Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(17)

“I thought . . . I thought as Massachusetts state employees we were protected from all that. The Mass. Tort Claims Act. As long as we're on the job, someone can only sue the state, not us.”

“Yeah, nobody can bring a civil suit against you specifically. But this isn't a civil suit, Bobby. This is a probable cause hearing to press criminal charges. This is a felony. This is, if you're found guilty, you go to jail. This isn't some guy looking to ease his bereavement by collecting cold hard cash, Bobby. This is a guy looking to destroy your life.”

Bobby's legs gave out and he went down hard, tilting wildly to the left, before Bruni caught his arm and brought him back to center. The lieutenant joined him on the curb. They sat, tucked hidden between two cars, and for a while, neither of them spoke.

“Jesus,” Bobby said at last.

“I'm sorry, Bobby. Honest to God, I've never heard of anything like this. Do you have a lawyer?”

“I thought the union provided a lawyer.”

“Union can't help. This is a case brought against you personally, not the State of Mass. or the department. For this, you're on your own.”

Bobby placed his head in his hands. He was too tired, too drunk for this. He felt as if November had leached all the fight out of his bones, and he had nothing left.

“It was a righteous shoot,” he said.

“No one I know is saying otherwise.”

“The man was going to kill his wife.”

“I listened to the tape of the command center's conversation this afternoon. You followed procedure, Bobby. You documented events, you detailed what was happening, and you did what you were trained to do. Maybe no one else will ever say this, but I'm proud of you, Bobby. You had a job to do, and you didn't back down.”

Bobby couldn't talk anymore. He had to pinch the bridge of his nose to quell the moisture suddenly stinging his eyes. God, he was tired. Worse, he was drunk.

“Will it work?” Bobby asked at last. “Guy's a judge. He's got money, he's got influence. Shit, I can't afford a real suit on what I make. Does that mean he wins?”

“I don't know,” Bruni said, but he sighed heavily, which meant he knew enough.

“I don't understand. Jimmy had a gun. Jimmy was pointing it at his wife and child. Doesn't that mean anything to anyone? To even his parents?”

“It's a little complicated.”

“Why, because he's rich, because he's got a house in Back Bay? Beating your family is beating your family. I don't care how much money you got!”

The lieutenant grew quiet.

“What?” Bobby demanded to know. “For God's sake, what?”

Bruni sighed heavily. “In the court papers, the Gagnons aren't denying that Jimmy had a gun. And they're not denying that he pointed it at his wife. But they're saying . . .

“They're saying the wife's the problem in that house, Bobby. According to the court papers, Catherine Gagnon's been abusing her son. And if Jimmy was threatening her, it was only because he was trying to save his son's life.”





N ATHAN HAD BEEN throwing up all day. He was finally asleep now, a pale, exhausted form that looked much too fragile against the pile of soft blue blankets. His eyelashes formed dark smudges against his cheeks. His sunken face appeared both too small and too old for a child who was only four.

When Maryanne and James had arrived first thing this morning, allegedly having bolted out of bed the minute they saw the news, but appearing strangely well groomed for a couple who had been wrenched from sleep by word of their son's death, they had eyed Nathan carefully.

Maryanne had been performing her favorite damsel-in-distress act, of course. All oversized blue eyes, pale face, and trembling hands.

“I simply can't bear it,” she'd said again and again in her overwhelming Southern lilt. Forty years of living in Boston, and the woman could still sound as if she'd stepped straight out of a Tennessee Williams play.

In between all the theatrics, however, Catherine could see both Maryanne and James making mental notes: Boy is thin, lethargic, and obviously stressed. Boy does not move toward his mother, but clings to his nanny. Boy has fresh bruise on forehead.

Twice Maryanne tried to pull Catherine aside for “a quick word.” Both times, Catherine held her ground. Prudence, the English nanny, was well trained and had been imported by Catherine for her dutiful nature and inherent sense of discretion. She was still new, however, so while Catherine had given her strict orders never to leave Nathan alone with his grandparents, she had no idea how the girl would hold up under pressure. James could be very charismatic when he chose. For all Catherine knew, he'd convince the girl to fetch him a cup of tea, and that quickly, the war would be lost.

Catherine couldn't afford that kind of risk. Not these days.

Maryanne and James had offered to let her and Nathan stay with them, of course. After the “terrible events” of the night before, surely they needed someplace to stay, somewhere far away from this “tragic scene.” For God's sake, Catherine, think of the boy. Surely, he doesn't look well.

Finally, James had lost his patience. The minute Prudence escorted Nathan from the room—most likely to throw up again—the judge had turned on Catherine in a terrible rage.

“Don't think you're going to get away with this. Jimmy told us what was going on. Do you think you won last night? Do you think killing Jimmy solved your problems? Because I'm telling you now, they're just getting started.”