Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(99)

“Hey, Judge,” Mr. Bosu said. “Remember me?”

He was still smiling when Nathan's teeth sank into his hand.




S TEPPING OUT OF the elevator, Bobby's first glimpse was an open doorway and a fresh corpse. He reached back one hand to steady Catherine, then realized he was wasting valuable energy. With Umbrio on the premises, one body was the least of their concerns.

“Shhh,” he ordered in a low voice. “Let's not announce ourselves before we have to. We need whatever advantage we can get.”

The place was quiet. Eerily quiet. Bobby didn't like it. He expected screams or scrambling footsteps or a child's excited yells. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It made the fine hairs rise up on the back of his neck.

They stepped into the marble foyer and Catherine's heels promptly rang out like shots. They both drew up short, Catherine's dark eyes wide with distress.

“Off.”

She removed her heels.

Bobby stepped forward and inspected Harris. The investigator's nose had been shattered, bone fragments driven up into his brain. It had happened so fast, the man had never even unbuttoned his jacket or reached for his gun. One minute he'd answered the door, the next, he was dead.

Bobby shook his head. In his own way, he'd started to like Harris.

Bobby reached inside the investigator's jacket, and removed the man's nine-millimeter from the shoulder holster. He flipped off the safety, then gave the piece to Catherine. Still no other sounds in the suite.

“Something's wrong,” she whispered.

“No kidding.”

And then . . . Musical chimes. The notes were haunting, distant. A slow lullaby drifting from the back of the suite. A music box. Maybe a child's toy. Bobby didn't know, but the high, tinny notes strained the heavy air.

He looked at Catherine, whose face had gone white.

“What is that?” Her tone was getting strident again. He motioned, Easy, with his hand.

“I don't know. Hold it together, Cat. Nathan needs you.”

She nodded, taking a deep shuddering breath. After another moment, Bobby motioned to the wall, and Catherine fell in step behind him.

Time gave Umbrio the advantage, Bobby realized now, to separate them, to ambush them. The suite was too big for Bobby to control, and Catherine was too inexperienced to help. Whatever happened next would need to happen fast.

Cautiously, he led them from the foyer into the empty sitting room. Given the force of Umbrio's entry, anyone in this room had probably run for cover.

A hallway loomed through an arched expanse on the left. Another loomed on the right. Apparently, the sitting room acted as the central area for the two wings of the suite. Bobby hesitated. Catherine tapped his hand and pointed to the left.

“The music,” she mouthed.

He nodded, understanding. It was difficult to pinpoint the tinny notes, but they appeared to still be coming from the left.

He took her hand. They edged, single file, down the hall.

Then they heard a scream. Shrill, high-pitched, distinctly feminine.

“Maryanne!” Catherine gasped.

They bolted down the hall.





B OBBY PROCESSED EVERYTHING at once. Three open doorways, three bedrooms. He ran by the first, then the second, and came sprinting into the third just in time to see Maryanne staggering back.

“James, James, James,” the woman was sobbing. “Oh God, James!”

Bobby looked down, registered a bloody body, and in the next minute, sensed, more than heard, the movement behind him.

“Look out!” Catherine's cry, farther down the hall.

He tried to turn, tried to get the gun up.

Umbrio caught him in the shoulder. Bobby felt a stunning blow. The force whirled him around, knocked him off-balance. He fought desperately to retain his footing. He had an image out of the corner of his eye, something silver and red.

Knife, he managed to think. Knife, coming for him.

Then he heard a gunshot. A split second later, plaster exploded beside his head.

Bobby fell down. Umbrio, however, stopped and turned.

“Why, Catherine,” the large man said, “what a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

Umbrio grinned. There were flecks of red all over his face. Blood, maybe from James, maybe from Bobby. It gave the murderer a feral look.

Catherine brought up the nine-millimeter again. She was using two hands, trying to take a stand. Her arms shook so badly, however, she couldn't aim. She pulled the trigger wildly and the bullet nailed the wall an inch from Umbrio's shoulder.

Umbrio smiled again. He took a step forward. “Oh, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine.”

Blood poured down from Bobby's shoulder, mixing with the sweat on his palm. His right arm didn't want to move, his fingers didn't want to contract. He shifted the gun to his left hand and squeezed the trigger.

The gun exploded, the shot sailing wildly by Umbrio's knee. The surprise attack from the rear drew the big man up short. He took in Catherine, still trembling in front of him, and Bobby, badly wounded behind him. Bobby was already taking aim again. The floor was an awkward position, but he could make it work. He hadn't spent years practicing weak-hand drills for nothing.

Umbrio seemed to realize that Bobby was down but not out at the same time Bobby centered his second shot on the big man's chest. His finger tightened on the trigger, just as Umbrio sprang through the doorway, vaulting down the wide arched hall. Catherine belatedly fired a dozen times behind him, hitting two pictures, an antique sofa table, and about nine inches of plaster. Umbrio disappeared into another room.