Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(86)

“I was up late working,” the man commented absently. “Must've dozed off.”

“What do you do?”

“ADA. Here, let me look at the dog, see how bad it is.”

Mr. Bosu finally relinquished his hold on Trickster. It made it easier for him to reach down and grab his knife. When he straightened, the man had Trickster propped up on the counter and was inspecting him thoroughly for damage.

“I see blood,” Rick Copley reported. “Funny thing is, I can't find a source.”

“Really? Maybe I can help with that.”





M R. BOSU WAS big, Mr. Bosu was heavily armed. Copley was fast, however, and seemed to know plenty of fancy footwork.

First time Mr. Bosu lunged forward, Copley dodged left. The ADA let go of Trickster. The puppy bounded onto the floor, scampering across the linoleum and disappearing into the family room.

Neither man paid any attention to him. Copley was already up on the balls of his feet, not wasting any time with denial. Mr. Bosu was pleased. After the day he'd had, he was in the mood for a really good fight.

The ADA was a thinking man. A thinking man would want a phone, so he could notify his colleagues of his distress. Sure enough, Copley dove for the cordless receiver on the edge of the table. Mr. Bosu flashed forward and had the satisfaction of drawing first blood.

Copley danced back, now holding his sliced forearm. The ADA was starting to sweat.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Peace on earth.”

“You need money? I have three hundred dollars in my wallet.”

“Please, you're worth a hundred times that dead.”

“What?” The ADA was taken aback by the news. He lost focus. Mr. Bosu lunged again. Copley whirled at the last minute, but was a hair too late; Mr. Bosu nicked his ribs.

The ADA ran for the family room. And Mr. Bosu gave chase.

It was a small house. Not many places to run, not many places to hide. Copley found a lamp, a bookend, a sofa cushion. He danced, he whirled, he dodged.

Mr. Bosu had fifty pounds on him and a much longer reach. For him, the end was never in doubt. Copley hit and tossed and ran. And Mr. Bosu kept coming, herding the man away from the front door, forcing him deeper into his own home, where he slowly but surely became trapped by the very walls that were supposed to protect him. A man's home was his castle. For Rick Copley, it became his execution chamber.

Mr. Bosu finally got the smaller man cornered in his own bathroom, trapped against the tub. After that, it went quick.

In the aftermath, when the bloodlust finally stopped thundering in Mr. Bosu's head, when his breathing eased, when his heart decelerated, he finally became aware of many things at once: His shin hurt. His shoulder where he nailed a doorjamb, the side of his head where Copley finally got lucky with a lamp.

His left forearm also throbbed. Pain from his own self-inflicted wound. It occurred to him now that the cut was still bleeding, possibly leaving splatters on the floor as he'd moved. He tried to look for telltale spots, but given the mess . . .

The house was destroyed. Books and paper and gutted pillows and, well, blood, lots and lots of blood, just plain everywhere. If he had bled onto the floor, it was now so mixed up with other fluids maybe the lab guys would never be able to sort it out. Honestly, he didn't know. Forensics wasn't his strong suit. He only knew what he'd seen on TV.

He retreated to the kitchen, carefully washing his hands and arms. His five-hundred-dollar leather dress shoes were now slick with blood. He took them off, made an attempt at rinsing them, then grimaced at the results. Note for the future: blood ruins dress shoes.

He went in search of the laundry room.

On top of the washer, he found a bottle of bleach. He carried it back into the kitchen, where he poured half the bottle down the sink. He'd seen an episode once where blood had gotten trapped in the drainpipes, then been traced by the savvy crime tech.

Mr. Bosu was a registered sex offender. That meant his prints, his blood, and his DNA were all on file.

He applied the rest of the bleach to a dish towel, then went to work on the blood trail winding through the house. He couldn't get all the blood up, so he worked on smearing it instead, obliterating tread patterns and, in some cases, paw prints. In hindsight, he should've grabbed more surgical scrubs from the hospital. Those had been handy.

Mr. Bosu finished up in the bathroom. Helluva mess there. He threw the towel in the bathtub, on top of Copley's body.

Four-thirty in the morning. Mr. Bosu was officially tired. And, come to think of it, hungry.

He went in search of Trickster, finding the puppy huddled beneath the bed.

“It's okay,” he told the quaking dog. “All done now. All done.”

He held out his hand. The puppy obediently crawled forward, then nuzzled Mr. Bosu's fingertips. Mr. Bosu picked up his dog and patted him comfortingly on the head. Trickster had peed on the rug. Oh well. Couldn't be helped. Besides, he'd never seen a show where the crime-scene tech had traced dog piss.

“You're a good boy,” Mr. Bosu told his bloody dog. “Tomorrow for dinner, I promise you steak!”

Mr. Bosu was just plotting his exit when the phone rang. He stopped, wondering who'd call at this hour, then listening mesmerized as the machine picked up.

“Copley, it's D.D. We've just wrapped up the Gagnon residence—surprised I didn't see you there. Some things have come up.” Deep breath. “I'd like to talk about Trooper Dodge. I have some concerns about his involvement with Catherine Gagnon. You may . . . you may have been right about things. Give me a call when you have a chance. I'll be filling out paperwork for the next few hours.”