Phone clicked off. Mr. Bosu walked into the kitchen to stare at the blinking answering machine. Then his gaze fell to a pile of paperwork. He glanced at the summary report, the list of names, and for the first time, he got it. What he'd just done and why.
Then, on the heels of that thought . . .
“Trickster,” he murmured, “I think I know how to make Benefactor X very, very happy.”
The brilliant Mr. Bosu went to work.
Chapter
32
B
OBBY WOKE UP
Monday morning with light hammering against his eyelids. His neck ached. His shoulder throbbed. At some point in the early morning hours, he'd made it from the kitchen table to the dilapidated couch. Now he was sprawled facedown in musty cushions, his right arm dangling over the edge, and half a dozen springs jammed into various parts of his body.
He sat up slowly, biting back a groan. Jesus, he was too old for this shit.
He rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head and wincing as nerve endings prickled to life. Daylight poured through the front windows, high and bright. He staggered into the kitchen and searched for a clock.
Ten a.m. Shit! He'd been out seven hours. His first decent sleep in days. And an absolutely stupid thing to do, given the five p.m. deadline. He needed food. He needed a shower, he needed a shave. He had to move, he had to . . . do something.
He headed for the bathroom, then belatedly remembered the messages on his answering machine. He should check in with his LT. Probably call his lawyer. Maybe call his father.
And say what?
Bobby stepped into the shower. He stuck his head beneath the stinging spray. He needed clarity. He needed alertness. He needed strength.
Halfway through, it came to him.
Bobby sprang out of the shower, and headed for the phone.
“Hey, Harris,” he said a minute later, dripping water all over the carpet. “Let's meet.”
R
OBINSON WAS HUMMING
. Not being musically inclined, it wasn't a pretty sound. Robinson hummed incessantly, however, when suffering from a bad case of nerves.
Robinson had a police scanner. All night long, it had been picking up chatter regarding a scene at the Gagnon residence. It didn't sound good.
Now Robinson wasn't taking any chances. There came a time when a body had to put safety first. This was definitely one of those times.
Robinson packed up quickly. Attached to the toilet tank was a waterproof box filled with various credit cards and fake IDs. The box went into the bag. Then came clothes. Taser. Handgun. Little spiral-bound notebook.
That was it.
Place was a rental. Robinson didn't own furniture and had never bothered to supply so much as a doily. The less you owned, the less you had to lose. And the less that could be held against you.
Five minutes later, Robinson stood by the back door, holding the match.
One last hesitation. A tiny moment of regret. This was to have been the job. The big job. Increased risk, no doubt about it, but oh, the payoff. The beautiful lure of cold hard cash. After this job, Robinson would've finally hit easy street. We're talking a white sandy beach, fruity frozen drinks, and clear blue water that would've gone on without end.
Robinson sighed. And tossed the match.
No apologies, no looking back. You took a job, you did your best. But you always put your own interests first. And Robinson's interests said it was now time to get the hell out of town.
Robinson stepped outside, looking up the street, then down the street. Coast was clear.
Robinson walked to the car parked halfway down the block. Bag went into the trunk, then Robinson slid into the driver's side. First thing Robinson noticed was a tiny white and brown puppy curled up in the passenger's seat. Then a giant form filled the rearview mirror.
“Morning, Colleen,” Mr. Bosu said. “Going somewhere?”
C
ATHERINE DIDN
'
T SLEEP.
She sat in a chair in her childhood bedroom, watching Nathan finally succumb to exhaustion in the corner of her old twin bed. Her father had taken her in without protest. He'd wordlessly provided the extra lamps. Then he'd stood in the doorway while Nathan had tossed and turned, crying out with terror at things only he could see. Catherine had quietly sung a song she barely remembered but that came back to her now as she returned to her old home. Her mother used to sing it to her. Back in the good old days before a man came looking for a lost dog.
She sang to Nathan, and when she'd looked up again, her father was gone.
Later, after Nathan had fallen into a brief slumber, she'd found her father downstairs. He was sitting in his old recliner, looking at nothing in particular.
She told him about Prudence. He didn't comment. She told him about Tony Rocco. She told him the police thought she'd arranged for Jimmy's death and that her father-in-law would stop at nothing to get Nathan.
When she was done, her father finally spoke. He said, “I don't understand.”
“It's James, Dad. James Gagnon. He thinks I hurt Jimmy and now he's determined to take custody of Nathan.”
“But you said a police officer shot Jimmy.”
“A police sniper did kill Jimmy. James thinks I staged it somehow. Like I wanted Jimmy to go after me with a gun, like I forced him to threaten Nathan and me in front of the cops. James is crazy with grief. Who knows how he thinks.”
Her father was frowning. “And this upset the nanny so much she hanged herself?”
“She didn't hang herself, she was murdered. Her neck was snapped. I told you that.”
“That makes no sense.”
“What makes no sense? That a woman can be murdered? Or that a woman can be murdered in my house?”
“There's no call for getting snotty, Catherine.”
“Someone is trying to kill me!”
“Let's not rush to conclusions—”
“You're not listening! James wants possession of Nathan. He's obviously hired someone to kill anyone and everyone who might be willing to help me. If I don't surrender Nathan soon, I may be next.”
Her father said stubbornly, “Seems to me a man as well bred as the judge hardly has to stoop to murder.”
Catherine opened her mouth. She looked at her father's implacable face, then abruptly closed her mouth again. It was no use. Her father lived in his own world. He wanted to believe in the sanctity of a neighborhood, in weekly rituals such as Wednesday night poker and Sunday afternoon barbecues. He'd never been cut out for a reality where little girls could be abducted walking home from school and where the person you feared the most was the man sharing your bed. He hadn't known how to help her when she was a child; he certainly didn't know how to help her now.
She rose quietly to her feet, thinking wistfully of Bobby Dodge. She could give him a call. . . . A shiver moved through her. A slight, unexpected tingling of the spine. She didn't recognize the sensation and it left her feeling vaguely uncomfortable.
She found herself remembering his face. She had been touching him, she'd been working him, she'd been winning. And then . . . He'd looked at her. He'd looked at her and he'd honestly
seen
her. And that had ruined everything.
Catherine returned upstairs to her son.
Nathan was starting to fret again, whipping his head from side to side. She stroked his cheek until he calmed. Then she kneeled next to the bed, feathering back her son's soft brown hair.
“I'll always believe you,” she murmured. “When you're older, you can tell me anything, and I'll believe.”
The phone calls happened shortly thereafter.
The first call came on her cell phone at nine a.m. It was the receptionist from Dr. Iorfino's office, confirming Nathan's three o'clock appointment. By the way, the doctor wanted to speak with Catherine at length. Maybe she could come by earlier, at one p.m.? No need to bring Nathan. In fact, it would be better if Catherine came alone.
Catherine hung up, her heart already pounding in her chest. Nothing good ever came out of meetings where the doctor wanted to see you alone.
She was still trembling when she heard her father's phone begin to ring downstairs.
Five minutes later he materialized in her doorway. He had a look on his face she'd never seen before. Shell-shocked, bordering on shattered.
“That was Charlie Pidherny,” he murmured.
“The lawyer?” Charlie Pidherny had been the DA who'd handled Catherine's case. He'd retired nearly a decade ago; she couldn't recall having heard from him since.
“He's out,” her father said.
“Who's out?”
“Umbrio. Richard Umbrio.”
“I don't understand.”
“They paroled him, on Saturday. Except according to Charlie, they don't release offenders without proper notification, and they don't release them on Saturday mornings. It must be a mistake. That's what happened. Some kind of mistake.”
Catherine was still staring at her father. Then, realization hit, hard and visceral.
Hey, honey. Can you help me for a sec? I'm looking for a lost dog.
Catherine bolted from the bedroom. She made it to the toilet just in time.
Nathan, she thought, Oh God, Nathan. Catherine threw up until she dry-heaved as the tears poured down her face.
Chapter
33
B
OBBY MET HARRIS
Reed at Bogey's. Even a high-priced private investigator could appreciate a good diner. Harris went for the double cheeseburger, extra onion, extra mushrooms. Bobby ordered a sausage and cheese omelet.
Harris was in a good mood, taking big bites of his dripping burger and chewing enthusiastically. No doubt he thought Bobby had arranged this meeting to announce his submission; he'd surrender to Judge Gagnon's master plan and do whatever was required.
Bobby let the investigator get halfway through his burger before dropping the bomb.
“So, quite a scene in Back Bay yesterday,” he said casually.
Harris's jaw slowed, his teeth taking a momentary pause from grinding beef. “Yeah.”
“I hear the nanny hanged herself. What's the word from your contacts?”
Harris swallowed. “My contacts say you were at the scene, so you'd probably know better than them.”
“Maybe I do.” Bobby waited a moment. “Are you curious?”
“Should I be?”
“I think you should.”
Harris shrugged. He was doing his best to retain his casual demeanor, but he'd set down his burger now and was wiping his hands with the oversized paper napkin. “So the nanny hanged herself. These girls are young, doing a tough job a long ways from home. Given everything else, maybe it's not surprising.”
“Come on,” Bobby goaded softly. “You can do better than that.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
Bobby leaned forward. “Did Judge Gagnon ask you for a name? Someone capable of doing ‘odd jobs'? Or maybe someone who knew someone who could take care of things? Or did you get personally involved? I'd like to think you're too smart for that, but then again . . .”
“I don't know what you mean—”
“Come on! You knew about the Rocco scene before the blood hit the pavement. You were listening. You were waiting. Why? Because you thought something like that might happen. How good is the judge's money, Harris? How far were you willing to go?”
“I think I'm done eating.”
Harris moved to stand. Bobby grabbed the man's hand, and slammed it against the table.
“I'm not wired,” he said intently. “I'm not looking to nail you. I just want a little exchange of information. Man-to-man. You could use a new friend, Harris. Your old ones are putting you in a tough place.”
“Nothing personal, Dodge, but at the rate things are going, associating with you hardly does me any favors.”
“Her neck was snapped, Harris. Someone broke Prudence Walker in half as if she were nothing but a toothpick. Can you really sleep at night with that on your conscience? Can you really look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel a thing?”
Harris was starting to sweat. His gaze dropped to Bobby's hand, still pinning his wrist in place.
“The cops are gonna start putting two and two together,” Bobby said. “Why did a doctor end up butchered in a parking garage? Why did a nanny go out on her day off and wind up dead? Two murders is too many; that's why it was so important that Prudence's death look like suicide. Is there an end point to this game, Harris? Because you and I both know once you start killing, it's hard to stop.”
“I didn't give the judge any information,” Harris said abruptly. “As a matter of fact, he's the one who came to me with a name.”
“What name?”
“Colleen Robinson. Asked me to check her out. I didn't understand at first, but then I got her background report. According to several sources, she has a reputation for getting things done.”
“A female assassin?”
“No, no, no. Colleen specializes in . . . hooking people up. You need this, someone else needs that, she makes it happen. She was a small-time player—spent time in prison for grand theft auto. Built a network while she was in there, and has been moving on up ever since.” Harris shrugged. “I ran the report. I gave it to the judge. He seemed satisfied.”
“I want her name and address.”
“I have a cell phone number. Knock yourself out.”
Bobby finally released Harris's hand. “At the first crime scene, there was a message, ‘Boo.' What does that mean?”
“I don't know. Frankly, I'm guessing you need to ask that question of Miss Robinson. So I take it you're not accepting the judge's little deal.”
“Nope.”
“She that good of a fuck?”
“I wouldn't know.”
Harris snorted. He moved to get up from the table, rubbing his wrist self-consciously, then catching the gesture and sticking his hand in his pocket. He said stiffly, “Needless to say, if the judge asks, we never had this conversation.”
“Fine by me, though personally, I think you should do a better job of screening your clients.”
“Let me tell you something: the ones with the money are always the ones with something to hide. We start screening and we'd be bankrupt in a year.”