Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(63)

The caller was quiet, breathing hard. Angry? Or fearful? It was hard to be sure.

“I would pay him the money,” Robinson said very seriously. “Or, I would get the hell out of town.”

The caller took a noisy breath. “Tell him there will be no new terms. Tell him I got him out of jail, I can sure as hell put him back.”

Robinson was silent for a moment.

“What?” the caller prodded.

“Well, to put him back in jail . . . you kinda gotta catch him first.”

Another pause.

“Shit,” the caller said.

“Shit,” Robinson agreed.




M R. BOSU HAD a puppy. He'd had to buy it from a pet store, not his first choice but about all that was available to him on a Sunday afternoon. The shop, with its crowded shelves, cheap linoleum floors, and vaguely antiseptic smell, had given him the heebie-jeebies. Given that just forty-eight hours ago he'd been a victim of incarceration, looking at a bunch of puppies and kitties plopped down in tiny wire cages hadn't done much for him either.

He'd planned on hanging out for a while. Pet stores on a Sunday afternoon, filled with fluffy kitties, soft puppies, and oodles of milling kids, what wasn't to love? But the dispirited air of the place made him cut and run.

Mr. Bosu bought a beagle-terrier mix. The tiny, ecstatic puppy was all white with giant brown patches over each eye, dangling brown ears, and thumping brown tail. He was the cutest little bugger Mr. Bosu had ever seen.

For his new charge, he acquired a leash, a small carrier that resembled a duffle bag, and about five dozen chew toys. Okay, so maybe he'd gone overboard. But the puppy—Patches, maybe?—had gnawed on his chin and nuzzled his neck so enthusiastically, Mr. Bosu pretty much bought anything and everything the puppy so much as sniffed.

Now he had the puppy on the leash and they were both trotting merrily down Boylston Street. The puppy—Carmel? Snow?—appeared absolutely thrilled to be out in the fresh, fall air. Come to think about it, Mr. Bosu was happy, too.

Mr. Bosu and the puppy—Trickster, maybe? Come on, how could you have a puppy without a name?—reached the street corner. Mr. Bosu got out the map tucked into his pocket. A woman paused beside him. She was blonde, beautiful, and dressed entirely in the fall collection of Ralph Lauren. She gave him a stunning smile.

“What a beautiful puppy!”

“Thank you.” Mr. Bosu looked around the woman. No kids in tow. He was disappointed.

“What's its name?”

“I just bought him fifteen minutes ago. We're still getting to know one another.”

“Oh, he's adorable.” The woman was squatting down now, oblivious to the people trying to walk all around them. She scratched the dangling brown ears. The puppy closed his eyes in true puppy bliss. “Your first dog?” the woman asked.

“I had another when I was a kid.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“At the moment.”

“It won't be easy to have a puppy in an apartment.”

“Fortunately, my job allows me to make my own hours, so it won't be so bad.”

“You're really lucky,” the woman gushed. She was eyeing his Armani sweater and obviously liking what she saw. He flexed just for the hell of it, and her smile grew. “What do you do?”

“Kill people,” the man said cheerfully.

She laughed, a full, throaty sound. He bet she practiced that at night, just for guys like him.

“No, really,” she said.

“Yes, really,” he insisted, but then softened the words with a smile. “I would tell you more,” he said, “but then I'd have to kill you, too.”

He watched her work it out. Was she amused, frightened, or confused? She glanced at his Armani sweater again, then the puppy—Trickster, he was starting to like Trickster—and decided to go with amused. “Sounds exciting. Very hush-hush.”

“Oh, it is. And you?”

“Recently divorced. He had money, now I'm spending it.”

“Congratulations! No kids to worry about?”

“Fortunately not. Or maybe unfortunately. There's a lot more money in child support.”

“Indeed unfortunate,” he agreed. Her eyes were warm, practically glowing as they caressed his chest.

“Maybe we could have dinner sometime,” he said. Those were the magic words. The woman whipped out a card with her name and number like a seasoned pro. He slid it into his pocket and promised that he would call her.

Trickster was now peeing on a newspaper stand. Not quite so attractive, so Mr. Bosu tugged on the puppy and they headed on their way. He eyed the map again. Six blocks later, they were there.

It was a lovely street, tiny, tucked deep within a maze of roads in downtown Boston. Clearly residential here. The lower level offered a corner grocer, florist, a tiny deli. Upstairs were the apartments. He counted from left to right until he found the number he was looking for. Then he eyed his notes once more.

Okay, all was well.

He found a bench by the corner grocer. He tapped the empty place beside him and Trickster jumped up, curling up beside his leg. The puppy made a long, soft sigh, obviously winding down from another hard session of busy puppy work.

The man smiled. He still remembered his first dog, Popeye. A cute little terrier his father had brought home reluctantly from some guy at work. Neither of his parents had been into dogs, but a boy needed a dog, so they brought home a dog. Mr. Bosu was given its complete care and his mother learned to sigh and blink hard when Popeye chewed up her favorite shoes, then went to work on the plastic-covered sofa.