Cut Throat (10 page)

“Which one of you is Juan?”

A short, swarthy man with a large mustache stepped forward.

“Follow me, señorita.”

Six

The sun had been up for hours. Cat had no idea how long she’d been driving on what most might consider a trip to nowhere. Looking for a family that might or might not exist, so they could claim the body of a dead woman and the baby she’d left behind, could easily be a lost cause.

Cat knew she was playing against the odds in pulling this off. As for the baby, Cat didn’t know her name or how old she was—in fact, six hours ago, she’d been unaware of her existence.

But leaving that baby behind in Casa Rojo had been difficult—more difficult than she would have imagined. From the moment she had lifted the baby out of the mother’s lifeless arms and realized she was alive, the child had become the most important thing in Cat’s life. Seeing that the infant was reunited with family meant more to her right now than finding out if Tutuola was still alive.

She knew from experience what it was like to be a throwaway child. Witnessing the last of her family being murdered—and nearly dying herself in the process—had been a trauma from which she’d never recovered. Even though she was an adult in every sense of the word, an independent, even aggressive, woman, she was still a product of her past. Every day, when she looked in the mirror and saw the ragged necklace of scar tissue around her throat, she was reminded that she belonged to no one. If a wild ride through the Mexican desert was all it took to find a lost baby’s family, then it was the least she could do.

The speedometer was hovering between eighty-five and ninety miles an hour, and the rooster tail of dust Cat was leaving behind her was impressive. Her grip on the steering wheel had turned her knuckles white, matching the bloodless set of her lips.

She wasn’t just mad, she was furious. And she was scared. Scared for a baby she didn’t know, and furious that the mother’s death could have been prevented. Granted, the immediate cause of her death was snakebite. But her presence in the desert, so far from anywhere, was

suspicious. If it was true that she’d been abandoned to her fate by a coyote, Cat silently wished that man to hell and back once a day for the rest of his miserable life and then to hell for eternity when he died. But she couldn’t let her thoughts stray from the greater purpose, which was to get to Adobe Blanco.

When Dominguez had told Cat that Adobe Blanco was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, he’d been right. The landmarks she’d been given to look for were obscure. Still, how many rusted-out 1955 Chevies with a giant saguaro behind them could there be? Once she found that marker, she was to take a sharp turn south and follow what amounted to a dirt road for thirty miles, at which point she would come to a fork in the road, marked by one ancient gasoline pump, what was left of two walls of a building and the skeleton of a roof. It was all that was left of an old gas station that had been abandoned back in the thirties. From there, she would take the left fork and drive the last fifteen miles to reach Adobe Blanco.

The farther she drove, the more afraid she was that she’d somehow missed her turn. When her cell phone suddenly rang, the sound was so startling that she almost ran off the road. Her hands were shaking and her heart was still pounding erratically by the time she got the SUV under control. By then, whoever was calling had either disconnected or left a message. Cat didn’t bother to look. Chances were it was either Art or Wilson and she had nothing to say to either one of them, so she kept on driving.

At the point of fearing she’d somehow missed the landmark, she saw the old car and, directly behind it, the giant saguaro.

“Yes!” she shouted, and tapped the brakes until she slowed enough to take the turn.

Dust boiled upward as the thick, gritty cloud that had been trailing her caught up and engulfed the SUV. Moments later, Cat shot out of the morass on a southward route. The sun was on her left and in her eyes. She grabbed a pair of sunglasses and shoved them up her nose, then stomped the accelerator all the way to the floor.

Art Ball hung up the phone, then looked up at Wilson McKay and shrugged. “She don’t answer.”

A muscle jerked at the corner of Wilson’s left eye as he pivoted angrily and headed for the door.

“Hey, McKay! If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.” “Yeah…right,” Wilson said.

The door banged shut behind him as he left the bail-bond office. It was hard for him to decide which made him the angriest. The fact that Cat still hadn’t checked in, or the fact that he was so damned weak-minded where she was concerned that he’d gone crawling to Art Ball for possible scraps of information.

“Hell,” Wilson muttered, as he headed for his vehicle. The day was sunny, but the air was frigid. It matched the hard, cold knot in his gut.

His phone was ringing as he got into his vehicle. A quick glance at the

caller ID and he answered. “It’s me. What’s up, LaQueen?”

The timbre of his secretary’s voice was up at least two notches when she spoke. He could tell that she was ticked about something.

“Can you come to the office?” she asked.

“Yes. What’s up?”

“We got a phone call from County Jail. A repeat offender named Houston Franks just called for a bond.”

Wilson frowned. He knew Franks by reputation. “What’s his bond?”

“Two-hundred thousand.” “What are the charges?”

“There is a whole list of them, including assault. He beat up his mother when she would not tell him where she had hidden her money.”

“That’s a no-brainer for me. We don’t touch him,” Wilson said. “If he bonds out, it will have to be on somebody else’s dime.”

LaQueen sighed, then lowered her voice.

“That is what I knew you would say, but his brother is in the office and he is not leaving until he talks to you.”

“I’m ten minutes away. I’ll be right there.” Then he added, “Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

The hair rose on the back of Wilson’s neck. LaQueen was the kind of person who could handle anything and, usually, anyone.

“Has he threatened you?”

“More or less.”

Her reluctance to elaborate told Wilson that the man was close by. He cursed beneath his breath. “Hang in there, honey. I’m on my way.”

He put his vehicle in gear and stomped the accelerator, shooting out into traffic without caution. Within nine minutes of her call, he was pulling into the back of the building where his office was located. He got out at a run and then used his key to let himself in the alley door. He strode into the office just as a blond-haired man with a pockmarked face grabbed LaQueen’s arm and twisted her toward him.

LaQueen pulled away, then slapped the man’s face just as Wilson stepped between them.

“Get your goddamned hands off her,” Wilson snapped, then grabbed the man by the arm and in two moves slammed him belly-first against the wall and cuffed him.

“Hey! What the hell do you—”

“You assaulted my assistant. You’re going to jail.” A dark flush swept up the man’s neck all the way to his hairline.

“I didn’t hurt her none. Hell…I’ve been sitting here for over an hour and getting the runaround. All I want is a bond for my brother.”

“I assume you’re talking about Houston Franks?” “Yeah. I’m his younger brother, Jimmy.”

“Well, Jimmy, I don’t bond out men who beat up their mothers.” He yanked at the handcuffs hard enough to make Jimmy Franks wince. “Or mess with men who try to fuck with me and mine. You shouldn’t have touched her.”

“Come on, man…I need—”

Wilson dragged Jimmy Franks into a chair, then turned to LaQueen, who, for once, was speechless.

“You all right?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, then nodded. “Call the police,” Wilson said.

Jimmy Franks started cursing as LaQueen picked up the phone. Wilson turned around and pointed a finger in his face. “Shut up,” he said softly. “Just shut the hell up.”

Franks hushed, but the expression on his face held more than anger. There was a “get even” look in his eyes that Wilson had seen before. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last, that he and some badass had been unable to come to what might be considered a mutual understanding.

A short while later, the second member of the Franks family was carted off to lockup. LaQueen watched until Jimmy and his police escort were out of sight before she turned to face Wilson.

“I should have handled that better.” He frowned, then put his arms around her.

“No, you should never have been put in that situation to begin with.” He gave her a quick hug, then pulled back until they were eye-to-eye. “I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

“You can’t make that kind of promise,” she said.

“Well, yes, I can…and will. You will not be in this office alone again.” LaQueen frowned. “I do not need a babysitter.”

Wilson matched her frown for frown.

“I’m not hiring a babysitter. I’m hiring another bounty hunter. You and I both know I could use the help. And when one of us is out, the other one will be on-site. Then, the next time some bastard like Jimmy Franks comes in, you won’t be facing him alone.”

LaQueen sighed, then laid a hand along the side of his cheek. “You are a good man, Wilson McKay.”

“Yeah…and I suspect you and my mother are the only two females to agree on that.”

“That Cat Dupree still giving you fits?” “She’s not giving me anything,” he said. LaQueen smiled.

“And therein lies your trouble…huh, boss?”

Wilson shrugged. “Since I’ve never been able to lie to you and make you buy it, there’s no need to start now.”

LaQueen shook her head. “I think you quit too soon.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. “I know what I know,” she said. “If she is worth it to you, you do not quit.”

“There’s a difference between quitting and being fed up,” he said. “So, do we have a file with potential employees?”

“No.”

“Then we need to make one.”

“Are we going to put an ad in the paper?” “No. I’ll make some calls.”

“You’re the boss,” LaQueen said.

The sun was shining, which seemed to be a good sign to Tutuola as he entered the outskirts of Chihuahua. The city was so familiar; he was already anticipating stopping at his favorite restaurant. His belly growled as he stopped at a crossroads to let a man on a bicycle pass.

The man eyed Solomon through the windows, then quickly looked away, as if shocked by what he’d seen.

Solomon saw the man’s reaction, then cursed and frowned. He was used to people being shocked by his appearance. The tattoos were fierce. In the past, he’d used them to elevate his badass image. But now, with the burn scars and only half a head of hair, there was an air of pity that came with the shock. That, he didn’t like. Along with a new home, he was going to have to think about some kind of makeover.

When the man on the bike was through the intersection, Solomon accelerated past him. The first thing on his agenda was breakfast, then a Realtor. There were always places for sale to anyone holding enough money. And this being the off-season for tourists, he might get himself a deal. It was about time something started working in his favor.

By his watch, it was almost noon, but he hadn’t reset it since he’d left Texas, and had no idea what time zone he was in or what time it really was. However, he would deal with that later. Whatever time it was, he was still hungry.

As he headed for Abuela’s, he kept checking out places he saw for sale, along with areas that were more remote than others. He had no desire to mix with the population. His requirements were no neighbors, no neighborhood, no lawn to care for. He wanted a place apart, and he had the money to buy it.

American dollars went a long way in Mexico, compared to other countries. The way he figured it, he could live comfortably down here for the rest of his life. Finally he tired of shopping for real estate and began looking for a place that served food. Abuela’s was on the other side of the city,

and he was too hungry to drive that far. By the time he found a place to eat, he was beginning to hurt. He was going to have to squeeze in a visit to a doctor between food and a Realtor.

He wheeled into a parking area beside a small, single-story building and parked. As he exited the car, the scent of tortillas cooking made his stomach growl. When he entered, he had to duck to miss strings of drying red chili peppers hanging from the rafters. He grunted with satisfaction as he noticed there was also a small bar in the corner of the room. A halfdozen posters advertising different beers had been tacked to the walls, and opposite the bar there was an old woman bent over a small fire, slapping raw, uncooked tortillas from hand to hand until they were the desired size and thickness. At that point she flopped them down on an old griddle, letting them cook briefly on one side, then the other, before adding them to a growing stack of freshly cooked tortillas on a small platter beside her.

“Hola,” Solomon said.

The old woman didn’t look up. He frowned and, this time, yelled. “Hey! Old woman!”

“Don’t yell at her. She cannot hear you.”