by Sharon Sala
“Please, señora, I mean you no harm. You’re safe. You’re safe. The man who was shooting at you is dead, and you are bleeding. Will you let me help you inside the house?”
Cat was lightheaded enough to want help but streetwise enough not to take it without an inquisition.
“Who the hell are you? How do I know you’re not one of his buddies?”
Luis stared. She was bleeding from a gunshot wound. She had a terrible cut on her face, and her knuckles looked raw and bloody, but her eyes were on fire, her fists were doubled and she wasn’t backing down.
He exhaled as if he’d just been punched in the gut. It had to be her. No other woman would react to what had just happened to her in such a manner.
“Is your name Cat Dupree?”
Her eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared. “Like I said before…who wants to know?”
Luis wanted to smile. She was amazing. But he couldn’t relent, not until he knew that she wasn’t the killer he’d been trying to find.
“My name is Luis Montoya, and I am a homicide detective from Chihuahua, Mexico.”
Cat froze, staring at his dark eyes and trim black mustache. Absently noting his hair pulled into a small ponytail at the back of his neck while watching his face for an accusation, looking for handcuffs, watching her life as she’d known it so far ending before her eyes. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fall on her knees before this man and beg him to understand. Instead, she lifted her chin and stared him down.
“So, Detective Montoya, I have you to thank for my life. However, since I seem to be bleeding, I hope you’ll excuse me for not offering you some tea.”
Then she grabbed her side, and when she looked down and saw blood on her hand, she said, “Dear lord, baby mine…I’ve taken you with me through hell and back one too many times. If I promise not to do this again, will you promise me that you’ll be all right?”
Luis frowned. “Who are you talking to?”
She put her bloody hand on her belly, then let it drop to her side, unaware of the horrifying imprint she’d left behind.
“My baby. I’m pregnant.”
Luis stared down past the bloody handprint to her still-flat stomach.
“Dios Mio.”
“Ditto,” she muttered. “I’m going in the house now to call my husband and then the police. They’ve been looking for this man for two murders, an attempted murder, and for assault and kidnapping. Congratulations. You’ve just made yourself a hero.”
When she walked away without another word, Luis couldn’t help but admire her spirit. She neither stumbled nor staggered as she strode past the dead body. When she didn’t even bother to look down, Luis knew, with a sinking feeling, that he was watching a woman capable of murder.
He sighed, then followed her inside, to find her already on the phone.
“No, Wilson, I swear I’m all right. Yes, he’s dead. I have company.”
“Who’s there, honey? The contractor?”
“No. It’s the man who killed Jimmy Franks and saved my life.”
“Thank God he arrived when he did. What’s his name? Tell him to stay there. I want to thank him in person.”
“Don’t worry. I imagine he’ll still be here when you arrive. His name is Luis Montoya. He’s a homicide detective from Chihuahua, Mexico.”
There was a long moment of silence; then Cat heard Wilson curse. At this point, there wasn’t anything either of them could say.
“See you in a few,” Wilson said.
She hung up, then turned around to see Montoya watching her.
“If you don’t mind a bit of a wait, I’m going to find some bandages and a clean shirt. The sheriff is on his way, and knowing my husband, there will be an ambulance, too, but if Wilson sees me in this shape, there’s a good chance he’ll feed Jimmy Franks’s body to the hogs before the sheriff can take him away.”
Luis didn’t know whether she was making a joke or stating a rather gory fact, but he knew he wasn’t about to budge, so he nodded politely and took a seat at the kitchen table.
Cat looked him straight in the eyes, then nodded, as if satisfied.
“Give me a couple of minutes,” she said, and walked away.
For some reason, it never entered his mind that she would run. Even if she was guilty, he knew she wouldn’t.
Eighteen
Cat’s hands were shaking so badly that she could hardly get her shirt over her head. The adrenaline rush that had kept her moving during Jimmy Franks’s attack was crashing down around her in waves.
All the while she was digging through the medicine cabinet for bandages, she wanted to cry. Instead, she taped a wad of gauze to her side, then pulled a clean shirt over her head.
The walk from their bedroom to the kitchen seemed endless. She kept imagining cells on both sides of the hall and prisoners with their arms hanging through the bars, watching her pass.
In her mind, she heard someone say “Dead woman walking.”
Her life was in tatters. There was the very real possibility that her baby would be born in a Mexican prison, and that she would never see it or Wilson again. Could she keep on living, knowing that Wilson and their child were in one country and she was in another, doomed to an existence behind bars?
She didn’t know. What she did know was that she’d gotten herself here without anyone’s help and had no one but herself to blame. She was scared out of her mind, but Luis Montoya would never know it. By the time she reached the kitchen, she had her game face on.
“Thank you for waiting. Would you please follow me? It’s more comfortable sitting in the living room.”
Luis was constantly amazed by this woman. There was a dead man out in her backyard, and she was talking to him as if he’d arrived for a friendly visit. If she was guilty, she was doing a masterful job of hiding the fact.
“I’m fine here,” he said.
“I’m not,” Cat said. “My back hurts like hell, and those chairs are hard. If you want to talk to me and you’re not willing to shout, you’ll have to move.”
Once again her bluntness put him at a disadvantage. He quickly stood and followed her into the living room while stifling an urge to apologize for not understanding her pain.
Once they reached the living room, he realized that her fight with the dead man in the yard had begun here. The sofa was overturned, there was a bullet hole in the ceiling, and a lamp was broken. Before he could offer, she’d righted the sofa, picked up the broken lamp and seated herself in a large overstuffed chair.
When she sat, she eased herself down, not bothering to stifle a soft groan. He felt sorry for her in so many ways.
As he took the chair next to her, he was struggling with how to begin this interview, which was actually an interrogation. It was then that he noticed the huge ropey scar at the base of her throat and remembered how it had gotten there. No wonder she hadn’t reacted to the dead man he’d left outside in the dirt.
Cat was tired and aching and wanted this over. As always, she chose to be the one in charge and began the conversation.
“So. You’ve obviously come a long way to talk. I assume it wasn’t out of loneliness. I’m sure there are a lot of people you could visit in your own country, especially if you took the time to look for them.”
Luis stifled a grin. She was a cool one.
“No, Miss Dupree, I—”
“It’s McKay. Mrs. McKay, but you can call me Cat.”
He bowed his head in acquiescence. “Is that short for Catherine?”
“Yes. And now that I’ve answered a couple of your questions, you get to answer one of mine. Other than saving my life, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking for the killer of a man named Solomon Tutuola.”
To Cat’s credit, she never blinked, but inside she was screaming.
“And you’re asking me because…?”
Luis sighed. She wasn’t going to help him. All right. He could work with that.
“A few weeks ago
, this man, Tutuola, was murdered in our city. He was shot several times, and then his body and his home were burned to the ground.”
Cat didn’t comment. Didn’t look away.
Luis shrugged. “We found a business card belonging to Mark Presley in his possession.”
Now Cat’s eyes registered an understanding. Son of a bitch. How ironic that the man she’d taken down for murder was about to do her in for the same.
“Ah…I see you recognize that name,” Luis said.
Cat’s disdain was obvious. “If you know anything about that man, then you know my connection to him. Of course I recognize the name. The sorry bastard killed my best friend and dumped her body into a ravine like a bag of trash. She was carrying his child.”
Luis dipped his head slightly, as if acknowledging her grief.
“Yes. This I was told. I am sorry for your loss.”
“So am I,” Cat said. “What does Marsha’s death have to do with your dead man?”
“I understand that you were in Mexico when you went after Presley?”
“Yes. We caught him in an abandoned hacienda outside Nuevo Laredo. You can check with the authorities there. The arrest was on the up and up.”
“Yes, yes, this I also know.”
Cat’s brow knitted. “I still don’t understand.”
“We think that my dead man and your killer were together.”
Cat’s eyes widened. “Oh. Well…there was another man with Presley, but I never saw him. My husband…my partner at the time, was the one who saw him. They had a gunfight inside the hacienda while I was at the back of the house taking Presley into custody. The bastard ran out the back when the gunfire began in the front. You should talk to Wilson about him. He’ll be here soon.”
Luis was confused. If this woman was guilty, she was about the best liar he’d ever met. He needed to try this from another angle. The money. People always reacted to the mention of money.
“There was another thing. When Tutuola came to Chihuahua, several people saw him flashing around money. Large amounts of money that he kept in a bag in the trunk of his car. Did you know anything about that money?”
Cat frowned. “Why would I? Maybe it was what Presley paid him for helping get him out of the States. You could probably get an interview with Presley if you requested it. They can’t fry the bastard until all his appeals have expired.”
Again Luis was confused. Maybe he’d been wrong all along about her.
“This money, Mrs. McKay—”
“Cat,” she said, then winced when a wave of weakness washed over her.
Luis saw her go pale. “Are you all right?”
She looked at him as if he were sitting in the chair with his brains in his hands.
“No. Actually, I’m not. A shit-faced druggie pumped a bullet into me today, but do continue. It’s helping me think of something but the pain.”
Now Luis felt like a jerk. Maybe he should come back when she was better.
“If you wish, we can have this conversation later, say tomorrow, or the next day, after you’ve had a chance to recover a bit.”
Cat leaned forward, fixing him with a cold, angry stare.
“In truth, I don’t wish to have this conversation at all. It reminds me of a very painful time in my life. However, since you’ve come so far to have it, please go on. I’m sure I’ll survive. I’ve been through worse.”
“With regards to Tutuola’s money, it was too much to be a payoff. I am speaking of millions.”
Again Cat seemed to suddenly connect.
“Ah…then that might be the money Presley took out of his company safe.”
The last thing he’d expected was for her to acknowledge the presence of a large sum of money. Especially if she’d killed to get it. Again, she’d confused him.
“And how do you come to know of this money?”
Cat shifted in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable spot but obviously not out of nervousness.
“When Marsha disappeared, I knew Presley had killed her, but I couldn’t make the authorities believe me. So I hired a friend, who shall remain nameless, to bug everything he could that belonged to Presley. We bugged clothing and cars and everything we could get to in his office. My friend also told me that there was what he figured to be around two million dollars in the company safe.”
Luis interrupted. “Your friend broke into Presley’s safe?”
“He has many skills,” she said, then continued. “He slipped a couple of bugs in between the stacks of bills. When Presley escaped, I followed him through a computer system connected to those particular bugs. I followed him all the way to Nuevo Laredo. As for the money, assuming he had it with him when the hacienda caught on fire, I figured the money burned with it.”
Luis didn’t know what to say. She had all the answers. And for some reason that bothered him. She had too many answers.
“The man who was murdered in my city had suffered recent burns.”
“If all you say is correct, then what’s left to figure out? You know where your dead man was injured. In that fire. You know where he got his money. From Mark Presley. Probably figured himself lucky when Presley got arrested and left it behind.”
“But I still don’t know who killed him or why—or where the money went.”
Cat swallowed.
Luis saw the muscles work in her throat and in that moment knew he’d been right all along. She’d killed him. But how did he get her to say it?
While he was struggling with another way to go at her, his gaze fell back on her throat. He decided that if he got her talking about something else, she might lose her focus and let something slip.
He pointed to her throat.
“You have quite a scar. May I ask how you got it?”
Cat’s eyes narrowed angrily. “That’s a really rude question to ask a woman who’s spent most of her life trying to ignore it. However, since you’ve asked so nicely, of course I would be happy to share a bit of my life history. When I was thirteen years old a man broke into our home, cut my throat and slashed my father to ribbons in front of me, and I couldn’t call for help. I thought I would die. When I came to in a hospital and found out I was still alive, but orphaned, I was sorry that I hadn’t.”
For the first time in his life Luis felt shame for the questions he asked. He had to remind himself that this was his job.
“That is terrible. I am very sorry for what happened to you. Of course, seeing the perpetrator come to justice must have given you some satisfaction.”
“They never caught him.”
For a moment Luis didn’t know what to say. “Are you serious? All these years and the case is still unsolved? Why? Did you not see his face? Could you not identify him?”
Cat’s vision blurred.
He saw her eyes suddenly brimming. He saw her swallowing hard to keep from weeping. And when she managed to pull herself together without shedding a tear, he finally began to understand the depths of her strength.
“I see his face every night when I close my eyes.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t—” He stopped. How could he apologize when he’d meant to push her? “So the police never found him.”
“No. The police didn’t find him,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. The police never found him, but she did.
“What led you to the business of bounty hunting?” he asked.
“It was a job that kept me apprised of criminals and their whereabouts.”
Suddenly Luis understood. “Ah…the police stopped looking, but you didn’t, did you? You never stopped looking.”
“No.”
“You must have seen thousands and thousands of criminals over the years, and many men look alike. What was it about him that helped you separate him from the others?”
Cat hesitated. If she told the truth, he was going to know. She thought about how to answer without giving herself away. She thought of Wilson, the baby, everything she would lose. Then an image slid through her mind: he
r father’s face, twisted in pain. His eyes, beseeching her to forgive him for not being able to keep her safe. She couldn’t lie. Not about this. She looked down at her hands, took a deep breath, then stared straight into Luis Montoya’s eyes.
“He was tattooed. Many perps are, but it helped me sort through them.”
Luis felt the blood drain from his face. Tattoos? He thought of the booking photo of Solomon Tutuola he had out in the car. Never had he seen so many tattoos on a man.
“I have a photo of Tutuola in the car. Would you mind looking at it?”
“I told you, the only man I saw at the hacienda was Mark Presley.”
Luis kept pushing, aware that he was on the verge of the answers he sought.
“Yes, I remember. But you said you looked at booking photos of tattooed men. Why wouldn’t you want to see if this man was the man you sought?”
Cat blinked and then, for the first time since they’d sat down together, looked away.
“Maybe because I’m sick and tired of the ugly side of life. Maybe because I’m going to have a baby that I don’t intend to drag through the same kind of life that I was forced to live.”
“You would want to let your father’s killer live?”
“Hell, no!”
It came out before Cat thought. She took a deep breath, then closed her eyes. When she opened them, Luis Montoya was watching her every move. And then he attacked.
“So…this money that Tutuola had. It would have been nice to have some to put away for the little baby you carry.”
The disgust in her eyes was unmistakable.
“Money? You think everything in life is about the money? In my opinion, Mark Presley’s money is cursed. It’s blood money. It was worth more to Mark Presley than my friend…even more than his own child. Why on God’s earth would someone want that fucking money?”
Luis felt as if he’d just been slapped. He tried to pursue his previous tack, but his gut was telling him he’d had it wrong. All this time and he’d been chasing the wrong reason.
This woman had killed Tutuola. He would bet his life on it.
