Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(55)

“And then?”

“I don’t want to go to the cemetery this year. I don’t see the point.”

“What happened that night, Danielle? You went to your bedroom. What happened next? Tell me what happened next.”

“He killed them,” I said bluntly. “I tried to make him happy, but he killed them. Then he sang to me, so I would know it was all my fault.”

“You didn’t kill your family, Danielle. A nine-year-old girl cannot stop a grown man. Surely at this stage of your life you realize that.”

I simply nodded, because even all these years later, I didn’t feel like mentioning that at the start of that final evening, I was the one with my father’s handgun.



Dr. Frank asked me more questions. I stuck with basic answers and we continued our dance. It occurred to me that, given the timeline, he and I were approaching our silver anniversary. I wondered if I should get him something. An engraved plate, maybe an heirloom-quality picture frame. Dr. Frank was one of the longest relationships I’d ever had. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

At the end of the hour, he surprised me again, reverting to the direct probing from the beginning of our session. “Do you feel your life is a success?” he asked me.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you feel your life is a success? Come, now, Danielle. You’re a grown woman, well educated, with an admirable career. Do you feel your life is a success?”

I had to think about it. “I think I’ve made a difference in many children’s lives,” I said finally. “I’m happy about that.”

“And these sessions? Our relationship? Has that made a difference in your life?”

“I am not sure I would’ve made it otherwise,” I said, which is probably true. At least close enough.

He nodded his head, seemed content. He shuffled some paper. “You should know I’ll be retiring at the end of the year.”

“Really?”

He smiled now, gesturing to his silver hair. “I’ve long been driven by my profession. It’s time to be driven by my hobbies instead. At least according to my wife.”

I tried to picture some Mrs. Dr. Frank, ordering him to hang up his hat, and that made me smile back. “Well, congratulations.”

“You are always welcome to call,” he said gravely.

“Thank you.” We both knew I wouldn’t. This relationship needed an end. His retirement provided a graceful exit for both of us.

“Danielle,” he said as I start to rise, “I worry about you.”

The admission astonished me, and for an instant, I could tell it had shocked him. He recovered quickly. “I believe we can agree there are aspects of your history you have yet to adequately acknowledge.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I have a colleague I’d be happy to recommend. A woman. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable with a female doctor—”

“No, thank you.”

“These next few days will be hard.”

“I’ll get through. I always do.”

“Have you considered staying with your aunt?”

“She has her own mourning to do.”

“You give each other strength.”

“Not this time of year.”

He sighed, appeared defeated. “Please watch the drinking.”

“I will.” Tomorrow afternoon, I’d watch my arm come up, I’d watch the drink go down.

“And, Danielle, as I’m sure you must have already considered, perhaps this week is not the time to be watching the news. These other cases of family tragedy will only exacerbate what is already a difficult period for you. The Dorchester case in particular, which involves a child you once knew, is needless salt on the wound. Their tragedy is not your tragedy. That case has nothing to do with you.”

I took my leave without bothering to correct him. For every word spoken, so many more were left unsaid.

The story of my life.





| CHAPTER

NINETEEN





The drug taskforce was good. D.D. returned to her desk to find an entire case file on Hermes Laraquette, aka The Rastaman. She thought any white guy who referred to himself as The Rastaman was probably doing something, and Hermes didn’t disappoint. He had a long rap sheet of minor infractions, including burglary, theft, and possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell.

Fortunately for Hermes, the criminal justice system was overwhelmed, allowing his public defender to plead down half the charges, while getting the other half dismissed. Then Hermes made good on his vanishing act before Immigration caught up with him.

According to local intel, Hermes had hooked up with Audi Solis, a welfare mom already supporting three children by three different fathers. Nine months later, with Hermes’s help, she was able to make that four kids by four fathers. Hermes was listed on the birth certificate of ViVi Bellasara Laraquette, born March 19.

At which time Audi applied for state aid for her youngest, while Hermes went back to doing what he did best, dealing pot.

The BPD drug taskforce believed Hermes was tapping Boston’s growing immigrant population to help him import and export product. He moved bales at a time, but that still made him only a small fish in Boston’s raging drug ocean. Given that he appeared to be using as well as dealing, Hermes wasn’t likely to get ahead anytime soon.