Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(87)

Phone clicked off. Mr. Bosu walked into the kitchen to stare at the blinking answering machine. Then his gaze fell to a pile of paperwork. He glanced at the summary report, the list of names, and for the first time, he got it. What he'd just done and why.

Then, on the heels of that thought . . .

“Trickster,” he murmured, “I think I know how to make Benefactor X very, very happy.”

The brilliant Mr. Bosu went to work.





B OBBY WOKE UP Monday morning with light hammering against his eyelids. His neck ached. His shoulder throbbed. At some point in the early morning hours, he'd made it from the kitchen table to the dilapidated couch. Now he was sprawled facedown in musty cushions, his right arm dangling over the edge, and half a dozen springs jammed into various parts of his body.

He sat up slowly, biting back a groan. Jesus, he was too old for this shit.

He rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head and wincing as nerve endings prickled to life. Daylight poured through the front windows, high and bright. He staggered into the kitchen and searched for a clock.

Ten a.m. Shit! He'd been out seven hours. His first decent sleep in days. And an absolutely stupid thing to do, given the five p.m. deadline. He needed food. He needed a shower, he needed a shave. He had to move, he had to . . . do something.

He headed for the bathroom, then belatedly remembered the messages on his answering machine. He should check in with his LT. Probably call his lawyer. Maybe call his father.

And say what?

Bobby stepped into the shower. He stuck his head beneath the stinging spray. He needed clarity. He needed alertness. He needed strength.

Halfway through, it came to him.

Bobby sprang out of the shower, and headed for the phone.

“Hey, Harris,” he said a minute later, dripping water all over the carpet. “Let's meet.”




R OBINSON WAS HUMMING. Not being musically inclined, it wasn't a pretty sound. Robinson hummed incessantly, however, when suffering from a bad case of nerves.

Robinson had a police scanner. All night long, it had been picking up chatter regarding a scene at the Gagnon residence. It didn't sound good.

Now Robinson wasn't taking any chances. There came a time when a body had to put safety first. This was definitely one of those times.

Robinson packed up quickly. Attached to the toilet tank was a waterproof box filled with various credit cards and fake IDs. The box went into the bag. Then came clothes. Taser. Handgun. Little spiral-bound notebook.

That was it.

Place was a rental. Robinson didn't own furniture and had never bothered to supply so much as a doily. The less you owned, the less you had to lose. And the less that could be held against you.

Five minutes later, Robinson stood by the back door, holding the match.

One last hesitation. A tiny moment of regret. This was to have been the job. The big job. Increased risk, no doubt about it, but oh, the payoff. The beautiful lure of cold hard cash. After this job, Robinson would've finally hit easy street. We're talking a white sandy beach, fruity frozen drinks, and clear blue water that would've gone on without end.

Robinson sighed. And tossed the match.

No apologies, no looking back. You took a job, you did your best. But you always put your own interests first. And Robinson's interests said it was now time to get the hell out of town.

Robinson stepped outside, looking up the street, then down the street. Coast was clear.

Robinson walked to the car parked halfway down the block. Bag went into the trunk, then Robinson slid into the driver's side. First thing Robinson noticed was a tiny white and brown puppy curled up in the passenger's seat. Then a giant form filled the rearview mirror.

“Morning, Colleen,” Mr. Bosu said. “Going somewhere?”




C ATHERINE DIDN'T SLEEP. She sat in a chair in her childhood bedroom, watching Nathan finally succumb to exhaustion in the corner of her old twin bed. Her father had taken her in without protest. He'd wordlessly provided the extra lamps. Then he'd stood in the doorway while Nathan had tossed and turned, crying out with terror at things only he could see. Catherine had quietly sung a song she barely remembered but that came back to her now as she returned to her old home. Her mother used to sing it to her. Back in the good old days before a man came looking for a lost dog.

She sang to Nathan, and when she'd looked up again, her father was gone.

Later, after Nathan had fallen into a brief slumber, she'd found her father downstairs. He was sitting in his old recliner, looking at nothing in particular.

She told him about Prudence. He didn't comment. She told him about Tony Rocco. She told him the police thought she'd arranged for Jimmy's death and that her father-in-law would stop at nothing to get Nathan.

When she was done, her father finally spoke. He said, “I don't understand.”

“It's James, Dad. James Gagnon. He thinks I hurt Jimmy and now he's determined to take custody of Nathan.”

“But you said a police officer shot Jimmy.”

“A police sniper did kill Jimmy. James thinks I staged it somehow. Like I wanted Jimmy to go after me with a gun, like I forced him to threaten Nathan and me in front of the cops. James is crazy with grief. Who knows how he thinks.”

Her father was frowning. “And this upset the nanny so much she hanged herself?”