Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(89)

Bobby leaned forward. “Did Judge Gagnon ask you for a name? Someone capable of doing ‘odd jobs'? Or maybe someone who knew someone who could take care of things? Or did you get personally involved? I'd like to think you're too smart for that, but then again . . .”

“I don't know what you mean—”

“Come on! You knew about the Rocco scene before the blood hit the pavement. You were listening. You were waiting. Why? Because you thought something like that might happen. How good is the judge's money, Harris? How far were you willing to go?”

“I think I'm done eating.”

Harris moved to stand. Bobby grabbed the man's hand, and slammed it against the table.

“I'm not wired,” he said intently. “I'm not looking to nail you. I just want a little exchange of information. Man-to-man. You could use a new friend, Harris. Your old ones are putting you in a tough place.”

“Nothing personal, Dodge, but at the rate things are going, associating with you hardly does me any favors.”

“Her neck was snapped, Harris. Someone broke Prudence Walker in half as if she were nothing but a toothpick. Can you really sleep at night with that on your conscience? Can you really look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel a thing?”

Harris was starting to sweat. His gaze dropped to Bobby's hand, still pinning his wrist in place.

“The cops are gonna start putting two and two together,” Bobby said. “Why did a doctor end up butchered in a parking garage? Why did a nanny go out on her day off and wind up dead? Two murders is too many; that's why it was so important that Prudence's death look like suicide. Is there an end point to this game, Harris? Because you and I both know once you start killing, it's hard to stop.”

“I didn't give the judge any information,” Harris said abruptly. “As a matter of fact, he's the one who came to me with a name.”

“What name?”

“Colleen Robinson. Asked me to check her out. I didn't understand at first, but then I got her background report. According to several sources, she has a reputation for getting things done.”

“A female assassin?”

“No, no, no. Colleen specializes in . . . hooking people up. You need this, someone else needs that, she makes it happen. She was a small-time player—spent time in prison for grand theft auto. Built a network while she was in there, and has been moving on up ever since.” Harris shrugged. “I ran the report. I gave it to the judge. He seemed satisfied.”

“I want her name and address.”

“I have a cell phone number. Knock yourself out.”

Bobby finally released Harris's hand. “At the first crime scene, there was a message, ‘Boo.' What does that mean?”

“I don't know. Frankly, I'm guessing you need to ask that question of Miss Robinson. So I take it you're not accepting the judge's little deal.”

“Nope.”

“She that good of a f*ck?”

“I wouldn't know.”

Harris snorted. He moved to get up from the table, rubbing his wrist self-consciously, then catching the gesture and sticking his hand in his pocket. He said stiffly, “Needless to say, if the judge asks, we never had this conversation.”

“Fine by me, though personally, I think you should do a better job of screening your clients.”

“Let me tell you something: the ones with the money are always the ones with something to hide. We start screening and we'd be bankrupt in a year.”

Harris took a step toward the door, but then at the last minute, did a little about-face.

“The Prudence thing . . . What happened to her, yeah, that pissed me off.” He gazed at Bobby, his lips pressed into a hard thin line. “You want to hear something funny? The judge claims he and Maryanne are from Georgia. Met there, married there, then came to Boston, looking for a fresh start. Now here's the funny part: I did a bit of digging. I can find record of James—schooling, his graduation, the law firm where he used to work. Maryanne Gagnon, on the other hand, doesn't exist.”

“What?”

“No birth certificate, no driver's license, no marriage license. Before 1965 there was no Maryanne Gagnon.”

“But that doesn't make any sense.”

Harris merely smiled. “Like I said, Dodge, it's the ones with money who are always f*cked up.”




T WELVE-THIRTY P.M., Bobby left the diner. He flipped open his cell phone. Million and a half reasons he shouldn't call her. He dialed the number anyway.

“I know who the judge used to hire the killer,” he said.

“I know who the killer is,” Catherine replied. “Richard Umbrio.”

It took him a moment to place the name; then, he was genuinely startled. “Are you sure? How?”

“Paroled on Saturday morning. Except they don't release inmates on Saturday.”

“It would take someone with very high-level contacts to do such a thing,” Bobby filled in.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Where are you now?”

“Off to see the new doctor; he asked me to come in at one.”

“This is the specialist Dr. Rocco recommended?” Bobby asked sharply.

“Yes.”