Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(50)

“Oh, I see. So you kept seeing your old lover as a favor to your son?”

“Dr. Rocco is a good doctor!”

“Is a good doctor?”

“Is a good doctor,” Catherine repeated, feeling bewildered.

“Then you must be disappointed he won't be your doctor any longer.”

“It wasn't his fault. James Gagnon wields a lot of power. Tony was just doing what Tony had to do.”

For the first time, the blonde broke off, frowning. “When did you last see Dr. Rocco?” the blonde asked.

“Friday evening. When Nathan was admitted into the ICU. Afterwards, Dr. Rocco informed me he couldn't be Nathan's doctor anymore. The head of Pediatrics had asked him to remove himself from the case. Instead, he was referring me to a geneticist, Dr. Iorfino. We have an appointment for Monday.”

“And when did you make that appointment?”

“I didn't make the appointment. Tony did.”

“Personal touch,” the blonde murmured with an arched brow.

“My son is very sick. He needs expert care. And in the medical field it takes an expert to get an expert. If I had called Dr. Iorfino, I would've been put on a waiting list. But Tony could get us right through. Maybe he doesn't have the best ethics in his personal life, but Tony is a very good doctor; he's always done right by my son.”

“Sounds to me like you still love him.”

“I loved my husband.”

“Even when he used you as a human punching bag? Even when he had a gun? Seems to me like you're not making out too badly, Mrs. Gagnon. Now you get all the benefits of the house, the car, the bank accounts, without any of the expensive Jimmy baggage.” The blonde's eyes were shrewd. “Why, there's not even anyone around to accuse you of harming your son. You're totally free and clear.”

Catherine stood up. “Get out.”

“We're going to talk to Prudence, you know. And the nanny before her, and the nanny before her. We're going to go all the way back, until we know every single thing that ever happened in this household.”

“Out.”

“And then we're going to talk to Nathan.”

Catherine stabbed her finger at the door. The three finally rose. “Too bad about Dr. Rocco,” the blonde commented casually as they crossed the marble foyer. “Especially for his wife and kids.”

“What about Tony?”

“He's dead, of course. Murdered last night. At the hospital.” The blonde stopped, staring hard at Catherine's face. For a change, Catherine didn't bother to shield her expression. She was honestly shocked. Then stupefied. Then, just plain terrified.

“How?” she murmured.

“Boo,” the blonde murmured, and Catherine froze.

The investigators passed through the doorway. At the last moment, the ADA turned.

“You ever hear of GSR?” Copley asked.

“No.”

“It's gunshot residue. Anytime someone fires a gun, traces of GSR end up on their hands and clothing. Guess what we tested for at the morgue, Mrs. Gagnon? Guess what we didn't find on your husband's hands or clothing?”

Catherine didn't say a word. Boo, she was thinking wildly. Boo.

The trio headed down the front steps. “One mistake,” Copley called back over his shoulder. “That's all I need. One little mistake, Mrs. Gagnon. Then, you're mine.”





S UNDAY MORNING. THE sun was shining, the air crisp with the promise of winter. Half of the pedestrians in Boston scurried from overpriced shop to overpriced shop, their heads tucked like turtles deep in the folds of their scarves, their hands crammed into the pockets of their coats. Not Mr. Bosu. He walked through the Public Garden with its grand old trees, no coat, no hat, no gloves. He loved this kind of weather. The scent of the decaying leaves. The last gasp of a fading winter sun.

When he was a kid, this had been his favorite time of year. He'd stay outdoors playing long after dark. His parents didn't care. Being outside was good for the boy, his father would say, before burying himself once more in the daily paper.

Not a bad childhood. He really couldn't complain. He had fond memories of G.I. Joe figurines and toy cement mixers. He rode his dirt bike, played well with the other children. Even had birthday parties in his mother's gold-colored living room, decorated with the little orange and yellow flowers people thought were absolutely darling back then.

He heard it was all coming back in fashion now. Retro. That was the word. Mr. Bosu had been in prison just long enough for his childhood to once again become cool.

He wondered what would happen if he returned home. His parents probably lived in the same house on the same block; hell, maybe they even drove the same car. If it's not broke, don't fix it, the senior Mr. Bosu had always liked to say.

They never visited Mr. Bosu in prison. Not once. After the day that girl had taken the stand, pointed at Mr. Bosu, and said, “Yes, sir, that's the man who grabbed me,” his parents hadn't even attended the trial.

He supposed you could say he'd broken his parents' hearts. People like them were supposed to have an ordinary son. One who would join ROTC, end up with a college degree and serve his country on weekends. Then he'd marry an ordinary girl, maybe a younger version of his mother, and she would stand in a vogue retro kitchen, whipping up retro casseroles while their two point two children played with retro toys out back.