Nine Lives (5 page)

Her hands were shaking horribly as she tried to picture the numbers on the keys. Finally she punched in the numbers to Cat's home phone, knowing that, as long as the line was open, the answering machine would record everything.

She tried to count off the time it would take for the call to go through, then for the phone to ring a certain number of times before the answering machine would come on, then the time it would take for Cat's message to play before it would pick up her call.

She was still counting when she passed out.

Time was a word without meaning, but when she next came to, the sound of the roar had changed, as had the sense of motion. It was then she knew they'd been flying and now they were descending.

When the motion stopped, she tried to call out, but intent never got past thought. She felt herself being dragged for what seemed like forever, and then, abruptly, everything was still.

Before she could think, she was being unrolled. Her arms and legs were like rubber as her body was ejected into a blistering cold. The drastic change in temperature was a metaphoric slap in the face, the push she needed to open her eyes. She did, only to see someone leaning over her. In a last desperate attempt, she reached up.

“Help me,” she whispered.

 

Mark Presley had flown all the way from the airport to an oil lease he owned in East Texas without a thought in his head beyond what he still had to do. When he dragged Marsha's body from the chopper and then started pulling it through the woods, he made himself think of what he was going to buy Penny for Christmas instead of what he had yet to do.

He'd never killed anyone before or even imagined being in a predicament where it might be necessary. But there was no way he could have gone through with what Marsha had asked. He was too afraid of what Penny would do, should he be found out.

By the time he got to the edge of the gully, his legs were shaking from the effort of dragging the body. He started to just toss her over, then stopped. The bright blue plastic sheeting in which she was wrapped would be too visible, especially from the air.

Determined to do this right, he began to unroll her. She flopped out face down onto the cold, wet ground. When he gave the sheeting a last hard yank to get it out from under her, it rolled her over onto her back.

When she suddenly opened her eyes and looked at him, reached for him, he was so shocked she was still alive that he staggered and fell backward.

“God damn, why aren't you dead?”

For a few seconds they were on their backs and lying side by side. Her hair and face were soaked with blood, and yet he saw his own reflection in her eyes, saw her lips move. When he realized she was asking for help, he panicked.

With a spurt of adrenaline born of nothing but fear, he picked her up and threw her over the rim into the tree-lined gully below. The pop and crack of the breaking limbs echoed loudly as they gave from the weight and momentum of her falling body. He was sick to his stomach and shaking in every muscle as he waited for the sound to cease.

Finally it was over. He leaned forward and finally saw a tiny blotch of red through the trees.

“Damn. Her coat. I should have taken it off,” he muttered, but it was too late.

Suddenly, the enormity of what he'd done swept through him. Desperate to be gone, he turned, grabbed the blue plastic sheet and ran through the trees, back to where he'd set down. The still spinning rotors were stirring up a tornado of dust and leaves as he reached the chopper. Frantic now to get away, he ripped off his coveralls, as well as the baseball cap he'd been wearing, wrapped the clothes and the wrench, which was now a murder weapon, in the plastic sheeting, and tied them up along with a couple of nearby rocks he would need for ballast.

When he took off, he went straight up, then headed for a nearby abandoned rock quarry holding more than forty feet of dark, murky water. He circled it once, then dropped the entire package into the middle of the quarry, circling overhead as he watched it sink. Once it was gone, he took off like a bat out of hell, bound for Dallas. He'd only gone about a half mile when he saw a small plane and recognized it as one belonging to a pipeline company in the area. They often flew the path of the buried pipelines searching for leaks, and that was obviously what they were doing today. Too late to take another course, he could do nothing but fly on, knowing full well they'd seen him.

He'd intended to fly straight back to Dallas, but now that he'd been spotted, the only thing he could do was what he did every time he came out to his leases. He turned the chopper toward Tyler, a small town not too far away, then landed on a heli-pad often used by oil and gas companies, and started walking.

There was a barbeque joint a couple of blocks away that he visited each time he was in the area. If this was going to be his alibi, then he didn't dare alter his habits. Eventually someone would discover that Marsha Benton was missing, but it wasn't going to be on his head.

By the time he got to the restaurant, his step was lighter. This was going to work out perfectly. He had been seen flying over his own oil leases, which he did on a regular basis. And he was eating at his favorite restaurant, as he did with every visit. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one to blame.

The owner greeted him jovially as he walked in the door, then led him straight to his favorite table. Mark ordered a slab of baby back ribs, a side order of fries and coleslaw, and cleaned his plate. He left a big tip on his credit card as he paid, then walked out. A short while later he was on his way home. The night was overcast, and the weather was already beginning to change for the worse as he landed the chopper back at the company hangar. He was home, but still not done.

He put on another pair of gloves, got into Marsha's car and headed for what he called the projects. Within the hour, he was circling an old housing complex. When he found a likely spot, he called a cab, asking to be picked up at The Bump and Grind, a busy, well-known nightclub with a reputation for drugs and whores, which was a few blocks over.

He parked the car on a corner beneath a broken street light, and left the keys in the ignition and the car unlocked. He got out without looking back and jogged to the club. Once there, and without making eye contact with the crowd around the front door, he waited for the cab to arrive.

Luck was with him.

Within five minutes he was being driven away. As they left the bad streets of Dallas behind him, he began to relax. He knew that Marsha's car would be gone before morning, most likely stripped or on its way to Mexico. Even if it showed up somewhere down the road, they would never be able to link it to him.

He rode the cab to within a half mile of the company airport, paid the driver off, then walked the rest of the way back. When he finally reached the hangar and crawled into his own car, it was close to four in the morning. His hands were shaking as he reached for his seat belt.

It was ten minutes to five when he entered the house. He reset the security alarm before it sounded, then removed his shoes and hurried upstairs, sidestepping the family cat, who, as always, was roaming the rooms in the dark. When he finally made it into the bedroom, he was relieved to find Penny sound asleep.

As badly as he wanted to crawl into bed beside her, he needed to maintain his alibi. When he saw how she'd curled up in a ball, he put an extra blanket over the bottom half of the bed, then hung up his clothes. Then, conscious of the continued need for an alibi, he wadded up his pajamas and messed up the sheets and his pillow as if he'd been in them all night, before hurrying into the bathroom.

His face was drawn, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot as he looked at himself in the mirror. He stared at himself until he started to smile, and then he did a little jump-hop and turned the water on in the shower.

He'd done it! His troubles were over, and no one was the wiser.

By the time he came out of the shower, Penny was sitting up in bed and combing her hair out of her face.

“Darling…what on earth are you doing?” she asked.

Mark bent down and kissed her as he tossed his wet towel toward the bathroom.

“Got to get to the office early,” he said. “I have some overseas phone calls to make.”

Penny made a face.

“What time did you come home? I never even knew when you came to bed.”

“Lord, honey, I'm not sure. It was late.” Then he leaned down and kissed her again, this time lingering on her pouty lips. “You looked so cute. You know how you get when you're cold, all rolled up in that little ball? I put extra covers on your feet and you relaxed.”

Penny blew kisses at him. “Poor baby, working so hard, and it's almost Christmas.”

“I know,” he said. “But we'll be leaving for Tahoe in a day or so, with plenty of time to enjoy ourselves there.”

She got up and went to the bathroom. Mark was dressed and ready to head downstairs by the time she came out. She made a face because she'd missed a morning quickie, then crawled back into bed and closed her eyes.

Mark was riding an adrenalin high as he arrived at his office. He felt no guilt for what he'd done. Marsha Benton had been a threat to everything he'd accomplished. The only downside was that he was going to have to find another personal assistant.

A few hours passed before he got tired of answering his own calls. He was reaching for the phone book to call the employment agency when the door to his office opened. Frowning, he looked up. It was Penny.

“Darling, where on earth is Marsha?”

Mark quickly shifted gears mentally as he strode across the room to greet her, then ignored her question by taking her in his arms.

“Penny, darling, I didn't know you were coming into the city. Please tell me you have time to let me take you to an early dinner.”

Penny Presley giggled and fluffed her freshly done hair as she threw her arms around her husband's neck.

“Oh, darling, you can take me anywhere you want.”

Mark made a low growling sound in the back of his throat and nuzzled the spot behind her ear. She moaned as she rubbed herself against his groin.

Mark's reaction was just as she'd expected. She smiled slowly as she looked up at him.

“You want me, don't you, honey? I can tell you do. Even after all these years, I still turn you on, don't I?”

“Lord, yes,” Mark said, and cupped her hips, pulling her closer. “Feel me, honey? You're the best there is, and you're mine.”

He grinned at her, locked the door to his office, and for a short while the business of hiring and firing—and killing—was put aside as he gave Penny Presley everything she wanted.

C
at 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.”