Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(23)

“My son is in the hospital,” she murmured.

“What?”

“He's in the ICU. Pancreatitis. Maybe that doesn't sound life-threatening to you, but for a boy like Nathan it is. My son is sick, Officer Dodge. He's very, very sick and the doctors don't know why, so my in-laws are blaming me. If they can make his illness my fault, they can take Nathan away. Then they'll have their grandson—and the money—all to themselves. Unless, of course, you help me.”

Bobby let his gaze drift down the length of her body. “And why would I help you?”

She smiled. It was a fully feminine smile, but for the first time, Bobby also saw a spark of emotion in her eyes—she was sad. Catherine Gagnon was deeply, horribly sad. She reached up a hand and delicately splayed her fingers across his chest.

“We need each other,” she said quietly. “Think about the clerk-magistrate hearing—”

“You know about the hearing?”

“Of course I know about it. The two motions go together, Officer Dodge. The custody battle is the foundation of the probable cause hearing. Basically, if I'm abusing Nathan, then you committed murder.”

“I didn't commit murder.”

Her fingers fluttered across his chest. “Of course. Just like I'm not the kind of woman who would ever dream of harming her son.” She leaned closer, her breath whispering across his lips. “Don't you trust me, Officer Dodge? You should, you know. Because I have no choice but to trust in you.”




B OBBY HAD TO get some air. He left the museum, cabbed it home, and stood like an idiot in the middle of his family room. Fuck it. He went for a run.

Down G Street to Columbia Road. Heading into the park, where traffic roared by on his left, and there was nothing but ocean on the right. Exchanging the Heights for the Point, passing by the historic L Street Bath House, and watching the homes go from tidy three-levels to full-fledged mansions. He hit Castle Island, where the wind gusted into his face and the ocean pounded the shore. Weather was wild here, the wind a physical force, shoving against him as he strained forward. He muscled his way around the stone walls of the old lookout, watching jets from Logan climb slowly into the sky, looking as if they were barely going to clear the island. Playground was here. Kids out on the slide, bundled up against the weather.

He ran around again, picking up the sounds of kids laughing as the notes danced across the wind. Lots of families were moving into South Boston. Used to be working-class kids, walking up from the various housing projects to Castle Island. The families were more white-collar now, but the kids played just as rough.

He headed home, his lungs working hard and finally clearing the fog from his head.

Back in his house, he got out the yellow pages and, still dripping with sweat, started his calls. He found who he was looking for on the third try.

“We have a Nathan Gagnon admitted into the ICU,” a hospital nurse responded to his query. “Brought in last night.”

“Is he okay?”

“Well, we don't generally put the healthy ones in intensive care.” The nurse sounded droll.

“I mean, what's his condition? I'm with the Massachusetts State Police.” He rattled off his badge number.

“Serious but stable,” the nurse reported.

“Pancreatitis,” Bobby recalled. “Is that life-threatening?”

“It can be.”

“In this case?”

“You'd have to talk to his pediatrician, Dr. Rocco.”

Bobby made a note. “Has the boy been in before?”

“Few times. Again, Officer, you should talk to Dr. Rocco.”

“Okay, okay. One more question, if you don't mind.”

The nurse seemed to think about it, then must have decided that she didn't mind. “So?”

“Does the kid ever come in with other conditions? You know, broken bones, unexplained bruises?”

“Does he fall down the stairs a lot?” the woman asked dryly.

“Exactly. How's he doing with stairs?”

“Two broken bones in the last twelve months. You tell me.”

“Two broken bones in the last twelve months,” Bobby murmured. “No kidding. Thanks. You've been very helpful.” He hung up the phone.

Bobby sat on the edge of his chair. Yellow pages were open on his lap. Sweat trickled down his nose and dripped onto the thin paper. He could feel the darkness inside himself again, murky and deep. And he thought what he'd really like to do today, more than run, more than sleep, more than even speak with Susan, was go to a firing range and shoot the living daylights out of something.

So what did that say about him?

A smart man would forget about his encounter with Catherine Gagnon. He'd done his job, the best an officer could do. Now he should wash his hands of everything and walk away.

Of course, a smart man didn't meet a woman like Catherine in a very public museum. And a smart man didn't worry so much about a kid he barely knew.

Bobby snapped the yellow pages shut.

“Dr. Rocco,” he repeated to himself. He headed for the shower.





B OBBY'S CELL PHONE rang the minute he left the house. He didn't feel like driving into Boston—just the parking would bankrupt him, and frankly, without flashing red lights to back him up, he wasn't stupid enough to brave the traffic. So he walked to the bus stop with his head down and shoulders rounded, feeling conspicuous in broad daylight, like a felon from America's Most Wanted.