Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(85)

Was she all right? How was Nathan holding up, and where would they go? Not to her in-laws, that much was clear.

Maybe she had another lover. Why not? She'd certainly wasted no time coming on to him. Woman like that, not the type to go at it alone. Probably had a sugar daddy in every port. Maybe she was already lining up another doctor. Or, more likely, a lawyer. Yeah, she needed a big gun to take on Judge Gagnon.

He bet she could find someone pretty quick. Right clothes, right time, right twitch of the hip.

He wished he could hate her. But he didn't. Catherine was doing what she needed to do to survive. And he understood that too well.

If someone else had taken the call on Thursday night, a sniper whose father had never smacked his mother, a sniper who'd never grown up watching that look of hopelessness bloom on another person's face, would Jimmy Gagnon still be alive?

Would Catherine Gagnon now be dead?

None of them would ever know.

Bobby buried his head deeper into his arms. His breath exhaled as a broken, exhausted sigh.

He did his best not to dream.





M R. BOSU WAS trying hard to be a better employee.

Currently, he was watching the faintly lit home of a fifty-thousand-dollar man. No doubt about it, this job was going to be tricky.

For starters, the house sat in the middle of a densely populated neighborhood. Secondly, a sticker on the front window advertised the ADT security system. Third, a light was on in the house, which surprised Mr. Bosu. Given the late hour, he'd assumed the occupant to be asleep.

No way around it, for this job, Mr. Bosu was going to need some help.

He eyed Trickster, who was curled up fast asleep in the front seat of the stolen car. As if sensing his look, the puppy opened one eye and yawned mightily.

“I need an accomplice,” Mr. Bosu said.

Another puppy yawn.

“Do you think you could play dead? Just hang around looking half asleep. Yeah, like that.”

Trickster had already dropped his head back into his paws and had closed his eyes. Mr. Bosu stroked the puppy's ears meditatively, his sausage fingers delicate on the puppy's small head.

Briefly, the thought came to him: Faking wasn't foolproof. If he really was striving to be a dedicated employee, he shouldn't take unnecessary chances. One small twist and he could snap Trickster's neck. It would be swift, painless, the dog would never feel a thing. And with fifty thousand dollars, he could get a lot of new puppies.

His hand stilled on the back of Trickster's head. He felt his fingers dig into the scruff of the dog's fur. Soft. Silky. Fragile. Everyone had to die sometime.

He pulled his hand away. He slid the knife from the strap at his ankle. He looked at Trickster one last time, then shoved up his linen shirtsleeve above his elbow and slit his forearm.

Blood gushed forth, a dark, red welt. Mr. Bosu wiped the blood onto his fingers, then smeared it onto Trickster's white haunch.

“It's okay,” Mr. Bosu told him. “I'll give you a bath as soon as we get home. Now hang on. Things are about to get interesting.”

He put the car into reverse. He eased down the block, lights off. Then his hand returned to Trickster's head, steadying the dog, steadying himself.

“One, two, three!” Mr. Bosu flipped on the car's headlights. His foot slammed down on the accelerator and the car shot up onto the curb in front of the target home. Mr. Bosu drove straight onto the lawn, screeched the brakes, and let out a giant “Holy crap!” just for good measure.

He grabbed Trickster and bolted out of the car, leaving it parked in the middle of the yard, its headlights pointing into thin air.

“Oh no,” he groaned loudly. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

Mr. Bosu scrambled across the lawn and knocked furiously on the fifty-thousand-dollar man's front door. Mr. Bosu was breathing hard, sweat rising on his brow. He'd pulled his sleeve back down, but drops of blood were leaking through the fine linen fabric. Excellent.

He banged again, hard, insistent, and the porch light abruptly snapped on.

“Help, help, help,” Mr. Bosu said. He glanced down at Trickster, pleased with the matted, bloody look of the dog's white fur.

The door finally cracked open, stopped by a metal chain. The guy was careful, Mr. Bosu would give him that.

“Sir, sir, so sorry to disturb you,” Mr. Bosu exclaimed in a rush. “I was just driving by when a dog darted in front of my path. I tried to avoid him, I swear I did, but I nailed him pretty good. Please, I think he's hurt.”

Mr. Bosu held up the bloody bundle.

The fifty-thousand-dollar man's reaction was instantaneous and admirable. It would also be his downfall.

“Quick!” the man said. “Bring him in.”

The chain was dropped, the front door opened. The man wasn't wearing a robe as Mr. Bosu would've expected, but apparently was dressed for work.

“I thought I heard a commotion,” the man said, already leading the way into the house.

With a slight kick of his foot, Mr. Bosu had the door shut securely behind him.

“Are you a vet, do you know a vet?” Mr. Bosu babbled. His eyes swept the home, getting the lay of the land. He followed the man to the back of the house, where a light blazed. They entered a narrow kitchen, circa 1950s. It boasted a small breakfast nook where an old table was totally covered in stack after stack of paper.