Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(41)

Now, however, D.D. was peering inside a dark green BMW 450i while chewing her lower lip. Across from her, a crime-scene technician armed with a camera was busily shooting away. The snap and whir of the advancing film echoed across the vast expanse of the cement parking garage and seemed to punctuate Bobby's approaching footsteps.

Garage was a little crowded, given that it was three a.m. Coroner's van, crime-scene van, numerous patrol cars, several detectives' vehicles, and a much nicer sedan Bobby recognized as belonging to the ADA. Lot of cars for a homicide. Lot of attention, period.

Bobby's breath exhaled in frosty pants. He sank his hands deep into the pockets of his down jacket and did his best to blend in. Several heads turned his way. Some faces he recognized, some he didn't. All knew him, though, and despite his best efforts, a buzz was building by the time he arrived at the BMW.

“Hey, Bobby,” D.D. said without ever looking up.

“Nice boots.”

She wasn't fooled. “Kind of late to be out on the town,” she said.

“Couldn't sleep.”

“'Cause your phone was ringing off the hook?” She finally looked at him, blue eyes narrowed speculatively. “You got good ears, Bobby, given that we're doing everything we can to keep this one quiet.”

He understood her question, but decided not to answer it. “If I happen to spend the next hour leaning against that concrete support column over there, studying my nails, how much of a problem would that be?”

“I'd say this is strictly a no-manicure zone.” D.D. jerked her head left, and Bobby spotted ADA Rick Copley in deep conversation with the ME. Last time Bobby had seen Copley, Copley's men had been engaging in a friendly game of pin-the-shooting-on-the-beleaguered-state-trooper. So yeah, Copley would consider Bobby's presence a big problem.

“Highlights?” he asked D.D. under his breath.

She gave him another look. “When we profile the vic, how many times are we gonna find your name?”

“Once. This afternoon. Met him for the first time today to ask him about Nathan Gagnon.”

She processed that, put two and two together very quickly and said, “Ah, shit. He's the kid's doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“What else?”

“Had an affair with the boy's mom. Was already being questioned for a possible custody battle to be waged between the parents. Your turn.”

She flicked her gaze across the way. Copley was still talking to the ME, but now looking in their direction, a frown marring his pug-nosed face.

“One DOA doctor in the front seat,” D.D. murmured quickly, gesturing inside the car. “Looks like he just got his door open and someone nailed him from behind.”

“Shooting?”

“Knife.”

“Strong,” Bobby said, trying to glance inside the car himself, and being blocked by D.D.'s shoulder.

“That's not even the half of it,” D.D. said.

Copley had started their way.

“You gotta run,” D.D. told Bobby.

“Yep.”

“But remember, we'll always have Paris.”

Bobby got the message. “See ya.”

Bobby found the stairwell exit just as Copley closed the distance and the first crime-scene tech said, “Holy shit, is that blood?” and the second technician answered, “Actually, I think it's women's lipstick.”




C ASABLANCA'S WAS A swanky Mediterranean restaurant in Cambridge. It featured a full martini bar and an eclectic menu targeted toward Harvard's more upscale clientele—namely the well-to-do parents of its Ivy League student population. Bogey's on the other hand was a tiny little diner tucked away just down from the statehouse. It offered twenty-four-hour service, peeling vinyl stools, and an extra-large griddle that hadn't been cleaned in years. Now, this was a place for cops.

Bobby walked all the way there, using the freezing early morning temp to clear the last of the sleep from his head and icicle half his eyelashes. It was shortly after five when he arrived, the sun not even up yet but the diner already hopping. He waited twenty minutes in the egg-and-bacon-scented heat, then finally got to steal a booth in the back. His stomach was growling; he ordered up three fried eggs, half a dozen pieces of bacon, and a butter-soaked English muffin. He wasn't sure if this qualified as a decent meal or not, but it did involve protein. He chased the food down with an extra-large OJ, then started in on the coffee.

He was entering that no-man's-land between food coma and caffeine buzz when D.D. finally walked into the diner. She sported a tight-fitting white T-shirt that announced in scripted red sequins, Felonious. It worked well with the boots.

She slid into the booth, glancing at Bobby's empty plate. “What, you didn't save anything for me?”

“What'd you want?”

“Eggs, bacon, French toast. With the world's biggest OJ. And maybe a side order of pancakes.”

“The case that good?”

“Oh yeah. I'm starved.”

Bobby walked up to the counter to place her order. When he returned, D.D. was emptying the last of his coffee urn into a mug she'd swiped from the serving station. He returned to the counter, refilled the urn and loaded up on cream. If memory served, D.D.'s appetite ran somewhere between a Marine's and a truck driver's. Lots of cream, lots of sugar, and anything else that was guaranteed to harden an artery.