Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(77)

Wordlessly, Elizabeth got up and fetched a glass of water. When she returned, he gratefully accepted it and downed it thirstily. She took the empty glass, refilled it, and he drank it again.

“Life has gotten complicated,” he said softly. The edge had gone out of his voice. He sounded almost flat now, monotone.

“Tell me.”

“Jimmy's father is suing me for murder. But he'll drop those charges if I lie about what I saw on Thursday night and implicate his daughter-in-law. The ADA doesn't think he needs me to implicate Catherine—he's sure she had something to do with the shooting, now he's just trying to decide if I'm in on it, too. At least I had support from my fellow officers, but I sort of screwed the pooch by seeing Catherine, so now they don't trust me either. Oh—and I did have a loving girlfriend, but I dumped her tonight. Told myself I was doing what needed to be done. But honest to God, the whole time, I kept thinking of the dead man's widow.”

“You have a crush on Jimmy Gagnon's widow?”

“A crush is feeling tender toward someone. I don't feel tender toward her.”

“How about guilt, then?”

He immediately shook his head. “No. She's not exactly a woman who's grieving her dead husband.”

“Lust?” Elizabeth's voice was quiet.

“Okay.”

“Do you think she needs you, Bobby?”

He took more time to consider this answer. “Maybe. I think she wants me to think that she needs me. But I can't decide how much of that is an act, and how much is the real thing.”

“Explain.”

“She's a player. She lies, she manipulates, she cheats. According to her father-in-law, she married Jimmy for his money. According to the ADA, Copley, she's abusing her kid for attention. According to her, she's the victim. And according to me . . . sometimes I think they're all right. She's self-centered, dangerous, and unpredictable. But she's also . . . she's also sad.”

“Bobby, do you think it's smart for you to be in contact with her right now?”

“No.”

“But you've seen her. Why?”

“Because she calls.”

Elizabeth gave him a look, and he finally had the grace to flush. He pulled the wingback chair closer to her desk. Then, at long last, he sat down. And without having been aware that she'd been holding it, Elizabeth released one very strained, pent-up breath.

“It's not what you think,” he said.

“What do I think, Bobby?”

“That this was a run-of-the-mill shooting.” He added dryly, “As if there really is such a thing. Look . . . I didn't contact her. I didn't go looking to her for answers. She came to me. And then . . .” He scowled. “Something is going on. The doctor that's been seeing her kid was murdered last night. Tonight, I get called to her house only to find the nanny hanging in the master bedroom. Jimmy wasn't the end, Doc. Jimmy was just the beginning.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“That makes two of us. Everyone around this woman is dying. And now my life is getting sucked into the void. Catherine Gagnon either has the worst luck in the world, or she needs help more than any woman I know.”

“So you're helping her? Why, Bobby?”

He frowned, not seeming to understand the question. “Because she needs help. Because it's what people do.”

“Bobby, every time you have contact with this woman, it jeopardizes your career. And every time you have contact with this woman, you make it more difficult to put distance between yourself and the shooting. In effect, you jeopardize your own mental health.”

“Maybe.”

“But whenever she calls, you come. Why do you answer her calls, Bobby?”

He was still frowning. “I'm a cop.”

“You're a cop. Which means you know plenty of other people—professionals—you could direct her to, or personally ask to help her. You don't have to be the one offering assistance. Isn't that correct?”

He obviously didn't care for that assessment. “I suppose.”

“Do you truly believe Catherine Gagnon is in trouble, Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“So certain? You said that she was a liar.”

“Look, she needs help, I'm trying to help. I don't see how that's so wrong.” He stood up again, leg starting to bounce on the floor.

“When was the last time you slept, Bobby?”

“Last night. Three hours.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I had some coffee earlier.”

“Food, Bobby.”

His reply was more sullen. “Breakfast, early this morning.”

“You went for a run, didn't you?”

He didn't answer this time.

She forced herself to be quiet, calm.

“Fifteen miles,” he blurted out at last. Then, he started to pace.

“You're imploding, Bobby. I know you're imploding, you know you're imploding. I have to ask again: Do you think it's such a good idea to be seeing Catherine Gagnon?”

“It's not her,” he said abruptly.

“It's not her?”

“No. I think it's my damn mother.”