Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(71)

“What?”

He finally took pity on her. “There's no bruising around her throat. No burn marks from the rope, no broken fingernails from frantic clawing at the knot. Hanging's messy business. Prudence is too clean.”

“I don't . . .”

“Someone killed her. Most likely snapped her neck. Then brought her to your bedroom and set the stage.”

Catherine paled. She swayed slightly on her feet. “Boo,” she murmured. “Boo.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“The point is, Catherine, I saw that right away. The BPD detectives will, too.”

“What if they think I killed her?”

“Prudence had thirty pounds on you. There's no way you single-handedly strung her from the rafters.”

“What about the note?”

“If the hanging's not a suicide, then the note's not a suicide note. By definition, all of its contents are in doubt.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

“Prudence was murdered, Catherine. It's time to call the cops.”

He headed out of the parlor toward the family room, where he'd seen a phone. Catherine stopped him halfway through the doorway.

“Bobby . . .”

He turned. For the first time since he'd met her, she appeared genuinely uncertain, genuinely fragile.

He regarded her levelly, as curious as anyone what she would do next. She was cold and calculating, no doubt about it. If he hadn't told her the truth about the nanny's death, she would've sold him out. Maybe, in time, she still would. But he couldn't bring himself to hate her. He kept seeing that little girl again, which was maybe her biggest trick. She could play the victim, even while staging her next plan of attack.

“You understand . . .” She gave up on the apology, waving her hand instead. “I can't lose Nathan. I can't.”

“Why'd you fire the housekeeper for feeding him?”

She didn't seem surprised he'd heard the story. “Tony Rocco had ordered a strict diet—no wheat, no dairy. Dairy by-products are in everything from cereal to tuna fish. It was simpler to order people not to give him snacks. Unfortunately, not everyone saw it that way.”

“And the poopy diapers in the fridge?”

“Fecal matter collections to rule out cystic fibrosis. Jimmy kept throwing them out, however, so we had to do it many times.”

“People say the boy is sicker when you're around.”

She said tiredly, “Nathan is sick all the time, Bobby. Maybe people just notice it more when they have someone around to blame.”

“So he really is sick?”

“Yes.”

“But Jimmy didn't believe you.”

“No. Jimmy's parents told him I was the root of all evil, and as time passed, Jimmy loved me less and believed them more.”

Bobby still had to think about it. “All right,” he said quietly, and went to find a phone.





D .D. WASN'T HAPPY to see him again. He'd called her direct and she was on-scene in twenty minutes, wearing a leather jacket, stiletto boots, and a scowl. The crime-scene techs followed close on her heels.

“You're a f*ckin' idiot,” she growled as she stormed through the door. “One suicidal f*ckin' idiot.”

“Careful. Kid.” Bobby jerked his head toward the front parlor, where Catherine now had Nathan fast asleep in his nest of pillows. Bobby didn't know how the kid could sleep through all the chaos, but then, he didn't know anything about kids.

D.D. grimaced. She disappeared upstairs to view the scene for herself. He waited patiently in the foyer, leaning against the wall. More uniforms were coming in now. One fresh-faced kid set himself up discreetly in the entranceway, where he could watch Bobby standing in the foyer and Catherine sitting silently in the parlor. Periodically, Bobby would look over at the rookie and yawn mightily. It was fun to watch the rookie struggle not to yawn back.

Fifteen minutes later, D.D. returned, jerking her head toward a quiet corner. He obediently followed her over for the sidebar. They both understood they had to talk sooner versus later—it was only a matter of time before Copley stalked onto the scene, drawn by the fresh scent of blood.

“What the hell are you doing, Bobby?” D.D. demanded without preamble.

“She called, said there was an intruder in her house and asked me to come over. What was I supposed to do?”

“Call BPD.”

“You think they would've taken her seriously? Thanks to Copley, most of the department seems to have her pegged as a murderer.”

“Not your concern, Bobby. Your career is your concern, and just to enlighten you, these little stunts don't help you out.”

“Funny how many people suddenly care about my career,” he murmured.

“Bobby—”

“I didn't think there was an intruder,” he said.

D.D. finally quieted. Now that he was getting serious, her temper calmed. “What'd you think?”

He shrugged. “That it was a ploy. That she wanted to talk to me alone. That she was probably going to lobby me for one thing or another.”

“About the shooting?”

“Yeah.”

D.D. grunted. “Better reason for you not to have come.”