Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(52)

"He mentioned exactly how he was going to kill me!"

"What about Nathan? Richard kidnapped him first, maybe while they were alone—"

"You leave my son out of this!"

"Six dead girls, Catherine. Six girls who didn't make it up out of the dark."

"Goddamn you!"

"We need to know. You have to tell us. If Richard had a friend, an accomplice, a mentor, we have to know."

Catherine was breathing hard now, her eyes locked on Bobby's. For an instant, I wasn't sure what she was going to do. Scream? Slap him across the face?

She placed her hands on the edge of the table. She leaned forward until she and Bobby were nearly nose to nose.

"Richard Umbrio had nothing to do with your crime scene. He was in prison. And while he was a homicidal son of a bitch, he was also, blessedly for your purposes, a loner. He had no friends. No accomplices. Once and for all, we are done here. Any other questions you have can be delivered to my attorney Carson."

Carson obediently whipped out business cards.

Catherine straightened. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Annabelle— or Tanya, or whatever her name is—and I have business to attend to."

"We do?" I spoke up rather stupidly

"Wait a minute—" Bobby started.

"Absolutely not," D.D. echoed, rising from the table.

It was the very vehemence of their response, its implied posses-siveness, that made me follow Catherine.

"Don't worry, darlings," our hostess tossed over her shoulder at Bobby and D.D. "I'll have her back before midnight." She shut the library doors behind us and headed down the hall.

"Where are we going?" I asked, having to hustle to keep up.

"Oh honey… Obviously, I'm taking you shopping."





[page]Chapter 20


CATHERINE'S RETAIL-THERAPY location of choice was Nordstrom. Her limo driver dropped us off out front. Catherine breezily informed the chauffeur she'd call him again when needed. He drove off to do whatever it is limo drivers do in between being summoned by their mistresses. I followed Catherine into the store.

She started off by suggesting that we eat. Since my stomach was growling audibly, I didn't protest.

It was after six, and Nordstrom's cafe was growing crowded. I waited in line for grilled chicken and pesto on focaccia. Catherine ordered a cup of tea.

She glanced at my enormous sandwich, the side of Terra sweet potato chips. She arched a brow, then returned to sipping her green tea. I ate the entire sandwich, the bag of chips, then went back for a piece of carrot cake, simply out of spite.

"So what do you think of Detective Dodge?" she asked, when I was halfway through the cake and presumably so blissed-out on sugar I wouldn't notice the fine hint of longing that had entered her voice.

I shrugged. "As a cop or what?"

She smiled. "Or what."

"If I found him naked in my bed, I wouldn't kick him out."

"Have you?"

"That's not exactly the nature of our relationship." Though the image of Bobby, naked, was taking longer than I would've thought to clear from my head. "Now, him and D.D., on the other hand…"

"Never happen," Catherine said immediately "Sex, maybe, but a relationship? She's far too ambitious for him. I doubt she'll settle for anything less than a politically minded DA, or perhaps a crime boss. Now, that would be interesting."

"You two don't like each other very much."

Her turn to shrug. "I have that effect on women. Perhaps it's because I sleep with their husbands. Then again, if the husbands weren't sleeping with me, they would simply be f*cking their secretaries, and if you were going to be jilted, wouldn't you rather be jilted for someone who looks like me than for a peroxide blonde with cheap taste in shoes?"

"I never thought of it that way before."

"Few do." Catherine put down her tea. She traced a random pattern on the tabletop with her red-lacquered nail. When she spoke again, her voice was low, with a trace of vulnerability again.

"Once upon a time," she said quietly, "I invited Bobby to move to Arizona with me. Offered him everything, my body, my home, a glamorous life of leisure. He turned me down. Did you know that?"

"Was this before or after he shot your husband?" I asked.

She smiled, seemed amused that I knew that minor detail. "After. You've been listening to D.D, haven't you? She's obsessed with the notion I set up Bobby to kill my husband. I think she's read one too many suspense novels. Ever heard of Occam's razor— the simplest explanation is the best one?"

I shook my head.

"Well, simply put, Jimmy beat the shit out of me, Bobby made the right choice that night, and I'm now living happily ever after, can't you tell?"

Her voice hit a brittle edge on the last word. She seemed to hear it, picked up her tea, and took another sip. I said nothing for a while, just absorbed this woman in front of me, who packaged herself as a walking advertisement for sex, when I was pretty sure now she hadn't felt a thing in nearly twenty-seven years.

Is this the fate I had narrowly avoided when my father decided to flee? And if so, then why didn't I feel more relieved? Because mostly I felt sad. A deep down achy kind of sad. The world was cruel. Grown men preyed on little kids. People betrayed the ones they loved. What was done could never be undone again. That's just the way things worked.