Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(82)

Bobby smiled, a wan expression in his tired face. “I hate my mom, isn't that enough?”

“Your mom's the easy target, Bobby. Once she left, you had to love your father; he was the only caretaker you had. But you also feared and loathed him for how he treated you. Hating your mother resolved the conflict. If what happened to you was her fault, then it was okay to love your dad. It's called displaced rage. Thirty years later, you have a great deal of it.”

“Is that why I point guns at people I've never met?” he asked dryly.

“I don't know, Bobby. Only you can answer that question.”

Bobby steepled his fingers, splaying his fingertips against one another. He said abruptly, “Susan said I was angry.”

“Susan?”

“My girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend. When we were talking tonight . . . she said I deliberately shortchanged my life. That I held on to my anger. That I needed it.”

“What do you think?”

“I'm driven.” His voice picking up, he said almost hotly, “Is that such a bad thing? The world needs police officers. The world needs guys like me, perched on rooftops with high-powered rifles. Without me, Catherine Gagnon and her son might be dead. Doesn't that count for anything?”

Elizabeth didn't say anything.

“The rest of the world expects us to be all-knowing. But I'm just a guy, okay? I'm doing the best I can. I got called out to a scene. No, I didn't remember the Gagnons, and even if I did, what the hell do I know about them and their marriage? All I could do was react to what I saw, and what I saw was a man pointing a gun at his wife and child. I'm not a murderer, dammit. I had to kill him!”

Elizabeth still didn't say anything.

“What if I'd delayed? What if I'd watched it and done nothing? He could've shot his wife. He could've shot his son. And that would've been my fault, too, you know. If you shoot, you're screwed; if you don't shoot, you're also screwed. How am I supposed to win? How the hell am I supposed to know what to do?

“He was pointing his gun. He had his wife in point-blank range. And then he got that look on his face. I've seen that look. Oh my God, I've seen that look too many times, and I'm so tired of other people getting hurt. You can't believe the blood. . . . You can't believe . . .”

Bobby's voice broke. His shoulders were moving, giant, dry sobs, and then he was twisting away from her, mortified by his own outburst, seeking the back of the chair with his hand, clinging to it for support.

Elizabeth didn't move. She didn't go to him. She sat there and let emotion heave through him in raw, violent waves. He needed this. After thirty-six years, a little emotional outburst was long overdue.

He wiped at his face now, hastily drying his cheeks with the back of his hands.

“I'm tired,” he said roughly, half apology, half excuse.

“I know.”

“I need to get some sleep.”

“You do.”

“I got a big day tomorrow.”

She said bluntly, “This is not a good time in your life to be making major decisions.”

He laughed. “You think Judge Gagnon cares about that?”

“Can you get away from the situation, Bobby? Take a little break?”

“Not with the DA's office conducting a formal investigation. Besides, there's too much going on.”

“All right, Bobby. Then sit down again. Because there's one more topic we need to cover before you go. We need to talk, honestly, about Catherine Gagnon.”




C ATHERINE AND NATHAN were in the lobby at the Ritz. She knew they must look odd. A woman, a small child, no bags, checking into a hotel at this hour. She didn't care. Nathan was literally shaking in her arms, his distress apparent in his pale, wide-eyed face. Pancreatitis, she was already thinking again. Or an infection, or chest pains, or God knows what. His health always deteriorated when he was under stress.

She fumbled with her purse, trying to get it on the counter while still holding Nathan in her arms. A hotel clerk finally appeared, looking surprised to see someone at this hour.

“Ma'am?”

“I'd like a room, please. Nonsmoking. Anything you've got.”

The man raised a brow, but didn't comment.

A few clicks of the keyboard and he announced they did have a room available. King-sized bed, nonsmoking. Would she like a crib?

She passed on the crib, but asked for a toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as three extra lamps. The lights didn't have to be anything fancy, they'd take whatever they got.

Catherine produced a credit card. The hotel clerk swiped it through the machine.

“Ummm, could I see some ID?”

Catherine was stroking Nathan's back, trying to soothe his trembling. “Pardon?”

“ID. Driver's license perhaps. For security purposes.”

Catherine was perplexed, but obediently dug into her purse. She produced her license, and for the longest time the hotel clerk gazed at the photo on the ID, then back at her.

“Ma'am, are you aware that this credit card has been reported stolen?”

“What?”

“Ma'am, I can't take this card.”

Catherine stared at him as if she'd never heard English. She wanted a room. She wanted a beautiful room in a fancy hotel where bad things couldn't happen. Surely if you were surrounded by silk drapes and down pillows, monsters couldn't find you.