Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(29)

“Now, granted, things calmed down a little once the nanny was hired. Mostly because Catherine handed over her son and never looked back. Literally. The nanny took the baby and Catherine headed for the local spa. Jimmy got a little frustrated, as you can imagine. He'd thought he'd married this lovely young lady, rescued her even, and this is how she repaid him, abandoning their child, jetting around Europe and consorting with a bunch of guys she liked to call her ‘fellows.' For the sake of honesty, maybe Jimmy wasn't the most faithful of husbands, but this sure as hell isn't what anyone would call a happy marriage.”

“So why didn't Jimmy just leave her?” Bobby asked. “Or was beating her much more fun?”

“Ahh, the infamous beatings. So you've already heard. Well, let's just say rumors of spousal abuse can be greatly exaggerated. Find me a police report. Find me a safe-deposit box filled with photos, or at least one corroborating witness. Stories are easy to tell; let's stick to the facts.”

“Fact one.” Bobby ticked off a finger. “If Jimmy was so unhappy in his marriage, why didn't he get out?”

“He did. That's the first time Nathan became ‘sick.'”

“What?”

“You got it. Jimmy tried to leave Catherine, and Nathan became magically ill. Nathan was very sick, Catherine claimed. He needed special tests, he needed medical attention. She lined up the best experts money could buy, and Jimmy immediately returned home. His son was deathly ill, for crying out loud. He couldn't leave his wife at a time like that.

“And that was the pattern. Catherine would get caught sleeping with Jimmy's tailor, he'd get mad and Nathan would wind up back in the hospital. Sick, definitely—vomiting, feverish, malnourished—until the minute Jimmy toed the line. Then, Nathan would make a miraculous recovery. As you can imagine, James and Maryanne grew very concerned. Not only was Jimmy becoming a nervous wreck, but they couldn't bear to think what was going on with their grandson.”

“And they started alleging child abuse,” Bobby filled in. He stopped walking, looking Harris in the eye. “Got any facts to back up that story, Harris? Because Nathan's own doctor insists there's a medical basis for what's going on.”

“Dr. Lancelot?” Harris snorted, also coming to a halt. “Ask him to say hello to his wife and kids. Catherine's got that poor sap so wrapped around her finger, he'd say the moon was made out of blue cheese if he thought it would make her happy. Six months ago, Jimmy found out she'd been sleeping with the fine doctor. And that's when I entered the picture. To start keeping tabs on Catherine. To try to figure out what was really going on with Nathan, and better yet to protect Nathan Gagnon, if it came to that. Because Jimmy had had enough. Six months ago, he started making plans for divorce.”

They were at a street corner. Traffic picked up, the noise becoming loud. But all of a sudden, it didn't matter. All of a sudden, Bobby knew exactly what Harris was going to say next.

“James and Maryanne were right to be suspicious,” Harris told him quietly. “Unfortunately, they underestimated how clever Catherine can be. They focused their attention on Nathan, never worrying about poor Jimmy.

“Tuesday morning, Jimmy Gagnon formally filed for divorce from Catherine Gagnon. And just, what, sixty hours later, he was dead. You tell me, Officer, is that too much for coincidence?”

“Come on, Harris. It was a domestic disturbance call. She had no way of knowing what would happen next.”

“Did you watch TV Thursday night, Officer Dodge? Hear the reports of how the Boston PD were already called out on a job, the same Boston PD officers who knew Jimmy and Catherine and might have shown a little more finesse in handling the situation? It makes me wonder if Catherine watched TV that night, too.”

“She still couldn't have known that Jimmy would come home drunk, that Jimmy would get mad, that Jimmy would grab a gun—”

“Really? Because I know a lot of wives who know exactly how to push their husbands' buttons, the best way to pick a fight, the fastest way to burn his balls. Surely you've seen it before, Officer Dodge. There isn't a wife out there who can't make her husband fit to kill.”

Harris gave him a meaningful look. This time, Bobby wasn't so quick to reply.

“She's going to call you again,” Harris stated. “She's going to tell you her son is desperately ill. She's going to tell you that you're the only hope she has left. She's going to beg you to help her. It's what she does, Officer Dodge; she destroys men's lives.”

“You honestly think she'd kill her own child just to get back at her husband?”

Harris merely shrugged. “Men may be violent, Officer Dodge, but let's face it—women are cruel.”





T HE MAN SAT at a table outside a coffee bar at Faneuil Hall, frowning first at his double mocha latte, then at the scenery around him. What the hell had happened to this place? The Faneuil Hall of his memory had cutsey little boutiques, old Irish pubs, and lots of cheesy souvenirs. Now he was staring at The Disney Store, Gap, and Ann Taylor. The historic market had become a f*cking suburban mall. There was progress for you.

The man grunted, sipped his double mocha latte, and promptly grimaced. For the record, he'd been waiting a decade to try this drink—watching TV characters, rock stars, and movie actresses sip double-soy this or tall nonfat mocha that while hanging out in chic little coffee shops. You wore tight clothes, sipped your super-caffeinated beverage, then drove off in your Eddie Bauer SUV, Jennifer Aniston–looking wife sitting next to you, golden retriever panting in the back. Welcome to the American Dream.