Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(10)

“How did it go?” Lieutenant Bruni asked.

Bobby said honestly, “Not that good.”




T HE SUN WAS out, the sky bright, by the time Bobby turned into the building where Susan lived. The morning commute was already on. He heard squawks over his radio, describing congested traffic, motor vehicle accidents, and disabled cars parked in breakdown lanes. Day was happening. City dwellers emerging from their bolt-locked cages to crowd sidewalks and jam coffee houses.

He stepped out of his cruiser, inhaled a deep gulp of city air—cold, diesel-filled, cement-laced—and for one surreal moment, it felt to him as if the night had never happened. This moment was real, the building, the parking garage, the city, but the shooting had been fake, just a particularly powerful dream. He should change back into his uniform now, climb into his cruiser and get to work.

A guy walked by. Took one look at Bobby, standing dazed in his sweat-stained urban camos, and hastily picked up his step. That shook Bobby out of his funk.

He grabbed his trusty rucksack and headed for Susan's unit.

She answered on his second knock, wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and looking flushed from the warm comfort of her bed. Practices had a tendency to run deep into the night, and she often slept late the next morning.

She gazed at Bobby, all sleep-tousled blonde hair, rosy skin, and heavy-lidded gray eyes, and her face immediately softened into a smile. “Hey, sweetheart,” she began, before the last of the sleep left her, and her instant pleasure gave way to immediate concern. “Shouldn't you be at work? Bobby, what's wrong?”

He walked into her apartment. There were so many things he should say. He could feel the words building in the unbearable tightness of his chest. Susan was a concert cellist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. They had met, of all places, in a local pub.

Bobby knew nothing about classical music. He was all sports bars, pickup games of basketball, and ice-cold beer. In contrast Susan was billowy skirts, long walks in the park, and tea at the Ritz.

He'd asked her out anyway. She'd surprised them both by saying yes. Days had turned into weeks, weeks into months, and now they'd been seeing each other for over a year. Sometimes he thought it was only a matter of time until she moved into his little three-story row house in South Boston. He allowed himself to think of weddings and babies and twin rockers at the retirement home.

He'd never quite brought himself to ask the question yet. Maybe because he still had too many moments like this one, when he stood before her sweaty, grimy, and covered with a night's work, and instead of feeling grateful to see her, he was shocked she let him through the door.

Her world was such a beautiful place. What the hell was she doing with a guy like him?

“Bobby?” she asked quietly.

He couldn't find the words. None would move his lips. None would come close to releasing the pent-up emotions tightening his chest.

Oh God, that poor kid. To watch his father die.

Why had the bastard made him do it? Why had Jimmy Gagnon just ruined Bobby's life?

He moved without ever knowing he was moving. His hands were sliding under Susan's robe, trying desperately to find bare skin. She murmured something. Yes, no, he never really heard. He had her robe off, and was skimming his fingers across the thin lace that covered her breasts, while burying his face in the curve of her neck.

She had beautiful fingers. Long, delicate, but shockingly strong. Fingers that could coax a fine wooden instrument into the sweetest sounds. Now those fingers were on his back, finding the knots that corded his muscles. She had his shirt off, was working on his pants.

She was too slow. He was hungry, desperate. He needed things he couldn't name but knew instinctively she could give to him.

Funny how he'd always been delicate with her before. Her skin was fine china, her beauty too pure to tarnish. Now he ripped the gauzy nightgown from her body. His teeth sank into her rounded shoulder. His hands gripped her buttocks, pushed her up, lifting her against him.

They went down in a tangle on the hardwood floor. He got the bottom, she claimed the top. Her mouth was devouring his chest, her small, pale body writhing against his broad, dark frame. Light and shadow, good and bad.

She was poised above him, she was pushing down onto him. Her shoulders were thrown back, her breasts thrust out. She needed him. He needed her. Light and shadow, good and bad.

At the last minute, he saw the woman.

At the last minute, he saw the child.

Susan came with a guttural scream. He caught her as she collapsed upon his body, and he lay there withered on the floor, feeling a darkness that went on without end.





D R. ELIZABETH LANE was thinking about getting a small dog. Or maybe a cat. Hey, what about a fish? Even a four-year-old could raise fish.

She had this conversation with herself once a year. Generally, right about now, when the holidays were looming and people were talking excitedly about upcoming family gatherings, and she went home each night to an empty condo that seemed much emptier than it did in spring-filled May or hot, sunny August.

It was a stupid conversation, which she of all people should know. For one thing, she had a very nice “empty” condo. Ten-foot ceilings, sweeping bay windows with original bull's-eye molding, rooftop terrace, gleaming cherry-wood floors. Then there was the furniture she'd spent the better part of her professional life acquiring—the low-slung black leather sofa, the bird's-eye maple cabinets, the stainless steel Soho lamps. She was pretty sure puppies and silk rugs didn't make a good mix. Cats and custom woodwork didn't sound like a good match either. Though none of that ruled out fish.