by Sharon Sala
She set the coffee cup aside and moved closer to the machine. Frowning, she stopped it and then hit replay.
The noise was loud and repetitive—and familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She hit Caller ID to check the number. Her heart stopped.
“God…oh God.”
She listened again, trying to hear something within the noise.
For three minutes there was nothing but the wash of an engine. No voice. No precious sound of Marsha’s presence in any way, and yet the call had come from her cell phone.
When the call clicked off, she staggered backward to the table and fell into the chair with a solid thump. The air in the room around her felt wrong—like it was thick, too solid to breathe. All these days. The call from Marsha that she’d been waiting for…it had been there all these days, and she hadn’t known.
She didn’t know what it was that she’d heard, but she knew without being told that it was, most likely, the last thing Marsha heard, as well.
She pushed herself up, then staggered to the bedroom and began to get dressed. Twice she had to stop and sit down to keep from falling. She couldn’t find her car keys and then remembered Wilson McKay had driven her home in her car. She began looking for the second set and couldn’t find them, either.
Angry and trembling, she tore through the phone book until she found his number. The phone rang four times before an answering machine came on, giving the caller the option of leaving a message or calling his cell. She scribbled down that number, then called it.
Wilson answered on the second ring.
“McKay’s Bail Bonds.”
“Where are my car keys?”
Wilson frowned. “Good morning to you, too, Miss Dupree.”
“I can’t find my keys,” she repeated.
She sounded strange—at least, stranger than usual.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you still sick? If you are, the last damn thing you need are your keys.”
“I can’t find my car keys! I need my keys!” She didn’t know she was screaming. “For God’s sake, what did you do with my keys?”
Wilson frowned. “They’re in the—”
“Damn you, McKay! I don’t need this crap! If you took them just to have a reason to come back, it sucks. I need my keys! I need my keys!”
She was so out of her head, he couldn’t help but think something bad was wrong. Maybe she was feverish again. If he told her where the keys were and then she got in her car and caused an accident, he would feel guilty as hell. The only way to alleviate his conscience was to make sure she was physically okay.
“Look, chill out. I’ll be right over.”
Cat hung up the phone, then staggered to the kitchen and replayed the message over and over again. As she was listening to it for the fourth time, the phone rang.
She grabbed for it.
“Hello? Marsha…is that you?”
Art Ball frowned. “It’s me, Art. Where you been, girl?”
Cat closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself not to scream.
“Art…it’s you. Uh, I’ve been sick.”
“Yeah, you don’t sound so good. You want me to come over and take you to the doctor? All you have to do is ask. You know that.”
“Yes, I know. No, I don’t need the doctor.”
“Okay…so, how’s things with Marsha? She showed up, right?”
Cat sighed. She didn’t want to talk about it, but Art had been her friend for a long time and had known Marsha almost as long as he’d known her.
“No. She’s still missing.”
“The hell you say? For how long?”
“Three…no, four days now.”
“What do the cops say?”
She rolled her eyes. “The cops? Get real.”
Art frowned. “You better call them or I will,” he said.
She sighed. “I already did.”
“All right then. You know that’s the way to go.” Then he changed the subject. “What are you thinking?”
“I think she’s dead.”
“No way. You been to her place? Maybe she just went on a trip. Did you check her clothes, her luggage, stuff like that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, dang it, honey…I don’t know what to say. Maybe she just took off.”
Cat glanced up at the clock, wondering what the hell was keeping Wilson McKay, then made herself focus on Art’s question.
“Look, Art…Mimi would never drop off the face of the earth without telling me what was up. You should know us better than that.”
Art sighed as he scratched at a dried drop of gravy on the edge of his tie.
“Yeah, I know, I know. But she’s got to be somewhere. People don’t just up and disappear.”
“I can’t believe that came out of your mouth. You, of all people, should know that people do up and disappear, as you put it. That’s where my job comes in.”
“Well, I didn’t mean it like—”
“It’s all right,” Cat said. “I know this all sounds dramatic, but I know Mimi. Something happened to her. If the situation was reversed, she would be looking for me.”
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.
Seven
“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 di
dn’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.
