Nine Lives

“Of Presley?”

“Yes. She said he’d threatened her.”

He picked the pen up again. “Did she say how?”

“What she said was that he’d made threats to her, and she used the words, ‘six feet under.’ Then, yesterday, after she told me that he’d fired her, I wanted to get together with her, but she said she was going to go to a doctor’s appointment first and then she’d come over to my place. I didn’t think to ask which doctor, but she did tell me that as soon as she got out, she would give me a call. I waited all day. She didn’t call.”

“Maybe she’s just not in the mood to talk to—”

“She’s not home. I staked out her apartment last night. I searched it this morning. She never showed. Something has happened to her.”

“What’s the make and model of her car?”

“She drives a silver Lexus. New this year. The license is one of those vanity tags. Hers says ALLMINE.”

Wilson frowned as he listened to Cat’s story. None of this sounded good, but he wasn’t a cop.

Flannery rubbed at a mole behind his right ear. It was something he did when he was frustrated.

“Look, Miss Dupree, I understand your concern. But this isn’t a case for Homicide. In fact, it’s not yet a case for Missing Persons. Your friend is an adult. She has the right to come and go without notifying anyone. She could be anywhere. Maybe she rethought her decision not to have the abortion and has gone somewhere to recuperate.”

Cat’s anger was evident by the fact that her fists tightened until her knuckles went white. It was Flannery’s good fortune that she still had her hands in her lap.

“We grew up in the system. We knew what it was like to be unwanted kids. The last thing she would ever do is reject a child of her own. Don’t argue with me about that, because you don’t know a fucking thing about our lives.”

“I don’t appreciate your language,” Flannery said.

“And I don’t appreciate your piss-poor attitude,” Cat fired back.

Flannery knew he wasn’t handling this well and wished Wilson was somewhere else. Fortunately Wilson interrupted by putting a hand on Cat’s shoulder.

“Anger isn’t going to find your friend,” he said.

Cat stood abruptly.

“Doesn’t look like the police are going to make an effort, either. I knew I was wasting my time when I came here, but I didn’t do this for myself. I’m doing it for Marsha. I don’t think she’s missing. I think she’s dead. Presley threatened her, and I think he made good on the threat.”

“Look, Cat…murder is a big accusation,” Wilson said.

Her eyes were flashing, but her voice was clipped and steady.

“I know you two don’t know me, and you also don’t know Mimi. But trust me when I tell you…she would never kill her own child, and she would not leave town without telling me. Never.”

Wilson heard more than anger in Cat’s voice. She was scared—as scared as a person could be and not be screaming.

“Cat…”

She turned on him, directing her fury with one succinct word. “What?”

“Maybe when you turn in a missing person’s report tomorrow and—”

“Tomorrow?” She threw her arms over her head and then slapped her hands hard against her thighs. “Tomorrow. And what about tonight? She didn’t sleep in her bed last night. She won’t be sleeping in it tonight. She’s pregnant. Her life was threatened. She’s missing.” She pointed angrily at Wilson. “You report her missing tomorrow.” Then she jabbed a finger in Flannery’s chest. “Or maybe you do it. Oh, wait. I know! Let’s just wait until there’s no hope in hell of finding her before she rots, and then we can identify her from dental records and the broken arm from when she was seven. How’s that?”

Then she turned angrily, grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, and strode out of the office with her head up and her jaw clenched. She hit the door with the flat of her hand and slammed it shut behind her so hard that a coffee mug someone had left on a nearby file cabinet vibrated off the edge and shattered when it hit the floor.

Wilson looked at Joe. “I think that went well.”

Joe grimaced. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s pissed.”

“What do you think she’s going to do?”

Wilson shrugged. “Hard to say, but I would bet money that whatever happens next, you’ll have to hear it from someone besides her.”

‘What do you mean?”

“She won’t come back and ask for help a second time,” Wilson said. “You saw her face. She doesn’t trust the system, and from the little she just said about her background, you can’t blame her.”

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.”