Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(90)

“I'll meet you there.”




H E BRACED HIMSELF for the sight of her. He replayed his conversation with Dr. Lane in his mind: Catherine was smart, tough, extremely manipulative; he was a man with issues. Catherine was on the defensive, deep in survival mode, and capable of anything; he was a man who should know better.

Walking into the discreet, high-end lobby of the doctor's office, he was still struck dumb.

She stood alone in the corner, wearing last night's clothing. The black skirt was rumpled. The gray cashmere sweater had seen better days. Her face was pale, her eyes bruised. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her waist, too thin, too tired, and too small to be carrying this much weight on her shoulders.

She looked up, saw him, and for the longest time, they simply regarded each other across the empty room.

He thought of when he'd seen her at the Gardner Museum, just two days before. Catherine's slinky black dress. Her pencil-thin heels. Her strategic positioning in front of an erotic blue painting. Everything she'd worn, everything she'd done, everything she'd said, had been perfectly planned and elaborately staged. That had been the Catherine Gagnon a man should fear.

This woman, he thought, wasn't.

He crossed the room. “Nathan?”

“He's at my father's.” She cleared her throat. “We had to go there. Last night. My credit cards have been canceled. Same with the ATM. I called the bank this morning. They won't let me access any of the accounts, as apparently they are all in Jimmy's name.”

“The judge,” Bobby said softly.

“Umbrio has been in my home,” she whispered. “I went to put Nathan to bed, and none of the night-lights worked. We were so scared. . . . I went to the closet. And there on the floor, all the little bulbs: Boo.”

“Catherine—”

“He killed Tony. He killed Prudence. Soon, he'll kill me, too. It's what he promised to do. It's what he's always wanted. Day after day. You don't understand.” Her hand had come up. It was compulsively rubbing her throat.

“Catherine—”

“I've been alone too long in the dark,” she whispered. “I can no longer find the light.”

He took her in his arms, and she collapsed, her hands grabbing the folds of his shirt, her body trembling uncontrollably. She was small, tiny really, of no significant weight against his chest. And he could feel her exhaustion now, rolling off her in waves, night after sleepless night of doubt, terror, fear.

He wanted to tell her it would be all right. He wanted to tell her he was here now, he would take care of everything. She would never have to be frightened again.

Too many other men had made the same silly promises. He knew better. So did she.

He reached up a hand and stroked her hair.

And for just one moment, she pressed herself hard against his chest.

The door opened. A receptionist appeared. “The doctor will see you now, Mrs. Gagnon.”

Catherine straightened, pushing away. Bobby's hand dropped back to his side.

She turned toward the hallway first; he fell in step behind her. Right before they passed through the door, however, she paused one last time.

“I never said I didn't harm Jimmy,” she said. And then they walked into the doctor's office.





M R. BOSU WAS exhausted. He remembered now: the glorious, nerve-zinging euphoria that always accompanied a good plan. The way, for example, he'd felt high as a kite the minute he'd lured twelve-year-old Catherine into his specially equipped car. Or the way he'd felt coming up behind that gel-slicked doctor in the empty parking garage. One quick flick of the knife . . . the rush of endorphins. The sheer, giddy thrill of warm, red blood, oozing across his hands.

But what went up must come down. Which brought the second half of the equation: body-slamming crash. The moment the endorphins and adrenaline bled out of your system and left you absolutely, positively done. He could lie down on the hard ground right now and sleep for days.

Unfortunately, he had work to do.

First stop, a small convenience store. Puppy Chow for Trickster. An interesting high-energy drink called Red Bull for him. According to the can, Red Bull would give him wings. Given the tasks Mr. Bosu had left to perform, that couldn't hurt.

Exiting the convenience store, he patted the trunk of Robinson's car. “Here's to you,” he said, holding up the drink can in a mock toast. “Thanks for negotiating that pay raise, and hey, no hard feelings. Business is business.”

Since Robinson was dead, she couldn't very well reply. But Mr. Bosu remained appreciative. Thanks to her, he had a better set of wheels, some unexpected documents, and a lovely infusion of cash.

He slid into the driver's seat, polishing off his drink.

“Hey, Trickster,” Mr. Bosu said. “Now, things are about to get interesting. . . .”




D R. IORFINO WAS a bit of a shock after Dr. Rocco. The geneticist was tall, thin, and balding. With his oversized glasses and hooked nose, he reminded Bobby of pictures of Ichabod Crane—and not the Johnny Depp version, but the classic portrait of the gaunt country schoolteacher from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

The doctor ushered Bobby and Catherine into an impressive office, boasting a massive cherry desk and two huge windows overlooking the city of Boston. Apparently, there was a bit of money in genetics. Dr. Iorfino also appeared to be a neatnik. In contrast to Dr. Rocco's office, no loose papers were in sight here. In fact, the man's desk offered only a flat-screen monitor and a single manila folder.