Nine Lives (6 page)

 

There was a message from Art on Cat's cell phone. She called him back on her way to her car.

The message was the same old thing. He had bonded out a woman who'd been picked up for writing hot checks, but she'd been a no-show in court earlier that day.

He needed her brought in.

Cat needed something to do to keep herself from going crazy.

She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. Art answered on the third ring, and, as always, coughed into the phone as he answered. Cat immediately lit into him.

“Damn it, Art, you need to quit smoking. One day that cough is going to be the last thing to come out of your mouth.”

Art coughed again, took a quick drag of his cigar, then put it out in an ashtray already overflowing with ashes and butts.

“Yeah, yeah, that's what you always say,” he said.

“So fax me the particulars on Charity Ann Kingman.”

“You sound all pissy and fierce. I want her back in one piece,” Art growled.

Fear she wouldn't admit to was making her sick to her stomach. Here she was, going about her business as if nothing was different in her world, when in truth, she knew it was crumbling about her ears. She just couldn't make anyone believe.

“That's because I
am
all pissy and fierce,” she muttered. “I won't break your bail jumper. In fact, I won't even bend her. Now fax the info. I need to be busy.”

“You needin' money, hon?”

Cat looked down at her shoes, trying hard not to scream. Art thought of himself as her father. Most of the time she appreciated his concern, but not today.

“No. I just need something to do.”

“What's wrong?” he asked. “And don't give me no runaround. We've known each other too long for that.”

Cat swallowed past the knot in her throat.

“Mimi is missing. I think something bad has happened to her.”

“Oh hell, honey. I'm sure sorry to hear that. You go to the cops with it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that's good. That's good. Still, I'll bet she shows soon, and you'll see that you was all worried for nothin'.”

Cat shoved a hand through her hair as she unlocked the door to her SUV and got in. The cops were as useless to her as a third tit, and Art's “it'll be all right” attitude was no better.

“Yeah, sure,” she mumbled.

“So, I'll be faxin' that info to you now. Call me if you run into trouble.”

“Okay,” Cat said, and hung up, then headed home.

She was moving fast when she got back to her apartment. She hurried to her office, grabbing the fax that had already come through. She picked up a couple of other pages that had obviously been faxed earlier and walked to the window for a better look.

As always, they were of men with tattoos. She had a network of people all over the United States who, on a regular basis, faxed her mug shots with rap sheets. She was determined to find the man who'd killed her father. So far, she had yet to get a hit, but she wasn't going to give up.

She tossed the two sheets into a box on the floor that was already overflowing with similar papers, made a file from the papers Art had faxed her regarding Charity Kingman and walked out of the room. She hurried to her bedroom, packed the bag she normally took on a stakeout and left without thinking to check the answering machine in the kitchen. It was a quarter to eleven in the morning. Even though her world felt as if it was coming to an end, the day wasn't even half over.

 

Charity Kingman considered herself streetwise and sharp, although she was facing a second stay in lockup for bad paper, which even she knew didn't really back up her opinion of herself. However, she knew she was looking good. Her skirt was short; her legs were long. She had rock-hard abs, and what nature had shorted her on, she hid with what she called “personality.”

She knew Art Ball would be mad about yesterday, but she'd never intended to show up for court. She didn't have any defense. She'd written the hot checks, and she'd gotten caught. But what else was a girl to do when she needed to look good and was a little short on cash? Besides, she had a plan. All it was going to take was a quick make-over at a cushy day spa and she would be set to go.

 

Cat read the particulars on Charity Kingman while eating most of a breakfast burrito in her car. She passed a lot of time and had a lot of meals in there, and was finishing her coffee as she finished the file Art had sent her. As the last swallow went down, she reached for her cell phone. Her first call was to the nail salon Charity normally frequented, the second was to her landlord. When she found out that Charity was behind on her rent, Cat knew she wouldn't be hiding out in her apartment. The call she made to the salon where Charity had her nails done was revealing as well. Charity had a standing appointment, but she'd called in and canceled yesterday. After a couple of follow-up questions, though, her nail tech had let it slip that Charity was planning a trip.

The timing added up. Charity Kingman needed to make herself scarce. All Cat could hope for was to catch her before she ran.

But where had she gone?

She went back to the file again and began to study it. Charity was from the Midwest, a little town outside of Cleveland. Since coming to Dallas six years earlier, she had never held a job for more than six months. She'd been arrested for soliciting, for bad checks, and for busting the windshield of a boyfriend who'd dumped her for another woman. She wasn't what Art called a “bad ass,” but she was constantly in trouble and dumb enough to keep getting caught. The way Cat looked at it, finding Charity had to happen within the next twenty-four hours or it was probably going to be too late to find her easily. She didn't strike Cat as the kind of woman who would go running home, so she mentally crossed off Ohio as a place she would go.

Halfway through the file, she ran across a notation regarding a former roommate named Danni Chester, and an old address on the south side of the city. It was the only thing in the file that could be construed as a permanent link to another person. It was almost a year old, but it was a place to start.

She checked her cell phone for messages, but there were none. As she was gathering up her trash, it occurred to her that she hadn't checked the answering machine at her apartment. She got out of her car, dumped her trash, and was just about to call home to check it when her cell phone rang. When she saw who was calling, she decided not to answer it, but then changed her mind.

“Hello.”

Wilson winced. The clipped tone of her voice didn't bode well for this becoming any kind of a pleasant conversation.

“Cat, it's me, Wilson.”

“What do you want?”

He winced again.

“I thought maybe I could come by with your charm.”

“I'm not home. I'm working. Call me later.”

She hung up in his ear.

He disconnected. Then, disgusted with her and also with himself for still trying to connect with what appeared to be a certified bitch, he threw his cell phone on the bed and kicked a throw pillow that had fallen on the floor.

Wilson's call distracted Cat enough that when she hung up, she forgot she'd been going to call home. Instead, she got back in her vehicle, slammed the door and drove out of the parking lot in a huff, leaving rubber behind as she went.

 

Charity considered her new look a sure cure for the warrant that was bound to be out for her arrest. Her long blond hair was now short and red. She'd had her eyebrows dyed to match, and was wearing five earrings on each ear, the fake kind that looked pierced but really weren't. She'd traded her designer clothes for an off-the-rack mini-skirt and little-bit-of-nothing top covered by a white fake fur coat that barely cupped the bottom of her backside. She'd found a pair of high-topped black boots in a thrift store that went over her knees, and for a last bit of flash, wrapped a thin red scarf around her neck.

Finally she was ready to split. All she needed to do was pick up her stuff from Danni's apartment and get to the bus station. After that, her troubles would be over.

 

Cat hadn't been outside Danni Chester's apartment building for more than fifteen minutes when she saw a cab pull up to the curb. She tensed, leaning forward as she watched the door open, but when she saw the female getting out, she leaned back. Wrong woman. She noted that the cab didn't leave, then went back to watching for Charity.

A few minutes passed, and then the same redheaded woman came back out, this time carrying a small suitcase. Another woman walked out with her, her arm over the redhead's shoulder. When they hugged, Cat's focus moved from the redhead to the other woman.

She grabbed the file on the seat beside her and thumbed through the pages until she found a mug shot of Danni Chester, who'd been arrested more than once for prostitution. After a couple of glances, she recognized the woman standing by the cab as Danni Chester, which told Cat she needed to check out the redhead, if for no other reason than to exclude her from the hunt.

She checked the mug shot of Charity one more time, then tossed the file onto the seat beside her and got out of her car. She patted the outside of her coat, making sure her gun and handcuffs were still in the waistband of her pants, and then started across the street.

The closer she got, the faster she went. By the time the redhead was opening the door to get into the cab, Cat was at the back rear fender.

“Hey, Charity…love your new do,” she called out.

Charity Kingman was smiling as she turned. It wasn't until she saw that Cat was a stranger that she realized she'd just given herself away. Then she saw Cat's badge and the handcuffs in her hand.

“Well, shit,” she muttered.

Danni Chester started to shove Charity into the cab when Cat pointed at her.

“What? You in a big hurry to go to lock up with her?”

Charity sighed. Danni was a friend. She didn't want to get her in trouble, too.

“Don't, Danni. You don't want to fight Cat Dupree.”

“Never heard of her,” Danni said, giving Cat a rude lookover.

“She's Art Ball's bounty hunter. Everyone knows her,” Charity said.

“Never heard of you, either,” Cat said and pointed at Danni. “Get out of my way.”

Danni blinked rapidly and took a couple of steps backward. On closer inspection, the Dupree woman looked a little too scary to mess with.

Charity spat out the gum she'd been chewing as Cat calmly handcuffed her.

“Hey, honey, button up my coat for me, will ya? I'm freezing here.”

Cat eyed the long stretch of bare legs between the hem of the mini-skirt and the top of the black boots, then the size of the breasts pushing at the low-cut sweater, and snorted lightly.

“Cold boobs are the least of your worries,” she stated, and then took Charity by the arm.

“Wait!” she cried. “My bag. Danni, get my bag out of the cab!”

Danni took the bag and sent the cab driver on his way.

“Please,” she asked, as she held the bag out to Cat. “Can't she even have her things?”

Cat kept on walking, pushing Charity along in front of her.

“The state of Texas is about to provide all she's going to need for the next year or so.”

“Danni, keep my things for me,” Charity asked.

“Let me know where you're going!” Danni called after her.

Cat opened the back door to her SUV and gave Charity a little push as she got her inside. Then she leaned in and buckled the seat belt.

“Thanks so much,” Charity snapped.

Cat eyed her without answering.

Charity opened her mouth to say something else, then Cat leaned in.

“I didn't put you in this position, you put yourself in it. So don't give me any crap. I'm not in the mood.”

Charity's nostrils flared in anger, but she stayed quiet. She didn't have to like the bitch, even if she was right.

B
y the time Cat got to the precinct to turn Charity in, she felt feverish. She started getting shaky and weak down in booking. A drunk had thrown up in a waste basket by the door, and two homeless men were trying to report the theft of their shopping cart from outside the alley near a Chinese restaurant. Along with the heat being pumped through the overhead vents, the mingled odors were appalling. She could feel her stomach starting to roll.

The desk sergeant was asking her something about Charity Kingman. She could see his mouth moving, but his words were all running together. When she looked away, the wall behind the desk started to melt. That was when she knew something was wrong.

“I don't feel so good,” Cat muttered, and slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat. “If you have any more questions, call Art's Bail Bonds. She's one of his.”

She walked away without looking back, telling herself that she would feel better once she got some fresh air. But it didn't work. The cold blast of air just made her shiver.

She started across the parking lot toward her car, thinking that if she just got inside, she would be okay. But the more she walked, the farther it appeared to be. There was a part of her that knew she shouldn't drive, but she wanted to go home—needed to go home. There might be word about Mimi. There had to be word. You couldn't just “lose” a friend like you lost a wallet. She had to be somewhere.

 

Wilson's day had been just as productive as Cat's. He had turned in a bail jumper over an hour ago and was walking through the parking lot to his truck when Joe Flannery hailed him.

“Hey, Wilson. Heard anything more from your girlfriend?”

Wilson frowned. “She's not my girlfriend, and you know it. At the moment, she's as pissed off at me as she is at you.”

“She didn't turn in a missing person's report,” Joe said.

“Are you waiting for me to say, ‘I told you so'? Fine, I told you so,” Wilson said.

“Yeah, I figure her friend showed up and she's too embarrassed to let us know.”

Wilson thought about it a minute, then shook his head.

“That doesn't sound like something she would do. She appears pretty forthright to me.”

Joe grinned.

“She's pretty, all right.”

But Wilson couldn't play easy about what he felt for her. He didn't even know why he kept thinking about her, other than he had that damned charm. Maybe when he got rid of it he would be rid of her, too.

“She's tough as hell,” Joe said. “'Course, she had to be, to survive what she did.”

“What do you mean?” Wilson asked.

“You saw that scar on her neck?”

Wilson nodded.

“The man who killed her dad, some tattooed guy, also cut her throat. She was just a kid, but his death put her in the system. Eventually she aged out. Word is, she's in this business because she's always looking for the killer.”

Wilson felt a little sick to his stomach, imagining what a trauma like that would do to a child.

“Jesus…they never caught him?” he asked

“No.”

“What about her mother?”

“She and Cat were in a car wreck when Cat was six. The mother died. Cat didn't.”

It was suddenly becoming clearer to Wilson why Cat Dupree kept an impenetrable wall between her and the world. It was too damned painful when she didn't.

“So…you going home for Christmas?” Joe asked.

“Probably,” Wilson said. “I always do.”

“Tell your folks I said hello.”

“Yeah, sure,” Wilson said, and then Joe's cell phone rang, and they parted company.

Wilson was on his way to his truck when he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired woman staggering through the parking lot. Almost immediately, he recognized Cat, and when he saw her stumble, he began to run.

 

Cat was going to fall, and she knew it. She could see the dark wet surface of the parking lot coming at her and tried to brace herself, but her reactions were too slow.

Then, just as suddenly as she was falling, the motion stopped. There were hands on her arms, then around her torso. She could hear a voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't focus enough to see who it was.

Wilson was nervous. Cat was almost unconscious. That alone was unsettling. When he turned her in his arms, he realized she was hot—far too hot for the winter chill in the air.

“Miss Dupree…Cat! It's Wilson McKay.”

Cat moaned and tried to hold on to him, but her fingers seemed disconnected from the rest of her body, and she couldn't make them grip.

“I need to go home,” she muttered.

“You're sick. You need to see a doctor,” he said, and started to pick her up.

She took a swing at him.

“No doctor.”

As sick as she was, the message came loud and clear. He braced her to keep her from falling, then picked her up in his arms.

“Don't feel good,” she mumbled, and kept pushing him away.

At that moment a police cruiser drove into the parking lot. The headlights swept over them where they stood. Wilson caught a brief glance of her pale face and the scar at her throat, thought about what Joe had told him and weakened.

“Damn it, Catherine…quit fighting me and I will take you home.”

Her lips twisted as her hands went to her throat.

“Daddy calls me Catherine.”

The admission was telling in its simplicity. God only knew what her nightmares were like. As much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to feel sorry for her.

Her head fell forward. He could smell the lemon scent of the shampoo she used. It was no fuss, just like her, but from the feel of her in his arms, she was too damned thin.

“Home…I want to go home.”

He stood her up against her SUV, then took her car keys out of her hand, opened the door and slid her into the passenger seat, carefully buckling her in. He could always take a cab back to the precinct to pick up his car. This way, her vehicle would be at her home when she was well enough to drive.

“Hey, McKay, need some help?” someone yelled.

He turned around. The man who'd called out was a detective going off duty.

“I got it,” he yelled back, then shut the door and ran around to the driver's side.

“What's wrong with her?” the detective asked, as he stopped on his way to his own car.

“Not sure, but she's got a heck of a fever. She's too sick to drive.”

“Want me to follow you and bring you back for your car?”

Wilson thought about it, then shook his head.

“No, but thanks. I might need to take her to an E.R., and if I do, I'll use her car.”

“Yeah, okay. See you around,” he said, and walked on.

Wilson jumped into the car and started it up, quickly turning on the heater and then re-checking her seatbelt. Once he was satisfied that she was as safe as he could make her, he drove out of the parking lot with a mental map of the route to her apartment in his head.

Twenty minutes later and with only one missed turn, he pulled into the parking lot of her housing complex, found the building her apartment was in and parked.

Before he got out, he checked her key ring, making sure that her front door key was on it. He saw one that looked right, then slipped the keys into his coat pocket and opened the door. The cold air cut straight to the bone. He buttoned the top button of his coat as he circled the SUV.

Cat roused up as he lifted her from the seat. A few feet from the apartment building, she knew she was going to be sick.

“Throw up,” she muttered.

She didn't have to say it twice. He set her down on her feet and then braced her just as the nausea struck. By the time she was through, she was even weaker than before.

“Sorry.”

Wilson was staggering, trying not to let her fall.

“It's okay. Just be still. I'm trying to help you.”

Even though she was sick out of her mind, Cat wasn't the kind to give up or give in. Her legs wouldn't work, but she kept trying to walk and ended up stepping all over Wilson's feet.

A couple who happened to be Cat's neighbors were coming into the building as Wilson was struggling with her and the door. When they saw she was ill, they quickly offered to help. The man held the door for Wilson as the woman ran ahead to get an elevator. They rode up to the sixth floor together, chattering rapidly about their concern for their neighbor while admitting that they hardly knew her.

The man took the key from Wilson's pocket and opened Cat's door. Wilson walked in with Cat braced against him, still weaving and moaning. The man leaned in, shook his head at Cat's condition, then laid the key on the hall table and left.

Wilson sighed with relief. They were home. Now all he had to do was get her into bed. He picked her up, eyed the layout of the rooms, then headed for the hallway to the left. The first door he came to was closed, but the second one on the right was ajar. He toed it open, grunting with satisfaction when he saw a bed.

Cat began to rouse as he laid her down, and when she recognized her surroundings, began unzipping her pants, clearly forgetting she wasn't alone.

Wilson didn't know whether to help her or get the hell out of the room before she got naked, but the decision was taken out of his hands when she tried to get up, staggered and almost fell.

“Here,” he said, and guided her back to the bed. “Sit down and let me help.”

She didn't bother to argue when her boots came off, and when he pulled her sweater off over her head, she lifted her arms like a baby.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “Am I going to die?”

He started to smile, but she'd already faced that question twice in her life and survived, so he supposed, from her standpoint, it was a fair question.

“You're not going to die. You're just sick, but I don't think it's food poisoning, because you have a hell of a fever.”

He opened the closet and took a flannel nightgown off a hook as Cat motioned toward the bathroom.

“Pills in the medicine cabinet.”

“I'll get them in a minute,” he said, and then pulled the nightgown over her head, letting it fall loosely down to her waist. “Can you get the rest of your clothes off by yourself?”

Cat looked down, confused by the nightgown bunched around her lap.

“What clothes?”

“Never mind,” he said gently. “I'll help.”

He slid his hands beneath the gown, undid the clasp on her bra and then pulled it off without touching her. As soon as he had it off, he held out the sleeves of the gown.

“Slide your arms inside,” he said.

She did as he asked, then fell backwards onto the bed with a groan. Her voice was so weak Wilson barely heard her whisper.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord…make this go away.”

Wilson felt sorry for her. Being this helpless was probably twice as difficult to accept for a woman as strong and independent as Cat Dupree.

“Scoot up a little,” he said, and then maneuvered Cat's head onto her pillow. As soon as he had the covers down and her settled in the middle of the bed, he pulled the hem of the nightgown down, then reached up beneath it and pulled off her jeans and panties.

“Hey,” Cat murmured, and took another helpless swing at him when she felt the panties coming off.

“It's all right. You're still decent,” Wilson said as he dodged the blow and quickly pulled the covers over her.

She exhaled on a shaky sigh as he tucked her in.

She was trembling and feverish. It worried him that he hadn't taken her to the hospital. What if she was desperately ill and he was only making it worse?

He didn't know what to do next, then remembered the pills she'd mentioned. He ran into the bathroom, got a bottle of pain and fever relief tablets and a glass of water, then hurried back. Once she'd downed the pills, he got a wet washcloth, folded it lengthwise and laid it across her forehead.

Cat sighed. “Feels good.”

He breathed a little easier as she closed her eyes, and while he was watching, she fell asleep.

Wilson sat at her bedside until he was confident that her breathing had evened out. When she finally broke into a faint sweat, he knew the fever had broken and the pills were working.

He thought about calling a cab and going home, but he was afraid that when the pills wore off, her fever would come back and she would be in worse shape than before. Sometime after midnight, he decided he wasn't going anywhere until he was sure she could cope and began to make himself at home.

He kicked off his shoes in the living room and hung his coat on a tree in the hall. After a quick look into her bedroom to assure himself she was all right, he went to the kitchen and began digging through the refrigerator for something to eat.