Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(95)

“Sorry to hear about the wife,” Mr. Bosu said. “Otherwise, I would've done her next.”

He pulled the knife over and up. It didn't take much after all. The old man collapsed, a shriveled husk on the kitchen floor. Mr. Bosu remembered to step back more quickly this time. He didn't want to ruin a second pair of shoes.

He washed up in the kitchen sink, grimacing at the sight of blood still staining his shirtsleeve and now fresh splatters on his pants. No doubt about it, he was a mess. He rinsed the knife before returning it to the sheath wrapped around his calf. Then he went to search the house.

He found the boy upstairs, in a room decorated with faded pink and purple flowers. As he pushed open the door, the boy said in a hopeful sort of voice, “Mommy?”

Mr. Bosu smiled. First time he'd seen the boy was in the hospital the night he went after the doctor. That night, the boy had called him Daddy. It was nice to know Mr. Bosu could be so loved.

He pushed all the way into the room and the boy sat up on the bed. For a moment, they regarded each other soberly. The boy was small, pale, and sickly. Mr. Bosu was huge, heavily muscled, and stained with blood.

“So,” Mr. Bosu said at last, “would you like to see a puppy?”

The boy held out his hand.

As they were leaving the house, the phone rang. Mr. Bosu didn't have to be a psychic to know who it would be. He picked up the phone.

“Dad,” Catherine said.

“Catherine,” Mr. Bosu said.

“Oh my God.”

“Hey, Cat. Your son says hi.”





W E'RE GOING TO need a gun,” Bobby said.

Catherine didn't reply. She was in a state of shock, her gaze unfocused as she followed him blankly down the stairs. He'd made a conscious decision to bypass the elevators. The hospital had security officers. Would they already be on the lookout for him, maybe lying in wait in the lobby?

He remembered what he'd told Dr. Lane only hours before: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

“They took Jimmy's guns,” Catherine said abruptly, panting a little as Bobby rushed them downstairs. “He kept them in the safe. An officer took them all away.”

Except for the one she'd hidden in the bureau, Bobby thought, but now was not the time.

“I have three handguns and a rifle at home, but I'm pretty sure they already have officers positioned at my front door.” He frowned, hammered down another long flight, and found a solution. “My father. Pop. Maybe they haven't reached him yet.”

There was no cell signal in the stairwell. Bobby had to wait until they reached the lobby. He spotted two security officers positioned by the main doors. They didn't seem to be watching for anyone in particular, but Bobby didn't feel like taking a chance. He grabbed Catherine's hand and pulled her down the side hallway. They emerged out a smaller entrance into a busy side street. Perfect.

“Grab a cab,” he ordered.

“I have a car—”

“And the police know your plates.”

She went to work on the cab. He flipped open his cell phone and pressed the speed-dial button for his father. Pop picked up on the second ring.

“Pop, I need a favor.”

“Bobby? Two guys came here earlier. Looking, asking, making a lot of nasty suggestions.”

“I'm sorry, Pop. I can't talk, and I can't explain. I need a gun, though, and I don't have time to drive out to your place.”

“What do you want?” his father asked.

“Handgun. Nothing fancy, but plenty of ammo. Are they watching you?”

“You mean the two guys in suits across the street?”

“Shit.”

“They told me you're in over your head.”

“I'm still swimming.”

“I saw on the news. . . . They're flashing your photo, Bobby, saying you're wanted for questioning regarding the murder of a local ADA.”

“I didn't do it.”

“Never thought you did.”

“Do you trust me, Pop?”

“Never had a moment's doubt.”

“I love you, Dad.” And that comment, probably more than any other, scared them both.

“Where?” his father asked quietly.

Bobby thought of Castle Island.

Thirty minutes later, his father met them there.




M R. BOSU WAS also on the phone. Winding his car through the maze of back streets in downtown Boston, he was semi-lost, but not quite worried about that yet. The boy sat quietly in the front seat. He was a good boy, passive, obedient. He already reminded Mr. Bosu of his mother.

Trickster was on the boy's lap. Nathan was stroking Trickster's ears. Trickster was nuzzling Nathan's hand. Mr. Bosu smiled at them both indulgently as his call was finally picked up.

“Good afternoon!” he boomed into Robinson's cell phone.

“Who is this?” the man asked.

“Mr. Bosu, of course. And this is Judge Gagnon, I presume.”

The good judge, aka Benefactor X, was obviously flustered. “Who . . . what—”

“Do you prefer me to use the name Richard Umbrio? I would think on an open phone line, you wouldn't, but I don't care. Either way, you owe me money.”