Nine Lives (19 page)

The sounds of her breathing seemed a little erratic, as if she'd climbed the stairs rather than taking the elevator. He didn't know a woman who was willing to break a sweat that way and decided that his instincts for guessing gender might not be so sharp after all.

Then she spoke.

Her voice was low and husky—like someone coming down with laryngitis—and he came so close to opening his eyes that he heard the heart monitor skip a beat as he remembered to practice restraint.

 

Cat had moved back into the stream of living with all the reluctance that came from overwhelming grief—angry when her stomach growled for food, ashamed when something made her laugh unexpectedly, crying over a tiny paper cut while opening her mail. She was a wreck with not a lot of hope for rebuilding. The authorities in Tyler had released Marsha Benton's body to the Dallas P.D. The medical examiner's report stated that she had suffered a cracked skull but had died from a multitude of internal injuries. It hurt Cat's heart to learn that there were no wounds on Marsha's hands to indicate she'd had time to fight back. She was guessing that Mark had rendered her unconscious, then flown out to the Presley oil lease and finished her off there.

Cat Dupree's vehemence kept them from assuming that Marsha would have gone willingly with Presley, thus providing an explanation for the head injury and how she'd gotten from Dallas to the bottom of a ravine outside Tyler without a fight.

Oddly enough, in searching the surrounding area, the sheriff's deputies had found a large sheet of blue plastic floating in the water of an abandoned rock quarry nearby.

It was uncertain whether it could be tied to the murder, but Sam Lohman had theorized that it would be one way to move a bloody body without leaving evidence behind and ordered divers to the quarry. After a half-day's work dragging the water, they'd found a pair of coveralls, a cap and a large mechanic's wrench, all rolled and tied up together. The DNA evidence that might have been left on the objects had, of course, been ruined by the water, but the coveralls were like the ones worn by the mechanics at the private airstrip belonging to the Presley corporation, and there was a wrench missing from a set at the airstrip just like the one found in the quarry.

Adding that to the fetus's DNA match to Mark Presley and having Marsha's body turning up on Presley property, and they had enough circumstantial evidence to arrest the man for murder.

What they didn't have was the man in any kind of condition to be interrogated, let alone be arrested or stand trial.

They were at an impasse, and Cat was making herself physically ill by dwelling on it. It had occurred to her that maybe, if she saw the condition Mark Presley was in, she would stop thinking that he'd escaped justice. If she could see him now and accept his loss of function as the punishment it was meant to be, then maybe she could get past her rage enough to bury her friend and get on with her life. But she didn't know, and wouldn't know for sure, until she saw him for herself.

It was with that purpose in mind that she'd dressed in what could only be construed as a disguise and headed for Dallas Memorial.

She had arrived with her shoulders slumped to the point that the dress and coat she was wearing appeared not to fit her body. She wore tennis shoes instead of heels, and had braided her hair, then fastened it at the back of her neck. With overdone makeup and a pair of out-of-style glasses, she looked like a caricature of herself. She sat quietly and motionless in the waiting room until she was completely certain that no one else was there to visit Presley, then, when the time came, moved with the others in the room to go into ICU.

She'd had to sign in, and had no qualms about using a fake ID and name. Presley had dark hair. So did she. It stood to reason that they could be related. And with that in mind, Laura Presley Conti signed in to visit her cousin Mark.

Luckily for Cat, the beds were far enough apart from each other that there was some measure of privacy, because there were things she intended to say to him, whether he could hear her or not, that she didn't intend to share with anyone else. By the time she arrived at his bedside, her hands were damp with perspiration and her heart was pounding so loudly against her chest that she feared it was going to explode.

She paused at the end of the bed, then, without looking around, moved quickly to his bedside. Her fingers were less than a foot from the back of his hand where the IV needle had been inserted. She glanced at it once, then let her gaze move upward until she found herself staring at the face of Marsha's killer.

He was good-looking. She had to give Mimi credit for going for looks, but it was unfortunate that she hadn't been able to see past the surface to the rot beneath. His skin was pale, and she could see a pulse at the base of his throat that matched the steady beep of the monitor measuring his heartbeat.

She glanced over her shoulder once, just to make sure they were still alone; then she leaned just the slightest bit forward, giving anyone who might be looking the impression that she was speaking tenderly to the man.

“You think you got away with it, don't you?”

Mark felt a heat flowing up his body from his feet to his head. He didn't recognize the voice, but he didn't dare look. Then the woman spoke again.

“I know what you did,” she said. “You killed Marsha Benton. You killed your unborn child. If you don't die in this bed, I will find you and kill you myself.”

Mark hiccupped in fear, then caught himself. It was the only outward sign he'd given that he'd heard every word she said.

Even though he was still immobile, Cat had seen his reaction. She'd heard the catch in his breath and knew that at least on some level, he could hear and understand her. She straightened up and turned around, walking with purpose, but without haste, and exited ICU without looking back.

If she had, she would have seen the nurse hurrying to Mark Presley's bedside in response to the sudden and frantic irregularity of his heartbeat.

By the time she got outside, she had a working plan that needed to be set in place. There was no doubt in her mind that Presley would wake up and that, when he did, he would run. She'd left him with no choice.

C
at came out of Dallas Memorial so furious she could hardly breathe. All the way home she had visions of him getting out of his bed, sneaking out of the hospital and disappearing before the authorities could arrest him. He had millions of dollars at his disposal, which meant he could buy anything he needed to create a new identity. It would be far too easy for him to escape, especially since he had yet to be questioned by the police or charged with anything.

By the time she pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building, it was after midnight. But she had a plan. If Presley tried to pull anything, she was going to know it.

The night was cold, and the wind blowing through the streets made it colder. She ran toward the front door with her head down and her hands in her pockets. The warmth inside the lobby was at once welcoming and familiar. Her steps were light as she hurried toward the elevator.

She rode it up anxiously, then hurried into her apartment, locking the door behind her. Normally, at night, she would wait until she got into a room to turn on lights, but not tonight. She turned on lights as she went from room to room until the whole place was blazing.

Changing from street clothes to an old pair of sweats was first on her agenda; then she hurried to the kitchen and made a cup of hot chocolate. That visit to the ICU had given her the creeps. Even though she knew it was just her imagination, she couldn't help but feel as if she'd spent time with the devil. She wanted something warm and sweet and comforting to take the chill out of her soul.

Once the cocoa was ready, she carried her cup into the office and sat down behind the desk. The mug shots pinned to the wall in front of her would have been daunting to a lesser person. To her, they were just reminders of what she'd survived and of the justice yet to be meted out.

She took a quick sip of the cocoa, just to prove to herself that it was still too hot to drink, then grabbed her Rolodex and began flipping through. She needed help in implementing her plan, and she knew just the man to help her do it. Despite the lateness of the hour, Pete Yokum would not be asleep. His friends called him the Count. Not because he was particularly regal in bearing or stature, but because, ever since his retirement, like the fictional vampire Count Dracula, Pete only came out after dark.

 

The cockroach running up the wall was already dead but didn't know it. Pete hated cockroaches with a passion, even though he'd spent the better part of his life co-habiting with them. With one eye on the eggs frying in the skillet, he picked up the spatula from the counter and used it to flatten the roach in mid-stride.

“Got you, you sombitch,” Pete muttered, knocked the roach from the back of the spatula into the trash, then wiped the spatula on the leg of his jeans and flipped his eggs. The way he figured it, whatever germs had been left behind on the spatula were bound to perish in the hot grease.

He liked his eggs over easy, so by the time he reached for a plate, they were ready. His belly growled in hungry anticipation as he scooped them from the skillet onto his plate. He turned off the burner, grabbed his toast from the toaster, slathered it with butter and jelly, chose a fork from the drawer and headed for the couch.

His one-room apartment was small and a bit sordid, but it served his purposes. No one would ever have guessed that Pete had upwards of a half-million dollars in the bank. There were very few things he wanted, and none of them could be bought with money, so he just kept on banking it.

All his life he'd wanted a wife but had never found who he considered ‘the right one.' He also wanted to meet Oprah Winfrey, but there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that their paths would ever cross. He did, however, continue to admire her stand on most issues, even though he thought she got a little radical about her book club choices. Pete had tried a couple, but it was his opinion that you just couldn't beat a good paperback western.

He sat down on the sofa, pulled up his footstool and laid his plate in his lap. His coffee was already on the side table, right where he'd left it cooling. The aroma of hot fried eggs and toast and jelly made his mouth water, and he dug into his food with relish.

Right in the middle of his last bite of toast, the telephone rang. He didn't think it strange to be getting phone calls in the middle of the night. Despite the fact that it was after one in the morning, everyone knew if they intended to talk to him, it had to be after dark.

Quickly he washed down the toast with a sip of coffee and then picked up the receiver.

“You're too late for supper but just in time for dessert. Bring it over when you come,” he said.

Cat grinned. Pete had answered the phone like that for as long as she'd known him.

“Hey, Pete, it's me, Cat Dupree.”

Pete slid the plate from his lap to the coffee table. He was already grinning as he settled back for a visit.

“Catherine, it's been a while. How you been doin', honey?”

Cat felt even easier about calling. Pete had been one of her father's best friends. He'd taken it upon himself to check in on her from time to time, especially after she'd been old enough to be on her own.

“I'm all right,” she said. “Have you been staying busy and out of trouble?”

Pete laughed out loud. “Now, darlin', you know I haven't. I spend most of my days layin' around the house or spendin' my Social Security check on booze and women.”

“You lie,” Cat said. Pete was what her father had called tight with money and picky about women.

“Maybe so,” he said, and realized how good it was to hear from Cat. “Have you been takin' care of yourself?”

“I'm okay, but Mimi's not,” she said, and then choked up a little, unable to continue.

Pete heard the emotion in her voice and frowned. Cat and Marsha had been best friends for years.

“What happened to Shortcake? Got the flu or somethin'?” he asked.

Cat knew that Mimi would have loved to hear Pete calling her that. It was because she was so little. It made her feel special to be singled out in such an odd but familiar way.

“Or something. Oh, Pete…she was murdered. Haven't you been reading the papers?”

“No. Nothin' in 'em but bad news,” Pete muttered. “I'm so sorry to hear that. Have they caught the bastard who did it?”

“Not yet,” Cat said, and then quickly explained what she knew. By the time she had finished, Pete was livid.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“I'm ashamed to say that's why I called.”

Pete's frown deepened. “It don't matter why you called. You know I'll help. What do you want me to do?”

“You know what I told you about Mark Presley being in the hospital after suffering some kind of breakdown?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I saw him tonight. I disguised myself and went to visit him in ICU, and I gave him a little message he didn't like. His reaction was not that of a man in a coma. I can't prove it, but I know he's faking or, at the least, recuperating faster than anyone knows. I'm scared to death that he'll just walk out of the hospital when no one's looking and disappear, in which case, he'll have gotten away with murder.”

“Damn, honey, that's bad, but I don't see any way of proving it, unless—”

“I don't intend to try and prove anything about his condition. But I do want something done that will keep him from getting away from me.”

“Name it,” Pete said.

“I want everything he might drive as a getaway vehicle bugged. I want tracking devices in his shoes. In his watch. Up his butt, if possible. In other words, I need to be tied to him electronically. I bought the equipment, but I don't have the skills to install it.”

Pete grinned. Every penny he'd ever made had come from being an electrician, then, in his later years, installing security devices in people's homes. It was part of why, when he'd decided to retire, he'd turned his life upside down. He'd gotten up with the chickens every day of his working life, so he thought he'd try it the other way around for a while. Finally it had become a lifestyle that suited him. Still, he would do anything for Marcus Dupree's little girl.

When he didn't immediately comment, Cat figured she'd overstepped the bounds of their friendship.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking by calling you. What I'm asking could get you in trouble, and—”

“No way, honey,” he said. “I wasn't hesitating, I was thinking. And the answer is definitely yes. I'll enjoy doing my part to stick it to such a bastard. I was just a little sad that this is what's happening in your life. You've had some rough times. I'm sure sorry about this, and sorry that Shortcake's life ended like this.”

“Me too,” she said, and swallowed back tears. Pete couldn't handle crying women. She needed to keep it together.

“So when do you want to do this?” he asked.

“I'll give you Mark Presley's home address, as well as the room he's in at Dallas Memorial and the address of his office. I hate to tell you, but I need it done as soon as possible. I'm afraid that whenever he gets the chance, he'll bolt. How can I get the surveillance equipment to you?”

Pete glanced at the clock. He'd been going to watch an old John Wayne movie tonight, but this took precedence.

“I have plenty of stuff around here to do the job. I'll scope out the premises. If everything looks all right, I'll have it done before morning. If there are complications, it might take a little longer.”

Now that she'd asked and he'd agreed, Cat felt not just guilty but also nervous.

“Please be careful,” she said. “Whatever you do, don't take chances that will get you caught, and send me the bill when you're done.”

“There won't be any bill,” he insisted. “Consider this my contribution toward finding Shortcake's killer.”

The line went dead in Cat's ear, but she felt a deep sense of satisfaction as she hung up the phone.

“Ready or not, Mark Presley, your ass is mine.”

 

As Mark had hoped, they'd moved him into a private room. He didn't know what Penny had asked of the doctor, but he thought it telling that she hadn't asked for a private nurse, as well. So much for the “for better or for worse” part of their marriage vows. When he thought about it, though, he knew it was all for the best. It made it easier to leave her behind.

Although he was playing this by ear, there was more than two million dollars in cash in his office. Where he was going, he was going to need it.

The stash he had in a bank account in the Cayman Islands was under another name. It would help him start a new life overseas, but he had to get there first. Once he got out of here, he would change his hairstyle, grow a neat little beard, maybe even gain some weight. Nothing like putting on a few pounds to change the contours of a face.

The wild card in this plan was whether or not he could walk. Something had happened to him after that nightmare. They hadn't called it a stroke, but he hadn't been on his feet once since they'd brought him in. Still, he could definitely feel his feet and legs, which said a lot. He had vague memories of drinking too much and passing out in bed.

But he couldn't take a chance on getting away with this much longer, especially after the visitor he'd had earlier tonight. He couldn't imagine who the hell the woman had been, but she knew too damn much about his business. The only thing he could figure was that she was some friend of Marsha's. Marsha must have spilled her guts about what was going on between them. He could only imagine what she would have said about him after he'd fired her.

He lay there contemplating a half-dozen scenarios that could get him out of this place unseen. It wouldn't be easy. He knew from previous trips to the hospital to visit acquaintances that there were video cameras on every floor, as well as in the elevators. So whatever he did, he had to do it in disguise.

Having satisfied himself of what had to be done, he began eyeing the clock on the wall against the times that the nurses would come in. They did little but check his IV, then take his pulse and blood pressure. Once in a while a nurse would come in with a needle full of something and shoot it into the IV. It always made him sleepy, so he had to make sure that when he made his break, it was before that was administered.

And there was always the possibility that once he got out, he would still need assistance, but he would cross that bridge when and if he came to it.

 

Wilson McKay was on a stakeout in a less than desirable part of the city, waiting for a man who called himself Two-bit to come home. Two-bit, whose legal name was Morris Sanders, had skipped out on bail to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars. Wilson had refused to bond him out through his business, although he had known Two-bit for several years. In fact, this would be the third time in as many years that Wilson had to go after Sanders. He didn't like the man, and liked this part of the city even less. Still, a job was a job, and he was helping a buddy out. Rufus Carter, of Carter Bonding, had taken a chance on Two-bit and was about to get burned. The skip tracer Rufus normally used was in the hospital, recovering from a broken leg suffered during the ice storm. And since Rufus was a paraplegic, he wasn't going after his bail jumpers himself. Wilson had offered his services, for which Rufus Carter was extremely grateful.