”

Wilson nodded.

Cat turned slightly toward him, noting the firm grip he had on the steering wheel and the long, muscular length of him, then looked away. It was time to put the distance back between them.

He got the vibe and responded in kind. “I'm taking you to your apartment, then I'll check in at work. You'll probably get a visit or a call from someone in Homicide.”

“When are they going to arrest Presley?”

“Cat, we've talked about this, remember? Right now, there isn't any physical evidence to prove he has a connection to Marsha's death.”

“But he—”

“None of what we know for sure is proof of a murder, and you know it.”

Cat frowned. In her heart, she knew he was right, but she didn't have to like it.

“Well, hell. Aren't they at least going to talk to him?” she asked.

“Detective Bradley said Presley is in Tahoe but is coming back to Dallas today, and they're going to interview him tomorrow.”

Cat's stomach began to knot all over again.

“Tahoe. He killed Mimi, then went skiing?”

There was a thin thread of mania in her voice. Wilson feared it was only a matter of time before she came undone.

“He and his wife did go to Tahoe for Christmas. Beyond that, I don't know what to tell you.”

“Nothing,” she said, and then leaned back, folded her arms across her chest and closed her eyes. “There's nothing to be said.”

Wilson's frown deepened. She had gone too quiet too quickly.

“Just promise me that you won't do anything to get yourself in trouble, okay?”

Cat thought about what he'd said for a moment, then nodded. She could promise that easily. She wasn't in trouble, but Mark Presley was. He just didn't know it yet.

C
at was home. It felt as if she'd been gone for years. When she'd left yesterday, she'd been on a mission. But completing the mission and finding that her worst fears had been realized had changed her world.

Nothing would ever be the same.

There was no one left with whom she could laugh over remembering old times.

If she died tomorrow, as abruptly as Marsha's life had ended, it would hardly be noted.

Then she ventured a glance at Wilson, who had said very little to her since she'd walked into her apartment, and knew that wasn't exactly true.

Wilson would care—at least a little. He'd used the L-making word in context with sex.

Wilson was conscious of her gaze as he stood at the windows overlooking the parking lot. He had jammed his hands in his pockets to keep from putting them around Cat's neck and was trying to think of something to say that wouldn't be misconstrued again. It was then that he noticed her SUV wasn't in its usual parking space. That was when he remembered she must have driven to an airport to take the chopper, which meant her vehicle was in a parking lot somewhere. He turned around with a frown on his face.

“I just now realized your car must be in some airport parking lot. Do you want me to drive you there?”

“Don't worry about it. I'll take a cab out to get it.”

He frowned. “Why didn't you say something sooner? I could have taken you to—”

“It was too far out of your way, and besides, the cab is easier. There are some things I need to do anyway. It's not like I came home to go to bed.”

She was trying to get rid of him, and he knew it. God only knew what she was going to do next.

“Okay…uh…you can call me if you need me.”

“I will, and thanks again.”

Pissed at himself for getting attached to a woman who wore No Trespassing signs the way other women wore earrings, he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

“No problem,” he said shortly, and left her standing at the door, watching him go.

Cat felt guilt and regret and other emotions she chose not to name as she watched him leave. He was sexy beyond words, and attracted to her, but she chose not to focus on anything other than watching Mark Presley die.

As soon as Wilson was gone, she began to regroup. The first thing on her list was a change of clothes. When she'd left Dallas yesterday morning, she hadn't planned on spending the night away from home.

She started toward her bedroom, then stopped and retraced her steps to her office. There were a half-dozen new faxes of criminals with tattoos, which she promptly grabbed. She stared at the faces long and hard, studying the tattoos and the men's features until she was satisfied none of them was the man for whom she kept looking.

“Some day, Daddy,” she said softly, and laid the faxes aside.

She sat down long enough to scan through the Dallas phone book for a residence address for Mark Presley and soon found out he had an unlisted number. Undaunted, she got the number for his office and made the call.

“Presley Implements,” a woman answered.

Cat lifted the tenor of her voice as best she could, hoping she sounded like a teenager.

“This is Benny's Floral. Ummm…uh…we have an FTD delivery for Mr. and Mrs. Mark Presley, but no home address. Can you help me?”

The receptionist, ticked because she had to work today even though most of the building was still empty because of the holidays, didn't even hesitate as she rattled off the address.

Cat wrote it down and hung up without a goodbye; then she called a cab and hurried into the bedroom to change. She'd found Mimi. Now she needed to look at the man who'd killed her. By the time the cab arrived, she had showered and changed and was outside, waiting for its arrival.

The day was clear but still cold, although the ice on the streets was gone. It seemed like another lifetime since she and Melvin had lifted off from the little airport where his chopper service was housed.

The cab arrived without a long wait, and when they finally arrived at the private airport, she had devised a plan. She paid off the cab driver, then got out and headed toward the back parking lot, where she'd left her SUV.

Melvin was servicing a chopper when Cat walked up.

“Hey, Melvin…I see you made it back okay.”

He recognized that husky drawl and was grinning before he turned around.

“Hey back at you, Missy.” Then his smile slipped as he looked at her face. As his old man used to say, she looked like she'd been rode hard and put up wet. “You okay?”

Cat shrugged. “Okay” wasn't the word, but he didn't need to know the miserable details.

“It was a long night. I came to pick up my car.”

“Yeah…I figured as much.”

“So I guess I'll be seeing you,” she said, and walked away, then stopped and turned around again. “I should probably warn you that the sheriff who worked the crime scene might be calling you just to get your side of the story. His name is Sam Lohman.”

“No problem,” he said.

“And I'm not sure, but homicide detectives from the Dallas P.D. might want to talk to you, too.”

He shrugged. “Don't have all that much to tell anyone, but I'll do my part.”

“Thank you,” Cat said, and then got in her SUV and left.

She drove straight to a shop specializing in high-tech surveillance equipment and spent two hours choosing and learning how to use what she bought before heading home.

Her steps were slow as she turned the deadbolt to the front door. The distinct click was supposed to be a sound of reassurance that she was safe inside her home. So why, she wondered, did it make her feel like a prisoner, instead? Why was she always on the outside of life, looking in?

There were a couple of messages on her answering machine. One was from Al, telling her to call him. She wasn't ready to discuss Mimi again, and she wasn't working any of his cases until there was justice for Mimi, so she deleted the call. The other was from Joe Flannery, the homicide detective who'd first rejected her story. His message was as cool and formal as the tone of his voice, asking her to come down to headquarters tomorrow to give a statement, and to please call him to verify the time.

She frowned, thinking of going down there and explaining herself all over again, reliving the horror of finding Mimi's body and trying not to think of how she'd looked when they'd dragged her up and out of the ravine. No sooner had she thought it than she heard Mimi's voice, chastising her over a year ago.

“You hide from life, Catherine. Even when you're in the middle of it, standing toe to toe with all the bad guys you bring in, you manage to keep an emotional distance. I understand why you do it, but ultimately, you're the one who will suffer. You're the one who's going to grow old alone.”

Cat blinked back tears, remembering what she'd told her.

I won't be alone, Mimi. I'll always have you.

Obviously she had been wrong.

 

Wilson went through the motions at work, but he felt as if he'd been broadsided. He'd let a woman get under his skin and had been rejected as easily as a used grocery list. He felt a little like a green high school kid who'd been suckered by a pro. He'd mistaken the great sex they shared for something more.

As he was filing reports, the phone rang, giving him something else to think about besides Cat Dupree. Since his receptionist was out to lunch, he answered on his own.

“McKay Bail and Bond.”

“Wilson, it's Flannery.”

“Hey, Joe. What's up?”

“I understand Cat Dupree found Marsha Benton's body yesterday?”

Now they were interested, Wilson thought, and felt a sense of righteous indignation on Cat's part, even though he knew it was misplaced.

“Why are you asking me? You should be talking to her.”

Joe rubbed at an ache in the middle of his forehead and tried not to sound as miserable as he felt.

“I've called her. She hasn't called me back yet.”

“Again…why are you calling me?”

Joe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

“I'm curious. How did she do it? The way I heard it, she just rented a chopper, flew to some oil lease in East Texas and found her…all in one day.”

“Yeah, that's what I heard, too.”

“Did she get a tip that the body was there?”

“It's my understanding that between the time she spoke to you and yesterday morning, she's been gathering every bit of information she could on Mark Presley's business and whereabouts. I helped her with some of the research, but she put it all together.”

“Helped how?” Flannery asked.

“Let's just say that I have ways of accessing personal info. She was looking for a break in the man's pattern of business, both personal and professional. And you know about the phone call she found on her answering machine, right?”

“No.”

“You need to talk to Bradley down in Missing Persons. He can fill you in on that.”

“What was on the message?” Joe asked.

“I don't know if Bradley found anything more on it than what we heard. It was made from Marsha's cell phone just after she went missing, but there were no words on it. All you could hear was what it sounds like from the inside of a helicopter—three minutes' worth before the answering machine clicked off.”

“A helicopter?”

“Yeah. As if you were riding in one.”

“But how does that get you to—”

“I told you, talk to Cat.”

“Yeah, right,” Joe said, and knew he was going to have to backpedal his former attitude to get cooperation from her.

“What do you know about Mark Presley?” Flannery asked.

“Other than what I read about him from Cat's research, next to nothing.”

“We got a call from his wife this morning,” Flannery said.

“About what?”

“She's offered to cooperate in any way needed to find Marsha Benton's killer.”

Wilson frowned. “That's probably because she has no idea you're going to be pointing a finger at her husband.”

“On the contrary,” Flannery said. “I don't know what's been going on at the Presley mansion, but it couldn't have been all good.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a well-known fact in some circles that Presley has been having affairs behind his wife's back for years. It appears now that she knew all along about his indiscretions. Missing Persons interviewed Presley a few days ago, then left a card. According to Bradley, Mrs. Presley called this morning. Bradley told her that since Ms. Benton's body has been discovered, technically she's no longer missing and the case will go to homicide. She told Bradley to let us know she's available to help in any way.”

“Think you've got a ‘woman scorned' thing going on?”

“Don't know about that so much, but what we do have is access to Presley's DNA. Hair from his hairbrush, saliva from drinking glasses, toothbrushes. She offered it all in case he refused.”

“And she's willing to hand it over? Just like that?” Wilson asked.

“So it seems.”

Wilson flipped the pen he was holding, then laid it down on the desk.

“Maybe Cat will get some justice for her friend after all,” he said, then hung up.

He thought about Flannery's phone call. As ticked off as he was at himself for letting her get under his skin, he couldn't get her out of his mind. Even after he went home for the day, the urge to call Cat was strong. But there had to be a starting point for regaining his dignity, and he'd made up his mind that today would be it.

So while Cat holed up in her apartment, gaining strength for what was to come, Wilson went home to lick his wounds.

As for the Presleys, they arrived home from Tahoe a few hours before nightfall. The trip had been virtually without conversation. Once back in familiar territory, Penny seemed to have gained backbone, while Mark appeared to withdraw. When the time drew near for their dinner hour, they met in the library for an aperitif.

Once the drinks had been served, they'd each moved to a separate part of the room to be alone with their thoughts.

Penny pretended great interest in a new magazine, while Mark scanned through a stack of newspapers, but the tension between them was strong.

Back in Tahoe, when he had broken the news to her that they had to go home, he had been put on the defensive by the fact that he was the one who'd had personal contact with a murdered woman.

He had the feeling now that she was never going to forgive him for what she viewed as rape, and this latest incident had only fueled her fire. For the first time in their married lives, she'd stood up to him and rejected his excuses. He was beginning to think she'd known about his dalliances for years but for her own reasons had chosen to play dumb. But when she'd learned that the police wanted to question him regarding Marsha Benton's murder, her days of playing dumb seemed to have ended.