Nine Lives (7 page)

To his surprise, there was plenty of food, mostly leftovers, but still intact. Nothing looked moldy or on the verge of turning green, which wasn't always the case in his own kitchen. He shuffled through the drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed, then dished up some food onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. While he was waiting, he gathered her mail and newspapers, which had accumulated under the slot in the door, and brought them to the kitchen. He tossed everything on the counter, ignoring the fact that several envelopes fell across her answering machine. He did, however, notice the red blinking light, which reminded him to check his own messages. Later, as he was eating, he decided to check his calls.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and listened to the messages, none of which were pressing. When he finished eating, he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went back to check on her.

She had twisted and turned from the fever, until one side of her nightgown was rolled up above her waist and the covers were off. He couldn't help but notice the length of her legs and the slender curve of her hip. And, while he wasn't going to mess with her gown and take the chance of waking her up, he could pull the covers back over her.

It wasn't until he bent down to grab the blankets that he saw the small tattoo on her hip.

His eyes widened. He looked at her profile. Even asleep, she appeared daunting. But this little tattoo was proof that there might be a softer side to Catherine Dupree.

The tattoo was a butterfly—and it was pink.

Who would ever have believed that Cat Dupree would be the kind of woman to have a girly thing like that?

Barbed wire? Yes.

A skull and crossbones? Sure.

A snake with fangs exposed? Plausible.

But a tattoo of a small pink butterfly on her butt? Priceless.

Still grinning, he straightened the covers and left her alone. Another facet of this woman had been revealed. It was definitely something to consider, which set him to wondering what else she might be concealing.

As she slept, he prowled. It wasn't the gentlemanly thing to do, but no one had ever called him a gentleman. He was curious about her and, despite his better judgment, a little intrigued. It wasn't until he got to her office and saw the boxes stacked against one wall, saw that they were filled with the same things that adorned the walls and the top of her desk, that he got a slow chill.

Every page was of a different man—all criminals with rap sheets—all with varying numbers of tattoos. It was then that he remembered what Flannery had told him—that she and her father had been killed by a tattooed man. The case had long since gone cold, but she, obviously, had not given up the hunt.

 

Wind was whipping the branches of the lilac bush against Catherine's window. The sound was familiar, and it barely registered as she turned over and pulled the covers a little closer beneath her chin.

In seventeen days school would be out for Christmas vacation, and she could hardly wait. Daddy had promised to take her to New Mexico to go skiing. It would be their first trip to a skiing resort, but hopefully not their last.

Suddenly the sound of breaking glass filtered through her dreams of hot chocolate, roaring fires at the ski lodge and flying down the slopes so fast that she would outrun the sound of her own laughter.

She opened her eyes, then rolled over and sat up just as a loud thud sounded in the hallway.

“What the—”

It was her daddy's voice, but it was cut short by the thud. She jumped out of bed and bolted toward the door. What if Daddy had fallen and hurt himself? They couldn't go skiing if Daddy was hurt.

When she ran out into the hallway, she saw her father crumpled on the floor.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed, and was running toward him when someone came out of the bathroom and grabbed her around the waist.

She started to scream as she fought, kicking and swinging her arms in an effort to get free. Then she heard a rough, ugly voice cursing in her ear and someone telling her to shut up. She answered by kicking backward and knew that she'd hurt the assailant when he suddenly shrieked with pain.

“Bitch!” he screamed.

Catherine saw the glitter of lamplight on metal; then she saw the hand and arm swinging toward her, like an extension of the knife that was going to end her life.

At that moment her father got up from the floor, staggering toward them and cursing the man who held her, begging him to turn her loose.

Suddenly she was falling.

At first she felt no pain, but within seconds of hitting the floor, the coppery scent of blood was in her nose and her throat was on fire. She grabbed at her neck, thinking she'd been burned, only to find her hands covered in blood.

She looked up just as the assailant grabbed her father and began stabbing him repeatedly in the chest.

She tried to scream, but when she inhaled, she choked.

Her father fell lifelessly to the floor as the assailant jumped over him and ran to the front door. Catherine watched him disappear into the night as she waited to die.

Over and over, she struggled to breathe, then finally, blessedly, everything went dark.

 

Cat sat straight up in bed, choking and coughing and grabbing her throat, certain that her hands would come away covered in blood. Instead, all she felt was the hard ridge of scar, followed by the certainty that, although she was in her bedroom, she was not alone.

She rolled toward the bedside table, pulling a handgun from the drawer as she turned on the lamp.

Wilson had been dozing in a small, overstuffed chair, but the sudden brightness, coupled with the fact that he was now staring down the barrel of a gun, was better than any alarm clock he'd ever owned.

“Don't shoot,” he said quickly. “It's me, Wilson McKay.”

Cat was breathing hard and shaking as she leaned back against the headboard and let the gun fall in her lap.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?”

He frowned as he eyed the gun lying in her lap.

“Put that thing away,” he muttered, waiting for her to do as he'd asked. When the gun was back in the drawer, he answered. “You nearly passed out in the parking lot of the police department. Good Samaritan that I am, I brought you home, then held you in the parking lot while you threw up on my shoes.”

“Oh Lord,” Cat muttered, but Wilson seemed bothered that she'd pulled a gun on him and wouldn't stop talking. If he only knew how badly her head was pounding, he would shut the hell up. Trouble was, she couldn't focus enough to tell him.

“Your neighbors in 6E helped me get you inside the apartment. I put you to bed and gave you some pills—which have obviously broken your fever, because you're back to your normal bitchy self.”

Cat fell back against the pillows, staring at him in disbelief.

Wilson's tirade ended as quickly as it had begun. He took a deep breath then stood, walked to the bed and felt her forehead. It was damp, but cooler. The fever was gone.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Water? Something for pain?”

She shook her head no, then groaned when the motion made her feel as if the bed was spinning.

“Are you going to be sick to your stomach again?”

“No.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Water?” Her voice sounded weak.

“Not a problem,” he said and took the glass from the table and filled it with cool, fresh water, then carried it back to her bed.

He steadied her as she sipped it, then watched her give in to weakness as she fell back onto the pillow with a thump.

“I feel like shit. What happened?”

Wilson eyed the dark circles beneath her eyes and then laid the back of his hand against her forehead just to make sure the fever had abated.

“I'd guess you picked up some kind of flu bug.”

Cat closed her eyes.

“Not a bug. Nothing that small could possibly be causing this much agony.”

Wilson grinned. Her sense of humor was unexpected. He watched her hand go to her throat, then trace the scar on her neck. His grin died as he remembered how abruptly she'd awakened.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.

He heard her snort. At least it sounded like a snort, but he'd never heard a woman really snort before. It was somewhat surprising, as was most everything else about Catherine Dupree.

“Are there any other kinds?” she asked.

He frowned.

She scrubbed her hands across her face in an effort to wipe away the memory. When she lowered her hands, he realized she was staring straight at him.

“Sorry about the gun. Sometimes my dreams get mixed up with reality.”

“Remind me never to sleep with you,” he said, and when her mouth dropped open, he realized what he'd said. “Well…that's not exactly what I meant. I just meant that I need to be the one sleeping on this side of the bed, so that when you go for the gun, you have to crawl over me to do it.”

Cat's cheeks burned.

“Not in this lifetime,” she muttered.

He grinned again, then winked.

“I think you're well enough to be left on your own now.” He stood up, then dug in his pants pocket and pulled out the little silver charm. “Hold out your hand,”

Cat did so, palm upward. When she saw the glint of silver as he dropped the charm into her hand, her vision blurred.

“I've been carrying it with me for days,” he said.

A muscle jerked at the side of Cat's mouth.

“I didn't think I'd ever see this again,” she said, and then closed it within her fist.

“I can see it means a lot to you. Glad I found it.”

Cat looked up at him, shivering slightly as she realized it was the first time a man had ever been in her bedroom. Not that she was a virgin. Far from it. But she'd never allowed anyone into the world that was hers alone. Now here he was, mopping up her puke and wiping her brow as if she were nothing but some helpless baby.

“I owe you,” she said.

He grinned again. “Yeah, I know.”

His grin was aggravating. She glared.

“Lock the front door behind you when you leave.”

“No problem. I just need to call a cab first.”

She frowned again. “Where is your car?”

“Back in the precinct parking lot.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“We got here in your car. The keys are in the drawer there.” He pointed to the small table beside her bed. “You're welcome, and I'll be seeing you soon, so get well, okay?”

“Uh…yes, but—”

Wilson put his hand on the drawer where she kept the gun, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

“I would much rather have kissed your lips, but I was afraid you might be catching. However, on second thought…” He readjusted his aim and brushed his mouth across her lips. “It can't really matter.”

Cat was ill-prepared for Wilson's onslaught. She pulled back in anger.

“Get your pushy ass out of my bedroom.”

He straightened up, then shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at her without speaking.

“You heard me,” she said. “If I owe you something, I'll pay up in money, not with my ass.”

Wilson glared back. “I didn't hear anyone mention your ass except you, and just for the record, it's too damn skinny for my liking.”

He walked to the door, then turned around, as if memorizing the way she looked with her hair tumbling down about her face and her eyes glittering with anger. Finally he shook his head, as much at himself as at her.

“Call me if you need me. I left my card by the phone.”

Before she could gather her wits enough to speak, he was gone.

B
y morning Cat was lucid enough to remember that Wilson McKay had spent the night in her apartment and that Mimi was still missing. There was a knot of pure fear in the pit of her stomach. No matter what anyone said—no matter how logical they made Mimi's disappearance seem—she knew her friend was gone. She would never hear her voice again.

Still feeling miserable from whatever she'd caught, she ignored her frustration and anger with Detective Flannery and gave him a call.

Flannery had been at work all of fifteen minutes and was stirring sugar in his coffee when his phone rang.

“Homicide—Flannery.”

“Detective, this is Cat Dupree.”

Flannery resisted the urge to duck as he reached for a pad of paper and wrote down her name.

“Yes, ma'am, how can I help you?”

Cat frowned. He wasn't going to make this easy for her, and she wasn't going to apologize for her outburst.

“I'm calling to ask if you've discovered anything regarding the disappearance of my friend Marsha Benton.”

Flannery frowned. So the woman was still missing. That was news to him.

“Miss Dupree, I told you when you were here that, at this point, this isn't a case for Homicide.”

Cat closed her eyes.

Flannery didn't defend his stance. He just kept talking.

“I
will
tell you that I made a couple of calls. A call to Presley Machines verified your belief she'd been fired, and there was no answer at her apartment. I did this purely on my own. It's not an active case and won't be unless there's further reason to investigate. I'm sorry. Again, if you're still convinced there's been foul play, you need to file a Missing—”

Cat hung up while he was still talking.

When Flannery heard the click and realized she'd disconnected, he cursed beneath his breath. He didn't like being accused of shirking his duties, because he took them very seriously. But he didn't know how to deal with someone as single-minded and hard-headed as Cat Dupree. There were ways to proceed with a situation, and she was ignoring them all.

Meanwhile, Cat was sitting on the side of the bed with her head reeling. She thought about going into the kitchen and making some coffee, but she feared her stomach was still too upset to tolerate anything but water.

She thought about what Flannery had said. She knew, if she intended to get anyone in the police department interested in what she had to say about Marsha's disappearance, she would have to go through Missing Persons, even though it seemed all wrong to her. Still, being pissed wasn't going to help find Mimi.

She picked up the receiver and called the police again, and this time she asked to be connected to Missing Persons.

Adam Bradley was a nineteen-year veteran of the department and was known for his bulldog attitude toward closing cases. Nothing bugged him more than a case going cold without a resolution.

He'd come to work this morning nursing his bum knee and a toothache. He had an appointment with the dentist later in the day, but for now, he was going through the motions. When his phone rang, he answered with his usual gruff bark.

“Missing Persons…Bradley.”

“I need to report a missing person,” Cat said.

Bradley reached for his pen and pulled a pad of paper closer to the phone.

“What's the name?”

“Marsha Benton.”

“Address?”

Cat rattled it off.

“What does she drive?”

“A new Silver Lexus. It has a vanity plate that says ALLMINE.”

“Okay…got it. And what's your name?” Bradley asked.

“Cat Dupree.”

Bradley made a note, trying to figure out why the name was familiar.

“Why do you think she's missing? It's December. Maybe she just went home early for the holidays.”

Cat felt nauseated and lay back on the mattress to keep from falling out of bed. She didn't like the sound of this man's voice any better than she had Flannery's attitude and almost hung up. But then she thought better of the notion and kept talking.

“She's missing because I'm convinced her boss killed her, and she didn't go anywhere for the holidays because I'm all the family she has.”

Bradley's heart thumped, and his pen shifted on the paper.

“You know for a fact she's dead?”

“I haven't seen the body, if that's what you're asking,” she said. “But I had lunch with her the day before she disappeared. She'd been crying. She told me she'd been having an affair with her boss, and she was pregnant. He wanted her to get rid of the baby. She wouldn't…couldn't. She said—and these were her words—he'd said something to her about ‘six feet under.' I spoke to her the next day. He'd fired her. She was on her way to an appointment with an obstetrician, then she was coming to my house. She never showed up. She never called.”

Bradley was writing as fast as Cat was talking.

“Where did she work?” he asked.

“Presley Implement and Machines.”

“Who is this boss she's having the affair with?”

“Mark Presley.”

Bradley voice rose an octave.

“The owner?”

“Yes.”

There was a long moment of silence. Cat could hear the sound of pen scratching on paper.

“Detective…are you still there?”

“Yeah. I'm here. Just finishing up some notes. Here's the deal. I have to verify your statements regarding her firing and the relationship she supposedly had with her boss.”

“But you're going to take this seriously…right?”

Bradley frowned. “I take everything seriously, ma'am. You need to come down to headquarters and sign the complaint.”

“I'm in bed. I have a fever, and I've been throwing up.”

Bradley didn't want the exposure.

“I'll be in touch.”

Cat rolled over, replaced the receiver on the cradle and then staggered into the bathroom. She managed to stay upright long enough to shower. She came out later, weak and shaking. Whatever bug she had was still lingering, so she popped a couple of pills for fever and crawled back in bed. Within minutes she was asleep again. She dreamed, but not about Mimi or the attack that killed her father. This time she dreamed about a pirate with a gold hoop in his ear and a devilish smile, who stole kisses when no one was looking.

 

After a half dozen phone calls, Bradley knew that Marsha Benton, who'd once been Mark Presley's personal secretary, had, indeed, been fired. He also knew that the manager at her apartment hadn't seen her in several days, which was unusual because her apartment was directly above his, and he always knew when she was home.

He'd run a make on her car and found a report that a car matching the description of hers had been found abandoned on a Fort Worth bypass. It had been stripped of everything, including the tag, but he was running the VIN number he'd gotten from the DMV to see if it matched the one on the wrecked vehicle. It changed nothing other than adding a new supposition to why Marsha Benton wasn't where she belonged. Maybe the car had quit on her and she'd been abducted, and her troubles with Mark Presley were nothing more than coincidence.

Still, Bradley wasn't a man who jumped to easy conclusions just to close a case, and he had taken Cat Dupree's claim of an affair and pregnancy just as seriously as the discovery of Benton's car. In his experience, people had killed for less.

He'd tried to get in touch with Mark Presley at the company, only to be told that Mr. Presley was not at the office and was, in fact, planning to leave the state for the holidays.

No big deal. If Presley wasn't available at the office, he would just have to be available at home. He got his notebook, his overcoat, a to-go cup of coffee, and headed for the parking lot. It was time to pay a visit to Mr. Presley.

 

Mark Presley was packing when the maid came to tell him there were detectives from the Dallas police department downstairs.

Penny came racing out of the bathroom, naked except for a pair of bikini panties. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel, and her face was covered with a mint facial mask. When she saw the maid was still in the room, she shrieked.

“Get out! Get out!”

The maid dashed out as Penny turned on Mark and nailed him with a look.

“Detectives! Why would detectives want to talk to you?”

Mark stifled a curse. Penny had a tendency to scream at the least little thing.

“Honey…I have no idea. Go ahead with your facial. I'll be right back.”

“But what if—”

He walked out before Penny went ballistic.

His stride was unhurried, his shoulders back, his chin up. He showed no fear because he had no fear. Whatever the police had to say, he was ready for them.

 

Detective Bradley and his partner, Ed Frost, were waiting in the foyer of the Presley mansion. There were empty chairs visible through the door that led into the library, but they hadn't been invited in any farther than where they were standing. The opulence of the place was obvious. Amber-veined marble formed the newel posts of the winding staircase that led to the upper stories, while matching tiles of the same marble covered the floor in the entryway.

A massive chandelier hung from a large gilded chain about halfway down from the eighteen foot ceiling. The scent of warm spices wafted through the air, giving visitors the impression that fresh cookies and warm wassail awaited. From where Bradley and Frost were standing, they could see into three large rooms and in each room stood a fully decorated Christmas tree, each with its own theme.

Ed pointed to the tree in the far corner of the room on their right.

“Would you look at that?” he muttered. “That's a ten-footer if it's an inch.”

Bradley nodded. “Yeah, and look at those gold-colored ornaments.”

Ed snorted softly. “In this house, they're most likely real.”

Bradley eyed them curiously, then elbowed Ed as Presley appeared at the top of the stairs.

Ed straightened up and resumed his business face, as did Bradley, and waited for Presley to grace them with his presence.

 

Mark Presley had not had his decisions questioned for years, and his demeanor showed it. He descended the stairs with the behavior of a royal. He was a long way from the mechanic's kid who missed out on his childhood dreams. He'd set new goals for himself and surpassed them a dozen times over, and still it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. And these detectives were crazy if they thought they were going to take him away from all he'd created.

As soon as his foot hit the last stair and not before, he acknowledged their presence with a nod.

“Gentlemen, please come with me. We'll have our conversation in the library. There's a nice fire in the fireplace that will offset the discomfort of the weather today.”

Bradley and Frost followed.

Mark walked all the way to the fireplace, then turned abruptly, placing one hand on the mantel and gesturing toward the sofa with the other.

“Please. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Bradley said, and pulled a notebook from an inside pocket of his coat as he sat. “Mr. Presley, we'll get straight to the point. We're investigating the disappearance of Marsha Benton. We understand she—”

Mark interrupted quickly, letting surprise color his expression.

“Marsha is missing? That's terrible! I hadn't heard.”

Bradley frowned.

“As I was saying…we understand she'd been working for you for several years and that you'd recently fired her. Is this true?”

Mark never broke eye contact.

“Yes. She'd been with me for years. I hated to lose her.”

Frost spoke up next.

“Then why is she no longer working for you? We've been told she was fired.”

Mark took his hand from the mantel and moved to a large easy chair opposite the sofa. When he sat down, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The gesture was open and inviting, as he meant it to be.

“That's true. I did fire her.” Then he glanced up at the doorway, as if making sure they were still alone, and slightly lowered his voice, making their conversation even more intimate. “It was a shock, to say the least. She'd been with me for…oh…I don't know…going on nine years, I think. Absolutely priceless when it came to organization. Always on top of everything concerning my work and travel. She's going to be hard to replace.”

“So if she's so great, why replace her?” Bradley asked.

Mark's voice softened yet again.

“It was a shock, and embarrassing, I tell you. Completely blindsided me.”