Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(97)

“I don't want your gratitude,” Mr. Bosu said with a scowl. “I want your money!”

“I'm calling the police,” Judge Gagnon announced silkily. “I'm telling them you, a convicted sex offender, kidnapped my grandson. Then I'm bringing every FBI agent, state police trooper, and pissant local sheriff down on your ass. I'd start running, Mr. Bosu. You don't have much time left.”

The phone clicked off. Mr. Bosu sat there, stunned. What the hell? The man would even sell out his own grandson?

Mr. Bosu got out of the car. He forgot about Nathan sitting in the front seat, he forgot about the bloodstains on his shirt. He reached the front door of the townhouse and banged hard. Nothing. He rang the doorbell. Then, in a fit of temper, he banged and kicked on the solid oak door with all his might.

The house was empty. Abandoned. Deserted. As in, rats were always the first to abandon ship.

Mr. Bosu was breathing hard. His forearm throbbed from the earlier cut. He was also starting to feel nauseous, a junkie coming down hard from a fix.

He took a few seconds and thought long and hard about things.

So the judge was taking care of the judge. To hell with paying Mr. Bosu, and to hell with saving his grandson.

That was it. Mr. Bosu was officially pissed off. He didn't even care about the money anymore. Now, it was the principle of the thing.

Nobody crossed Mr. Bosu. Nobody.

Mr. Bosu returned to Robinson's car. The boy sat in the passenger seat, tickling Trickster's ears.

“Say, does your grandfather have a second home?” Mr. Bosu asked casually.

The boy shrugged, played with the dog.

“Anyplace he likes to go in particular? You know, his own special place?”

Another shrug.

Mr. Bosu grew impatient. “Nathan,” he said sternly, “I'm supposed to be returning you to your grandfather. Don't you want to see your grandfather?”

“Okay.”

“Then where the hell is he?”

The boy looked up at him. He said promptly, “At the Hotel LeRoux.”

Mr. Bosu smiled. He put the car in gear. “Nathan,” he said seriously, “when the time comes, I'll make sure you never feel a thing.”





I DON'T UNDERSTAND,” Catherine was saying. “You think my father-in-law hired Umbrio?”

“He used a middleman, Colleen Robinson, to make the arrangements. Umbrio got paroled in return for agreeing to perform a few favors.”

“So why am I still alive?”

“Because killing you isn't as important as discrediting you.”

“Come again?” She blinked her eyes.

“The judge hates you. Hates you for Jimmy, hates you for marrying into the family. But mostly, I think, he hates you for Nathan. As long as you continue to press about Nathan's health, you're on the verge of uncovering his and Maryanne's secret.”

“If I died, I wouldn't be a threat anymore.”

“No. But Dr. Rocco would be. And maybe your father would be. There would always be those who'd observe Nathan's poor health and wonder. Unless, of course, they already had a reasonable explanation for why Nathan was sick.”

“I was poisoning him,” she filled in. “I was a bad mom.”

“Exactly.”

“But once he won custody of Nathan . . .” She frowned. “Wouldn't the fact that Nathan didn't magically get better become a problem?”

“I don't think the judge planned on letting that become a problem,” Bobby said quietly.

“You think he would really harm his own grandson?”

“I think,” Bobby answered grimly, “the man may have already killed his own son.”




I T TURNED OUT a luxury hotel made a pretty good fortress. Sure, Mr. Bosu valet-parked his car. Sure, he strolled right in with Nathan, and even Trickster, because who was going to say no to a cute boy and his puppy?

That didn't solve his problem. He didn't know what room the judge was in, and the pretty young desk attendant was polite, but firm about the hotel's policy of not giving out such information. She could call Judge Gagnon for him, she could notify Judge Gagnon that he had guests, but without the judge's permission, she could not let the guests go to the judge.

Mr. Bosu had already determined another problem. According to the boy, the judge had described a luxury suite in the hotel. That meant the upper floors, which required a special keycard inserted into the elevator. Assuming the judge was staying in a penthouse suite, Mr. Bosu would not be getting up there any time soon.

It was perplexing. A dilemma, and Mr. Bosu was getting very tired now. He suddenly missed his nice clean bed at the Hampton Inn. Hell, he even missed his prison cot.

He and the boy walked outside, where Mr. Bosu had another Red Bull and contemplated things. The bloodstain on his shirt bothered him; the suspicious stare of the twerpy doorman bothered him. The whole f*cking world bothered him.

Then Mr. Bosu had an idea.

He downed his Red Bull. He walked Nathan back into the hotel lobby and took him straight to the receptionist's desk.

“This is Nathan Gagnon, grandson of Judge Gagnon,” he announced in his most cordial voice. “If you call up, you'll find the judge is expecting him. Unfortunately, I've received a bad cut—” Mr. Bosu flashed his bloody arm, “and I need to seek medical attention. Do you have someone who could escort Nathan upstairs to his grandparents? They'd greatly appreciate the boy not being left alone.”