Nine Lives (9 page)

Art cleared his throat.

“I'm not about to butt into your personal business. I just want you to be careful and stay safe, okay? If we're talkin' murder, here, then remember…they say it's easier to kill the second time around.”

Cat snorted lightly.

“What
they
said that?”

“Specs Charleston, that's who, Cat.”

She shivered. Specs Charleston had been the first really dangerous bail jumper she'd ever brought in. He was a serial killer who targeted women who wore glasses, hence the name Specs. The trophies from the crimes had been as brutally taken as the man himself. He'd cut out the eyes, then taken them and the victims' eyeglasses. Cat still had an occasional nightmare about the authorities finally nailing Specs and his gory keepsakes in the root cellar of his grandmother's home outside Austin. She'd bad-mouthed Art for months afterward for ever bonding the man out.

“Specs Charleston was a creep. For God's sake, Art, do not even speak my name and his in the same breath.”

“I didn't mean nothin' by it. I'm just trying to—”

“I'm taking some time off,” she said.

Art sighed. It didn't surprise him. Cat and Marsha were as tight as two friends could be.

“Just keep yourself safe, you hear me?”

Cat eased back on her anger. Art wasn't the one she was mad at. He meant well, and she knew it.

“I'm sorry. I hear you.”

“All right, then,” Art said.

“Talk to you soon,” Cat said, and disconnected.

She stared at the phone, then at the answering machine. She was about to listen to the message again when the doorbell rang.

“Finally,” she muttered, and strode out of the kitchen.

It was Wilson. She didn't ask him in; she just held out her hand.

Wilson eyed it as if she were carrying the plague, then stepped past her and walked in without an invitation.

“Hey! My keys are all I need from you, okay?”

He stalked past her, heading for her bedroom. Cat followed, arguing all the way.

Wilson paused in the doorway, then moved to the bedside table. He opened the drawer, took out the keys and put them in her hand.

Cat's fingers closed over them.

“You could have told me this much over the phone.”

Wilson glared. The woman was driving him nuts.

“I should have,” he muttered, as he grabbed her by the shoulder, then laid a hand on her forehead, checking for a fever. Her skin was cool.

“Don't touch me,” Cat said.

“Shut up, woman. I'm only checking to make sure you're not feverish before I go off and leave you on your own. If you self-destruct after I'm gone, then it's on your head, not mine.”

Cat stomped out of the bedroom.

Wilson followed.

She opened the front door and then stood back, waiting for him to exit. She wouldn't look at him. She didn't want to see the concern in his eyes. She didn't want to know that he'd cared enough to come all the way over just to make sure she was lucid.

He was all the way across the threshold when she suddenly cursed herself, then called him back.

“Hey, Wilson.”

He turned around. “What?”

He thought he saw her chin trembling, but when he looked again, decided he'd been mistaken.

“If you have time…there's something I want you to hear.”

Wilson didn't know what it was, but he knew what it cost her to ask. He walked back into the apartment, closed the door behind him and followed her into the kitchen.

“Sit down,” she said, pointing to the kitchen table.

He sat.

She punched a button on the answering machine.

He waited. All he could hear was noise.

“What am I supposed to be hearing?” he asked when the machine clicked off at the end of the message.

Cat played it again.

Wilson stood up and walked closer until he was standing right beside the machine—and her.

“What? Tell me what I'm hearing,” he asked.

Cat glanced up at him. She heard the kindness in his voice and saw the concern on his face. She shifted her gaze from the gold loop in his ear to the shape of his mouth, then looked away.

“You tell me,” she said. “What does that sound like to you?”

He frowned.

“Play it again, please.”

She did.

He closed his eyes and let go of everything but the sound. It was familiar, something he'd heard before, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it—

“A chopper. It sounds like what a chopper sounds like from inside.”

Cat shuddered.

“You mean…when you're riding in one?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“The call is from Marsha's cell phone. It's been on my answering machine for days. I didn't know.”

Wilson's heart skipped a beat. It seemed as if Cat might have been right all along.

“Have you told the police?”

“No.”

“Jesus, Cat. You can't do this by yourself. You need to call Missing Persons and—”

“I called them. Talked to a man named Bradley. Haven't heard from him since.”

“Then we call him. Now.”

“But I need to—”

He took the keys out of her hand, then dropped them on the table and turned her around.

“You're shaking like a leaf. What you
need
is to sit down.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket. “I'll give Bradley a call and—”

Cat took away his phone.

“I don't need to be taken care of. All I needed were my keys.
I
will call Bradley. Thank you.”

Wilson stared at her a moment, then took a deep breath and held out his hand for his phone. As he waited, he saw the silver chain disappearing underneath her shirt and knew she was wearing the charm again.

Cat dropped the phone in his hand. For some reason she chose not to examine, she couldn't bring herself to look into his face.

He put the phone in his pocket and let the silence lengthen between them.

Cat fidgeted. It wasn't often that someone made her uneasy, but this man did. Finally she lifted her head, only to find him watching her intently. Before she could speak, he shoved his hand beneath her hair. She felt his fingers curling around her neck, holding firm, but without hurting. When he leaned down, she guessed he was going to kiss her—again.

His breath was on her face, along with the faint scent of mint, most likely from his toothpaste. She felt his fingers shift.

“Look at me,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed defensively.

“I see you.”

“Then listen carefully. I don't like being told what to do, either. I don't know why our paths keep crossing, but so far, none of it has been my doing. I'm sorry as hell that your friend is missing. I hope, with every fiber of my being, that you're wrong about her fate. I also know that you don't trust a goddamn person except yourself. In the words of a famous Texan with his own talk show, who shall still remain nameless…‘How's that workin' for you?'”

Cat flinched.

She wished he'd just kissed her. It would have been far less painful than this.

“I'
m in over my head.”

Wilson exhaled softly. The admission was surprising. He'd never thought he would hear that admission coming from Cat Dupree's lips.

“It's because you're too close to the pain.”

She dropped her gaze.

He turned her loose, then jammed his hands in his pockets to keep them off her and fiddled with his phone instead.

“Call Bradley.”

“Okay.”

She dialed as he watched.

“Missing Persons. Bradley speaking.”

“Detective Bradley, this is Cat Dupree. I discovered a message from Marsha on my answering machine. At least…it's a call…no words…just some sounds.”

“I'll be there within the hour.”

“Thank you.”

She hung up.

“See, that wasn't so hard.”

She laid down the phone, then covered her face.

“Mimi was all I had.”

Wilson sighed. “For what it's worth, I'm offering my services…but only as a friend.”

Cat turned away, then shoved her fingers through her hair in quick frustration.

“I don't deserve it,” she said.

Wilson grinned wryly. “You're right about that.”

She glared.

He grinned.

“I'm still offering, if you're interested.”

Cat looked at him then, as if really seeing him for the first time. He was big and tough, and, even if he did have a gold earring in his right ear, he looked like he could fight his way through a roomful of bears. It might be a good thing to have him on her side—but only because of Mimi.

“Yes,” she finally said, and offered her hand.

He took it.

She waited, curious to see what would happen next.

He held it for a moment, as if testing the weight in his hands, then solemnly shook it.

“So, how can I help?” Wilson asked.

Cat thought about it for a while.

“How good are you on research?” she asked.

“What kind of research?”

“Stuff you can get off a computer if you know where to look…personal things about someone's life.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Publicly, I only do what's legal.”

“How about personally?”

“Let's just say, in another life, I think I was a bloodhound.”

Her jaw set as her eyes narrowed.

“That's good. If you really want to help me, I need information.”

“About who?”

“Mark Presley. I need to know where he was, what he did, how he spent his money, where he spent it, and especially everything that would clock his whereabouts from the day before Marsha went missing to the day after. Oh…and I need to know what he owns and where it's located.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Anything else?”

“If I give you Marsha's phone numbers, social security number and address, can you do the same thing with her?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me,” she said, and headed to her office.

As she rifled through a notebook, he fingered the stacks of mug shots.

“Hell of a collection you have here.”

She glanced up, then looked away.

“I guess.”

“You're looking for the man who killed your father, right?”

Cat didn't bother to ask how he knew about her past. It wasn't a secret, and people gossiped. She'd heard the question plenty of times before.

When she didn't comment, Wilson pressed her.

“Do you know his name?”

Cat looked up, then frowned.

“No.”

Wilson thought about that for a minute, uncertain as to what to say next.

Cat took the decision out of his hands by adding, “But I'll find him, and when I do, then he'll know mine.”

Wilson was still absorbing the threat she'd just made when she handed him a list. He eyed it quickly, then folded it up and put it in his pocket.

“I'll be in touch,” he said.

Cat walked him to the door.

“You're still pale,” Wilson said. “Go back to bed after Bradley leaves.”

“I can't. I need to—”

“No, you don't. Right now, all we know is that your friend isn't where she's supposed to be. We need a place to start looking. Give me some time to see what comes up.”

“Maybe…”

“Call me if anything changes,” Wilson said.

“I will…and thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he said, then left.

 

Wilson drove home without stopping at the office. He called his receptionist to let her know where he would be, then called Red Brickman, the bondsman he'd bought the business from, and talked him into subbing for him for a while.

Brickman welcomed the chance to get back into the thick of things and quickly agreed, leaving Wilson to concentrate entirely on Cat's situation.

By the time he got home, he had a mental list of what was ahead of him. The door locked automatically as he shut it behind him. The click was loud and distinct, as distinct as the scent of cold coffee and an old pizza box that had missed being tossed out with the trash.

Wilson wrinkled his nose as he took off his jacket and gun, hanging one up in the closet and carrying the other to his bedroom. The scent of the place wasn't particularly appealing, but it was familiar, and for Wilson, it was enough. He laid the gun on top of the dresser, changed into a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, then retraced his steps through the living room, this time heading for the kitchen.

His stomach was growling, but after a quick prowl through the cabinets and the fridge, he settled for what was left of a package of Oreo cookies and a Pepsi that had gone flat. The “meal” settled his belly but not his soul.

He felt lost, even aimless, which made no sense. He thought about what he'd agreed to do for Cat Dupree. He didn't regret it, but he couldn't help but wonder why he kept involving himself in her business. She was sexy, aggravating, hard as nails and not prone to being friendly. He couldn't figure out why he even cared what she thought about him. He knew plenty of pretty women. But, he had to admit, none of them were Cat Dupree.

He thought of Cat again, alone in her apartment and waiting for Bradley to arrive. He knew she was scared. He also knew she would never admit it.

Problem was, he wouldn't put it past her to play detective alone, which was a foolhardy thing to do, but that scar on her neck was visible proof that she'd been in danger before. He didn't know what she wanted of him, but he knew he was going to have a hard time telling her no.

Finally he headed for his office, booted up his computer and began going over the list she'd given him. Hours later he looked up, realized how long he'd been at this, and then glanced down at his notes and the pages he'd downloaded. He'd made some headway into Mark Presley's private life, but whether it led them to Marsha Benton remained to be seen.

He looked toward the phone. He'd half-expected Cat to call after Bradley's visit, but she hadn't, which meant there was probably nothing to tell. All Bradley could have done was take the machine in and have their experts analyze it to see if they could separate anything specific from the noise. It was a long shot, but all they had.

He thought of his family, trying to imagine losing track of one of them, and felt guilt at how long it had been since he'd called them. Despite the hour, he picked up the phone. His dad wouldn't go to bed before the
Tonight Show
with Jay Leno was over, no matter what.

The phone rang twice and was in the middle of the third ring when someone picked up. He heard his dad's gruff voice and smiled.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad, it's me. Wilson.”

The gruffness shifted to one of delight.

“Hey, son! How have you been?”

“I'm good, Dad. How about you guys?”

“Oh, I'm fine. Having a little trouble with arthritis in my hip and knee, like always. Your Mom's chin deep in Christmas. The house looks like Santa's damn workshop, if you know what I mean…but don't tell her I said so.”

Wilson laughed. He could imagine the sight. His mom was big on setting up what she called “scenes” all over the place. One room had the Christmas tree with the wrapped presents underneath. For the past twelve years or so, she'd also been collecting pieces of what she called her “village,” adding to it each year, which also meant that the setting for the village continued to get larger. Last year, he remembered, she'd set up her village on the sideboard in the dining room. His dad had complained all Christmas Day that there were so many doodads in the house that there was no place left to put the pies. She'd set up a card table in the kitchen for all the holiday desserts, which had been eaten anyway, regardless of where she'd put them.

“You comin' home for Christmas?”

“Don't I always?” Wilson asked.

His dad chuckled. “If you know what's good for you.”

“Is Mom asleep?” Wilson asked.

“Yeah, but I can wake her up. You know she'll want to—”

“No, don't do that,” Wilson said. “I'll call again when it's a more decent time of day. Just tell her I said hi and that I love her.”

“I'll do that. Take care of yourself, son.”

“You, too, Dad. I'll call again soon.”

Wilson was still holding the receiver long after the line had gone silent, thinking about his parents, and what a good life they'd given to him and his brothers and sisters. He couldn't imagine what Cat Dupree's life had been like after her father's murder, but from her ‘don't trust, don't touch' attitude, he knew it couldn't have been good. Still, he would do what he could to help her and, in the meantime, keep his emotional distance.

Finally he left the office and moved back through the rooms. It was dark outside now. He thought of getting dressed and going to get something to eat, then decided against it and ordered in.

He called his favorite Chinese restaurant, knowing it stayed open until eleven, ordered two entrees and three egg rolls, as well as a side order of vegetable fried rice. While he was waiting for it to arrive, he made some fresh coffee and drank it at the window while watching the busy traffic on the streets below.

It was raining hard—what his daddy called a toad strangler. Thankful he wasn't in his truck on some stakeout, he poured himself a second cup of coffee.

When the food finally arrived, he gave the delivery boy a generous tip for having to come out in this weather, then sat down and ate his way through sesame chicken, and beef and vegetable stir fry, as well as the rice and egg rolls.

As he started to throw the empty boxes in the trash, he noticed the fortune cookie in the bottom of the sack and opened it. He grinned when he read it.

Be ready for great changes.

In his business, that was a given on any day. He tossed the fortune, ate the cookie, then turned out the lights on his way to bed.

The bedroom was quiet, and the bed was cold. The wind was coming up outside, and it sounded to him as if the rain blowing against the windows was turning to sleet. Thankful that he was home, he pulled the covers up over his shoulders and settled in.

The sheets were chilly, but his body heat and the extra blankets on the bed soon warmed them up. He rolled over onto his side, relaxing with every breath that followed. Outside, the icy pellets quickly covered the roadways, making travel deadly while Wilson slept.

 

Detective Bradley hadn't stayed long at Cat's apartment. He'd heard the message, agreed with Wilson McKay that it sounded like a helicopter, and packed up the machine.

“Here's what I'm going to do,” he said. “I'll take it in and let our techs examine it more closely. They can filter and separate all kinds of sounds from a recording.”

Cat watched him bagging up the machine in frustration. Her first instinct, after hearing it, had been to charge out the door and start searching, but she didn't have a notion in hell of the first place to start. She thought of what she'd asked Wilson to do. If he was successful, it would help. At least then she would know where to start looking and what to ignore.

“Have you talked to Presley?” she asked.

Bradley shook his head. “I'm sorry, but I don't share information about an ongoing case.”

Cat frowned. “But the case is my business.”

“Not at this point, ma'am,” Bradley said.

Cat glared.

“So there's nothing you can tell me?”