Nine Lives. Sharon Sala

was worried sick, but even more, she was certain this visit was going to be a bust. It had occurred to her that she should report first to Missing Persons, but she knew they wouldn’t take her seriously until a certain length of time had passed. Too scared to wait and with no evidence to back up her fears, she was going to go out on a limb. She would happily take some hard knocks from the cops if they would just listen and believe.

      She’d been directed to the desk at which she was now sitting with the information that a Detective Flannery would be right with her. The longer she sat, the more certain she was that this had been a mistake. She should have gathered more evidence before coming here.

      She had started to get up and walk out when she heard someone say her name.

      “Cat? Is that you?”

      She looked over her shoulder. Wilson McKay was walking toward her.

      “It is you,” he said, smiling as he reached her chair. “If I’d known I was going to see you here, I would have brought your charm.”

      “I was…uh, I came to—”

      Before she could stammer out an answer, the detective arrived.

      Joe Flannery grinned when he saw Wilson, then slapped him on the back and shook his hand.

      “Hey, you. You’ve been dodging me for weeks. What’s wrong? Scared I’ll beat you at handball again?”

      “You didn’t beat me the first time,” Wilson drawled. “I got a phone call and had to leave, remember?”

      Flannery laughed and cuffed Wilson again, and, believing that Cat was with Wilson, included her in the moment.

      “You’re taking a big chance hanging out with such a lowlife,” he teased.

      Cat didn’t smile back.

      “I’m not with him,” she said. “I think something’s happened to a friend of mine. I think she’s dead.”

      Both Flannery and Wilson shifted mental gears so suddenly that the effort was visible on their faces.

      “I’m sorry. I misunderstood,” Flannery said, and quickly sat down.

      Wilson frowned. Suddenly all of the brush-offs she’d been giving him began to make sense. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled up another chair and sat down beside Cat. When she gave him a questioning look, he put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

      “Moral support,” he said.

      Cat was past caring who listened to her story. The more people who believed her, the better it would be. Still, she clenched her hands into fists to keep them from trembling as she turned her attention to the detective.

      Flannery glanced at Wilson. “You know her?”

      Wilson nodded.

      Flannery looked at the woman. She wasn’t objecting, so he let it slide.

      “Ma’am, would you please tell me your name?”

      “Catherine Dupree.”

      Flannery noticed the odd, husky quality to her voice as he flipped open a page in his notebook and jotted down her name. It wasn’t until he’d written Dupree that he frowned and looked up.

      “Don’t I know you?”

      She held her gaze firm. “I don’t know you.”

      “What’s your occupation?” he asked.

      “I work for Art Ball.”

      Flannery shifted in his chair as he looked at the woman with new interest. As he did, he noticed a thick, ugly scar extending halfway around her neck and then quickly looked away, ashamed to be caught staring.

      “The bounty hunter…you’re his bounty hunter, aren’t you?”

      “My occupation isn’t the issue here,” she said.

      He made a note by her name, just the same.

      “You’re claiming a friend of yours is dead…is that right?”

      “Yes.”

      “So tell me what happened?”

      “She’s gone.”

      “Have you reported her to Missing Persons?”

      Cat sighed. This wasn’t going to go well. “No.”

      “Why not?” Flannery asked.

      “Because I don’t believe she’s missing. I believe she’s dead.”

      “Why do you think that?”

      A muscle jerked in Cat’s jaw, but her voice remained calm. “Because she told me she’d been threatened.”

      “By whom?”

      “Her boss.”

      At that point Wilson interrupted. “How long has she been missing?” he asked.

      Flannery frowned. “I’m asking the questions here,” he said.

      “Sorry,” Wilson said, but he still waited for Cat’s answer. He watched her face, expecting a mirror of her emotions, but she gave nothing away.

      “I last talked to her yesterday morning. She had been crying,” Cat said.

      “Why?” Flannery asked.

      “Because she’d just been fired.”

      “By the same boss who threatened her?” Flannery asked.

      “Yes.”

      “And this boss’s name is…?”

      “Mark Presley.”

      Flannery’s pen ran off the end of his notebook onto his desk, making a slight scratching sound as it dug through years of old varnish.

      “Mark Presley of the Presley Corporation?” he asked.

      “Yes. She’s been his personal assistant for years.”

      “Did she say why she’d been fired?”

      “They were having an affair. She got pregnant. He wanted her to have an abortion. She wouldn’t. He fired her.”

      A muscle jerked in Flannery’s jaw as he laid his pen down beside the notebook and then raised his head. He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

      “What makes you think she isn’t complying with his request? Maybe she’s at some clinic now and just not up to answering your calls.”

      Cat answered his sarcasm with anger.

      “They broke up because she wouldn’t have an abortion. I had lunch with her just the other day. She was scared.”

      “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.”