Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(96)

“What are you talking about?” the judge demanded.

Mr. Bosu glanced over at the boy. Nathan was regarding him curiously. Mr. Bosu grinned. He meant it to be friendly. Maybe he'd spent too much time among felons after all, for the boy promptly turned away, focusing intently on the dog. Trickster licked his chin.

“You owe me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Mr. Bosu said matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“For your grandson.” Mr. Bosu had finally found the side street he wanted. He turned onto a row of grand old homes in the middle of Beacon Hill.

“That is not funny—”

“Nathan, my good boy, tell your grandfather hi.”

Mr. Bosu held out the phone. Nathan called out, “Hi.”

“You monster!” the judge boomed. “Where the hell are you?”

And Mr. Bosu said merrily, “Right at your front door.”




B OBBY'S FATHER WANTED to join them. Bobby lost ten precious minutes explaining to his father that it was too dangerous, that Pop was a custom pistolsmith and not a trained marksman, etc., etc., etc.

In the end, Bobby got rude, grabbing the gun, loading up Catherine, and climbing impatiently into the front seat of his father's car. Bobby drove away, with the image of his father standing lost and alone captured vividly in the rearview mirror.

Bobby's hands were tight on the wheel.

“Where do we start?” Catherine asked.

“Your father's house.”

“Do you think . . .”

“I'm sure Nathan is all right,” he tried.

She gave him a feeble smile, but the tears were building in the corners of her eyes.

“My father and I have always fought,” she said quietly. Then she turned her head away from him to cry.




F RANK MILLER'S HOUSE looked quiet from the front. Door was closed. Blinds were drawn. Nothing and no one stirred. Bobby cruised by once, saw no police in the neighborhood, and rounded the block.

He parked on the corner, instructing Catherine to take over the wheel. “You see him,” he said, no need to define him, “just hit the gas and get the hell out of here.”

“And if he has Nathan?”

“Then hit the gas and aim for clipping Umbrio's kneecaps. He'll go down, you can grab your son.”

She liked that idea. It infused color into her cheeks and put a spark in her eyes. She took over the driver's seat with a look of pure determination, while Bobby rechecked the gun his father had given him, then headed down the street.

The front door was unlocked. That gave him the first hint. Walking into the living room, the heavy, rusty scent told him the rest. He checked the whole house just to be sure. But it was empty. Umbrio had come and gone, leaving nothing but a corpse in his wake.

Bobby couldn't bear to look too closely at Catherine's father. The gray hair, the bent, sprawled form, already reminded him too much of Pop. He saw the shotgun on the floor and picked it up, recovering a box of shells from the yawning closet. The man had put up a fight. He'd held his ground for his grandson.

He'd tell that to Catherine, see if that gave her any measure of comfort for all the days to come.

Bobby exited with the shotgun, jogging back to the car, unbearably aware of time. Umbrio had now had Nathan for nearly an hour. Sixty whole minutes. There was no telling what a man like that could do with so much time.

But he didn't think Umbrio had killed the boy—at least not yet. If that's all Umbrio wanted, Bobby would've found Nathan's body with his grandfather's. No, when it came to Nathan, Umbrio had something much grander in mind.

And that thought left Bobby chilled to the bone.

He dialed 911 as he approached the car.

“Body found, male deceased, definite homicide,” he reported, and rattled off the address. He flipped his phone shut just as the 911 operator asked him to hold, opening the car door and sliding into the passenger seat.

Catherine looked at the shotgun, then at his face.

Her face was pale; she struggled briefly, then got it together. “Nathan?”

“No sign of him. I'm sure he's still all right.”

“Okay,” she said, but her voice was clearly strained, barely holding it together. She took a shaky breath. “Where?”

“I think it's time we go straight to the source.”

“Walpole?”

“No. Your father-in-law.”




M R. BOSU WAS extremely pleased with himself. He parallel-parked the car in front of the Gagnons' prestigious townhouse, address courtesy of Colleen's records, and prepared to hear the judge hastily renegotiate terms.

Instead, over the phone, the judge had started to chuckle.

“Let me get this straight,” the judge was saying, “you want two hundred and fifty thousand dollars or you'll do what?”

Mr. Bosu glanced at the boy next to him. Interestingly enough, he couldn't bring himself to say the words with the boy sitting right there.

“I think we both know what,” Mr. Bosu said primly. He peered out the window, scowling at the townhouse. Place looked dark. Deserted. For the first time, Mr. Bosu began to wonder about things.

“I don't care.”

“What?”

“You heard me. The boy was a problem I was going to have to take care of sooner or later. In a curious sort of way, you've now done me a favor and I thank you.”