Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(24)

Thank God Jimmy Gagnon had been white, Bobby thought, or he'd never be able to leave his home.

His phone bleated again. He flipped it open suspiciously, the wind already ripping the words from his lips.

“Yeah?”

“Bobby? Thank God. I've been trying to reach you since last night.”

“Hey, Pop.” Bobby relaxed, but only a fraction. He continued walking, his legs eating up the six blocks to the bus stop. “I called you this morning, but couldn't get through.”

“Had to take the phone off the hook. Damn reporters wouldn't stop bothering me.”

“Sorry 'bout that.”

“I didn't tell them anything. Good-for-nothing sons of bitches.” Bobby's father hated journalists almost as much as presidents from the Democratic Party. “You okay?”

“Working on it.”

“On paid leave?”

“Till we hear from the DA.”

“I did a little calling around,” Pop said. Once upon a time, Bobby's father had gone by his real name, Larry, but then he'd set up shop as a custom pistolsmith to augment his retirement income. So many of his customers were Bobby's fellow police officers. They'd started calling him Pop, too, and now it had stuck. Bobby'd been surprised by the evolution, sure his gruff, hard-assed father would hate the familiarity. But Larry didn't seem to mind. Sometimes, he even appeared flattered. Things changed, Bobby supposed. In his own way, Bobby was trying to change, too. It was just a longer time coming.

“I'm hearing good things,” Pop said quietly. “You did what you had to do.”

Bobby shrugged. Saying “Thanks” would sound too cavalier. Saying anything else would be ungrateful.

“Bobby—”

“I know I should've tried harder to call you,” Bobby cut in. “I shouldn't have left you so long to worry.”

“It's not that—”

Bobby rushed on, quickly now, before he lost his courage. “I guess it all just hit me harder than I thought. I mean, I don't doubt taking the shot. I could only act on what I saw, and what I saw told me to shoot. But still, the guy's kid was in the room. Right there, not five feet away, and I blew his father's brains out. Now the boy has to live with what I did, and I have to live with what I did, and I . . .” Bobby's voice broke off, sounded more ragged than he would've liked. Jesus, how did he get into this mess?

Pop didn't try to say anything this time.

“It gets to me, Pop,” Bobby said more quietly. “I didn't think it would. But it gets to me. And last night . . . last night I had a beer.”

His father didn't speak right away. He said finally, heavily, “I heard it might have been more like half a dozen beers.”

“Yeah, yeah, you're right. It was probably closer to five or six.”

“Did it help?”

“No.”

“How did you feel this morning?”

“Like shit.”

“And tonight?”

“I'm done. I slipped, I learned my lesson, I'm done.” Bobby couldn't quite resist adding, “And you?”

“I'm good,” Pop said. “One * in the family is enough, don't you think?”

Bobby had to smile. “Yeah, one * is enough.”

“And Susan?” his father asked gruffly. “Now you got some time off, maybe you can bring her out for a visit.”

“I don't know.”

“What don't you know, son?”

“I don't know . . . a lot of things.”

“Come visit me, Bobby. It's only a thirty-minute ride. You could spend an afternoon. We could talk.”

“I should do that.” Which they both knew meant that he wouldn't. Pop was trying, Bobby was trying, but there were still things both couldn't forgive and neither could forget.

“Hey, Pop, I gotta go.” Bobby could see the small cluster of three people at the bus stop. An older woman stared at Bobby. He stared right back.

“Have you talked to your brother at all?”

“No.”

“I'll give him a call. I'd hate for him to catch it on the news.”

“Pop, George lives in Florida.”

“Yeah, but these kinds of stories . . . they have a life of their own.”




A T THE HOSPITAL, ironically enough, Bobby couldn't catch anyone's attention. He stood for ten minutes at the registration desk before growing impatient and heading for the hospital directory next to the elevator. He found a listing for Anthony J. Rocco, M.D., on the third floor. Bobby took the stairs.

Arriving at the top, he was breathing hard. He found a glassed-in waiting room filled with children's toys and snotty-nosed toddlers. Two kids were crying. One was trying to cram a metal car down her throat. Greater Boston Pediatrics, the sign said. Bobby decided it must be the place to start.

The receptionist at the counter barely glanced at him. She slid him a sign-in sheet and a chewed-up pen while cracking her gum and talking on the phone. Bobby had to wait until she hung up to inform her he wasn't a patient; he simply wanted to talk to Dr. Rocco. This confused her greatly. He flashed his badge, said he was with the police, and finally got a response. The girl flew out of her chair and trotted down the hall in search of the infamous Dr. Rocco.