Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(21)

“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” she half laughed, half sobbed. “What have you done?”




I N A DARKENED room of a darkened house, the phone rang once. The call was expected, but that didn't stop the recipient from feeling rather nervous.

“Robinson?” the caller asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yeah.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Keep up your end of the arrangement and he'll keep up his.”

“Good. I'll wire you the money.”

“You understand what you're doing, don't you?” Robinson blurted out. “I can't control him. He was a killer before he went to jail, he was a killer while he was in jail, and now—”

The caller cut him off. “Trust me: that's exactly what I'm hoping for.”





B OBBY WOKE UP blearily to the sound of a phone ringing. For a moment, he lay there, blinking his eyes at the ceiling and feeling the pounding in his head. Jesus, he stank of beer.

Then the phone rang again and the next thought flashed across his mind as a small hopeful flare: Susan.

He grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

The woman on the other end of the phone was not Susan and it amazed him how much he was disappointed.

“Robert Dodge?”

“Who's this?”

“Catherine Gagnon. I believe you shot my husband.”

Jesus Christ. Bobby sat up. The shades were drawn, his room was dark, he couldn't get his bearings. His gaze scatter-shot around the room, finally finding his bedside clock and reading the glowing red numbers. Six forty-five a.m. He'd been asleep what, three, four hours? It wasn't enough for this.

“We can't talk,” he said.

“I'm not calling to blame you.”

“We can't talk,” he said again, more emphatically.

“Officer Dodge, I wouldn't be alive right now if you hadn't done what you did. Is that what you need to hear?”

“Mrs. Gagnon, there are lawsuits, there are lawyers. We can't be seen talking.”

“Point taken. I believe I can make it to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum without being followed. Can you?”

“Lady—”

“I'll be there after eleven. In the Veronese Room.”

“Have a nice tour.”

“Haven't you ever heard, Officer Dodge? The enemy of your enemy is your friend. We have the same enemy, you and I, which means now we're the only hope either of us has left.”




E LEVEN-FIFTEEN A.M., Bobby found her in front of a Whistler portrait awash in vivid shades of blue. The artwork featured a lounging woman, nude, voluptuously curved and swathed in bright oriental fabrics. In contrast, Catherine Gagnon stood out as a stark silhouette. Long black hair, tailored black dress, skinny black heels. Even from the back, she was a striking woman. Slender, self-contained, oozing pedigreed wealth. Bobby decided she was too skinny for his tastes, too rich-bitch, but then she turned and he felt something tighten low in his gut. Something about the way she moved, he thought. Or maybe it was the way her dark, oversized eyes dominated her pale, sculpted face.

She looked at him. He looked at her. And for a long moment, neither took a step.

First time Bobby had seen her, he'd had the impression of a dark Madonna, a slender mother wrapping herself protectively around her young son. Now, with the allegations of child abuse fresh in his mind, he saw a black widow. She was cool. Ballsy, to call him up out of the blue. And probably, most likely, he decided, dangerous.

“You can relax,” she said quietly from across the way. “It's an art museum. No cameras allowed, remember?”

“Clever,” he acknowledged, and she flashed him a fleeting smile before returning her attention to the artwork.

He finally crossed to her, standing in front of the Whistler display, but leaving plenty of distance between them.

The room wasn't crowded yet; early November was off-season in Boston. Too late for leaf-peeping, too early for holiday shopping. Bobby and Catherine shared the opulent room of the mansion-museum with only four other souls, and those four didn't appear to be giving them a second glance.

“Do you like Whistler?” she asked.

“More of a Pedro Martinez fan, myself.”

“Believe in the Red Sox curse?”

“Haven't seen anything to prove otherwise.”

“I like this Whistler study,” she said. “The long sensuous lines of the woman's body against that opulent blue fabric. It's extremely erotic. Do you think this woman was merely a model for him, or after posing for this, did she become Whistler's lover?”

Bobby didn't say anything. She didn't seem to require an answer.

“He had a reputation for being a dandy, you know. In 1888, however, just a few years after painting this piece, he supposedly married the love of his life, Beatrice Godwin. She died eight years later from cancer. What a pity. Did you know that Whistler's a local artist? Born in Lowell, Mass—”

“I didn't come for the art.”

She merely arched a brow at him. “Shame, don't you think? It's a wonderful museum.”

He gave her another look, and she finally relented. “Let's go upstairs. Third level.”