Sharon Sala - Bad Penny (Cat Dupree)

Bad Penny

Book Jacket

Series: Cat Dupree [2]

The heroine in this story is strong and independent. She is a woman who takes care of business and takes care of herself with no excuses or apologies to anyone for how she does it.

It has long been my belief that while God made most men physically stronger, it was the women to whom he gave the greatest strength.

The ability to endure and persevere.

For all my readers who know how important the dedications in my books are to me, I want you to know that I thought long and hard about who to honor by this story. Each time a group, or a special person in my life, or an event came to mind that I thought I might name, in the end I couldnt bring myself to a decision because of this heroinebecause of Cat Dupree.

So it comes to this.

In her name, and in the names of all the women like herwomen who have been victims of unspeakable crimes and who walk through life without justiceI dedicate this book to you.

In your darkest hours, in your saddest days, in theendless years that pass you by, when you think you are in this world on your ownknow that the God who gave you the strength to survive is with you and within you, and that you are never alone.

One

Jimmy Franks smelled a rat.

It wasnt until he opened his eyes and saw the dark beady eyes and whiskers twitching near his nose that he knew hed hit a new low. He swung a weak fist at the varmint, which merely scuttled behind a pile of empty boxes in the alley where he had just spent the night.

The taste in Jimmys mouth was a perfect accompaniment to the stench in the alley. Gagging between breaths, he staggered to his feet. It took a few moments for him to gain his footing; when he did, he took the first good look at his surroundings. It wasnt the Hilton. He wasnt sure how hed gotten here or even exactly where here was, but he was definitely in a garbage-filled alley between two abandoned buildings.

Groaning softly from the aches in his bones and the roiling in his belly, he swiped a shaky hand across his face and stumbled toward the street, anxious to find a bathroom. As he did, a gust of wind rushed through the redbrick canyon, whipping dirt into his eyes. He turned away from the blast just as a couple of sheets of old newspaper wrapped around his ankles. Thinking the paper would be useful to use for toilet paper, he grabbed the pages and headed for the open doorway of the building on his right. He was halfway over the threshold when his gaze fell on a headline in the middle of the page. He stopped.

Local Bondsman Survives Murder Attempt

As he read, he began to curse. His attempt at revenge for himself and his brother, Houston Franks, had gone south. This was pathetic. He couldnt even shoot a man and make it stick. His need for a bathroom forgotten, he wadded up the paper and headed for the street.

He couldnt believe it! Hed made a vow to make Wilson McKay pay for having him arrested for assault, so he couldnt bail Houston out of jail. He had pumped numerous bullets into McKay as payback and had been so certain the deed was done. But McKay was alive and, according to the reporter whod written the piece, healing nicely.

Damn it! Damn it all to hell! Jimmy yelled, as he stomped out of the alley and down the street.

He was so angry he could hardly think. He needed to talk to Houston, but Houston had already hightailed it out of Texas. It was a disgrace. Jimmy still couldnt believe his own brother had left him stranded like this. He didnt have any money. He didnt have a place to stay. And even worse, he needed to find a dealer.

Sick to his stomach and shaking with every step, Jimmy began looking for familiar territory and faces. He was, by damn, going to finish what hed started with McKay.

But first he needed to find himself a fix.

Luis Montoya was a short, stocky Latino with the blood of his Aztec ancestors strong on his face. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was wide and full. He had a stubborn cut to his jaw and a head of thick, black hair that he wore in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Hed been a part of the Mexican police department in Chihuahua for eleven years, the last five as a detective in Homicide. He was a proud man who didnt play favorites, and he was not influenced by people with money.

This morning, hed had a fight with his wife, Conchita, a flat tire on his car and had burned his tongue on his first sip of coffee. All that, and it wasnt even eight oclock. Then hed gotten to work only to be handed a case no one wantedone with no new leads.

All he knew was that the victims name was Solomon Tutuola. His body had been found in the debris of a home fire. According to the records, Tutuola had purchased the mansion only days before his death. But Tutuola hadnt died in the fire. According to the coroner, it was the multitude of bullet wounds in his body that had done him in. The fire had only added insult to injury.

Someone had committed murder. It was now his job to find out who.

Montoya picked up the file, patted his pocket to make sure his cell phone was there and headed for the door. He had an appointment to meet with Chouie Garza, the Realtor whod sold Tutuola the mansion. The man had already given a statement the night of the fire, but Montoya liked to question his own witnesses.

He glanced at his wristwatch as he slid behind the wheel. A few moments later, he was pulling out of the parking lot and into traffic. The hunt for a killer had begun.

Thirty minutes later, hed found the location, pulled off the highway and started up the drive leading to what had once been a grand home. Now there was nothing left but ruins. A small white Honda was parked near a saguaro. There was a man leaning against the hood. Chouie Garza, he hoped.

Montoya pulled up beside the Honda, then got out with his cop face on. Chouie Garza?

The little man came forward, nodding nervously. S. S, seor.

Detective Montoya. I want to ask you a few questions about Solomon Tutuola, the man who died here. You sold him the house, did you not?

Garza nodded again. About three days before the fire.

Montoya began to make notes. Was anyone else with him when you met with him?

No. He was alone.

What was your impression of him? Montoya asked. Garzas eyes widened. El Diablo.

Now it was Montoyas turn to be surprised. How so?

Garza made the sign of the cross, then glanced over his shoulder, as if merely speaking of the man might resurrect his ghost.

There were strange tattoos all over his bodyeven his face, which had recently been burned, I think. The skin was still pink and healing, and he had no hair on that side of his head.

Montoya frowned. Can you describe the tattoos?

Geometric designs, you know, like something on an old pottery. His teeth were filed into points, and when he smiled, it was like looking at a lion.

Montoya remembered the picture that had come into their office. It was true: the man had a devilish appearance, and Garzas description verified the identity again.

Montoya glanced up, eyeing the burned-out rubble. To your knowledge, was he living here alone?

Garza shrugged. I think he had hired a cook and a yard man, but I never saw them. I only saw himand his money. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other before smoothing his hands over his thickly pomaded hair, then wiping them on the legs of his pants.

Montoya arched an eyebrow as he watched Garza fidgeting. He didnt think the man was lying, but his actions did explain the slightly shiny appearance of the legs of his suit pants. It wasnt from pressing marks; it was grease. His interest shifted as he resumed his interrogation.