“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.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “And don’t give me no runaround. We’ve known each other too long for that.”
Cat swallowed past the knot in her throat.
“Mimi is missing. I think something bad has happened to her.”
“Oh hell, honey. I’m sure sorry to hear that. You go to the cops with it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s good. That’s good. Still, I’ll bet she shows soon, and you’ll see that you was all worried for nothin’.”
Cat shoved a hand through her hair as she unlocked the door to her SUV and got in. The cops were as useless to her as a third tit, and Art’s “it’ll be all right” attitude was no better.
“Yeah, sure,” she mumbled.
“So, I’ll be faxin’ that info to you now. Call me if you run into trouble.”
“Okay,” Cat said, and hung up, then headed home.
She was moving fast when she got back to her apartment. She hurried to her office, grabbing the fax that had already come through. She picked up a couple of other pages that had obviously been faxed earlier and walked to the window for a better look.
As always, they were of men with tattoos. She had a network of people all over the United States who, on a regular basis, faxed her mug shots with rap sheets. She was determined to find the man who’d killed her father. So far, she had yet to get a hit, but she wasn’t going to give up.
She tossed the two sheets into a box on the floor that was already overflowing with similar papers, made a file from the papers Art had faxed her regarding Charity Kingman and walked out of the room. She hurried to her bedroom, packed the bag she normally took on a stakeout and left without thinking to check the answering machine in the kitchen. It was a quarter to eleven in the morning. Even though her world felt as if it was coming to an end, the day wasn’t even half over.
* * *
Charity Kingman considered herself streetwise and sharp, although she was facing a second stay in lockup for bad paper, which even she knew didn’t really back