Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(94)

He couldn't talk anymore. He was too heartsick.

“Bobby.” Her hand came up. Tentatively, she stroked his arm. He flinched at her touch. “I need you. You have to help me.”

He laughed hollowly. “What, already got in mind someone else to kill?”

“Just now, when I called, my father didn't answer his phone, Bobby.”

“So what?”

“Richard Umbrio did.”





M R. BOSU HAD no problem finding the neighborhood. This had been his first request when initially contacted by Robinson. He wanted to know everything about Catherine. Her home, her family, her husband, her son. He got a list of every job she'd ever had. He demanded photos and driver's license information and details down to her grocery shopping list and her favorite restaurant. Some of the information had been boring. But most had intrigued him.

The fact that her parents had never moved—that had genuinely fascinated him. Mostly, because he was willing to bet the last penny he would soon be making that his own parents were sitting in the same old house, on the same old sofa, staring at the same old living room from all those years before. They were two peas in a pod, he and Catherine. He had not expected that in the beginning, when he had randomly plucked her off the street with an abbreviated scream and scattering of schoolbooks. It had come to him slowly, day after day, as he continued to let her live. She was the only person in the world who could truly meet his needs. She was the only person in the world who knew the real him.

The day he'd arrived to find her gone was the worst day of his life.

But that was okay. He was going to correct all that real soon.

Mr. Bosu was whistling when he pulled into the driveway. He was still whistling when he got out of his car.

“Stay put,” he told Trickster. “This time around, I'm flying solo.”

He mounted the steps, banged on the door.

He heard the voice from the other side, wary and cautious. “Who is it?”

Mr. Bosu smiled. He flipped open the ID he'd found on Colleen and waved it briefly in front of the peephole. Enough to give the impression of possessing an official ID, without giving away the actual photo.

“Detective Bosu,” he announced. “I'm afraid, Mr. Miller, I have some bad news about an old case. We should talk right away.”

“Is it Richard Umbrio?” Frank Miller asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Catherine's father unlocked the door. And Mr. Bosu walked right in.




I T TURNED OUT that Frank Miller was no dummy. Mr. Bosu wasn't sure what he'd expected. Maybe someone smaller, more shrunken, more beaten by the lousy blow delivered to his family earlier in life. Someone more like his own dad.

Instead, Frank Miller was tall, erect, trim. Active for his age, no doubt prided himself on living alone.

He took one look at Mr. Bosu's hulking build, older, fleshed-out face, and promptly paused.

“Don't I know you—?” he started. Then recognition struck. The older man's eyes went wide. Much faster than Mr. Bosu ever expected, Frank Miller pulled back his right arm and nailed Mr. Bosu in the eye.

“Shit,” Mr. Bosu gasped, staggering back, belatedly trying to cover his face. The old geezer didn't wait. He went for Mr. Bosu's kidneys. Got him with a good three or four jabs that would definitely have him coughing up blood later tonight.

Miller launched his right hook again. Enough was enough. Mr. Bosu held up his meaty hand. He caught Miller's blow in his palm. Then he wrapped his fingers around the older man's hand and bore down hard.

The blood drained out of Miller's face. And for the first time, fear appeared in his eyes.

“Tell me where the boy is.”

Miller didn't speak.

“I know you have him. She had nowhere else to go. Of course she brought him to you.” Mr. Bosu forced back Miller's hand now, bending the wrist until the man's knuckles nearly touched his own forearm. Miller went bug-eyed with the pain.

“You can tell me sooner, or you can tell me later. But I'm going to get the information. The only question is, how much will you suffer?”

“Fuck . . . you,” Miller said. Then he surprised them both by kicking Mr. Bosu in the kneecap. Mr. Bosu went down. Startled, he released his grip on the man's hand, and Miller promptly bolted for the kitchen.

Mr. Bosu sighed. There was only one thing left to do. He got out the knife.




M R. BOSU ENTERED the kitchen just as Miller reached into the utility closet. Mr. Bosu had a split-second warning, then he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He didn't wait. He sprung forward, left arm outstretched to grab the gun barrel and force it up, even as Miller fumbled with the trigger. The gun didn't go off and Mr. Bosu didn't expect that it would. Few people left a loaded shotgun lying around the house, particularly given the presence of a child.

Miller's retrieval of the gun told Mr. Bosu something else. The utility closet was only inches from the back door. Surely Miller had had enough time to run out, flee to safety. Instead, he'd chosen to take a stand.

The boy was somewhere in the house. That's why Miller hadn't run. He couldn't bring himself to leave his grandson.

Noble, Mr. Bosu thought idly, as he drove the serrated blade into the soft spot beneath the man's ribs. Miller made a curious wet sound. Not a scream. Not a groan. Almost a sigh. A man who knew what was coming next.