Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(74)

D.D. whirled on him with surprising vehemence. “She's leading you around by the tail between your legs. She's turned you from a good cop into a f*cking idiot. Well, you'd better be enjoying the sex, Bobby, because this is the end of your damn career.”





T WO A.M. THE whole world was sleeping snug as bugs in their beds. Mr. Bosu thought he'd like to join them. Unfortunately, Trickster had other ideas. The puppy was currently whining in the bathroom, scratching at the door. A part of Mr. Bosu thought, Fuck it. It was only his second night in a real bed on real sheets, for chrissakes. He could spread out his arms and legs. He could bury his face against the mattress and not smell the stink of piss. Like hell he was getting up for some sniveling little dog.

The other half of his mind was relentlessly logical—he was already wide-eyed. Had been for hours. Might as well take care of his dog. Who knew that when he finally got out of the joint, he wouldn't be able to stand the quiet?

Life was so unfair.

Mr. Bosu got out of bed. He threw on his five-hundred-dollar trousers. He opened the bathroom door. Trickster came shooting into his arms, wriggling ecstatically and licking at his chin.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He tried to sound gruff. Trickster kissed half of his face, and Mr. Bosu's grumpiness melted once and for all. He supposed he'd slept enough the past twenty-five years. Now he was a free man, hanging out with his dog.

“Outside it is.” He snapped on Trickster's leash and headed out the door. Mr. Bosu had selected a Hampton Inn tonight, nice but not that noticeable. He'd be just another guy in a suit, passing through. Here today, gone tomorrow, not even worth remembering.

Trickster found a good bush in the parking lot, squatted and ejected a shockingly strong spray. No one was about at this hour. What the hell. Mr. Bosu unzipped his trousers and joined him. A man and his dog, taking a leak. Made him feel better about things.

Which was good, because earlier this evening, Mr. Bosu had been feeling blue.

The day had been disappointing. Productive but . . . flat. He'd found the girl. He'd watched her exit the identified apartment. He'd fallen in step beside her and struck up a conversation using the dog. Everything had gone smooth as silk. Except . . .

She hadn't been taken in by his new clothes, for one. He'd seen no spark in her eyes, no iota of interest. It had actually started to piss him off. He looked pretty damn good, you know. Good enough, at least, for some lady he'd never met to want to meet him for dinner. But here was this young girl—and no beauty contestant at that—barely giving him a second glance.

In fact, after a brief pat of Trickster's ears, she'd been on her way.

Flustered, he'd had to do a quick two-step to catch up. Funny thing about spending twenty-five years in the slammer—you don't think so good on your feet.

The stupid cow was walking away. He couldn't make a scene, but couldn't let her go. After all, she was never going to believe he just magically crossed her path again later. No, this was it. He'd selected his strategy and now it had to work.

It had come to him halfway across the street. What did he know and love? Kids. What did a nanny know and love? Children. He started spouting off about his two point two kids and the lack of good daycare. Boom, he got her attention back.

Turned out Prudence Walker was looking for a change of employers. Interestingly enough, she found her current family “kind of frightening.” Apparently, when the father of the family is killed pointing a gun at his wife and child, it doesn't make the childcare provider feel too good about things.

Not that the father was sorely missed. Wandering hands when it came to the nanny, violent drunk when it came to the family. Guy sounded like a real loser. Rich, though, which would explain why he maintained a house in Back Bay while the other losers went to prison. Again, life was unfair, yada, yada, yada . . .

Mr. Bosu grew tired of hearing about the father. He wanted to know about the mother. He wanted to know about Catherine. . . .

Real piece of work, said the nanny. Mrs. Gagnon pranced around in impossibly high heels—a woman her age, bloody well ridiculous. (Mrs. Gagnon was beautiful, Mr. Bosu translated in his head, more beautiful than the young nanny, and twice as sexy.)

Too many rules, too. Boy can't eat this, boy must eat that. “Poor bugger can't weigh more than a blade of grass,” the nanny prattled on. “Seems to me, she should be grateful for anything he wants to jolly well stuff down his face.”

The mother was cold and arrogant. Held herself too high, put on airs. The woman didn't work, didn't tend the house, didn't raise her own son, and yet she was never home. Probably kept too busy by all her various boyfriends.

Mr. Bosu didn't have to talk anymore, just said “Oh no” or “Oh yes,” in an appropriately sympathetic voice. The girl had worked herself into a state, obviously having kept too much locked inside. He found now that, with just the slightest nudge, he could steer her back to Catherine, that dreadful woman who did such dreadful things to her poor, poor son.

And then, briefly, he felt the old magic again. The sun was shining. Trickster was prancing. They were walking along, a regular bounce in their steps as his nerve endings prickled to life and the world took on a slow, surreal feel. This was Mr. Bosu prowling the urban jungle. This was Mr. Bosu, closing in beautifully, magnificently, on his prey.

Thirty thousand dollars, he was thinking. Wow, who had ever known he could get paid for this shit.