“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 fucking 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.”
The receptionist smiled at him. “Of course. One minute, sir.”
She dialed the room. Mr. Bosu held his breath. Surely the good judge couldn't refuse his grandson, particularly if the boy was coming up alone.
“Mrs. Gagnon?” the receptionist said brightly. Mr. Bosu exhaled. The wife. Perfect. “Yes, we have a fine young man here, Nathan Gagnon. . . . Yes, your grandson. What a handsome boy, too. We'll send him right up with a bellhop. Do you know Nathan has a puppy? Not a problem, ma'am, but we do have a form we'll need filled out. Excellent. I'll send that up, as well. Thank you.”
The receptionist put down the phone, the perky smile still on her face. “Mrs. Gagnon is very excited to see her grandson. If you'd like to depart, sir, we can take it from here.”
Mr. Bosu graciously thanked the woman. He even shook Nathan's hand. “So happy I could get you to your grandparents, young man. The puppy's name is Trickster. Your mom wanted you to have him as a surprise.”
“Mommy?” the boy asked hopefully.
“Trust me, you'll be with her soon enough.”
This pacified the kid, and he nodded his head vigorously while clutching Trickster against his chest. Then the bellhop came over, admiring the fine boy, admiring the fine dog, and all was well.
They headed for the elevator. “The penthouse suite,” the bellhop was telling Nathan. “That sucker's bigger than my house. You're gonna love it up there.”
The elevator doors opened. Mr. Bosu turned. The receptionist was attending someone else, the bellhop was busy with Nathan. . . .
Mr. Bosu bolted for the stairs. He sprinted up three levels, bam, bam, bam, taking the stairs two at a time. Then he burst onto the third floor—blissfully empty—where he pounded the elevator button. The elevator came to an immediate halt.
The doors opened. The bellhop appeared surprised to see Mr. Bosu standing right there.
“Weren't you in the lobby—”
Mr. Bosu seized the young man by the shirt and jerked him into the hall. One quick snap and the man crumpled to the floor. Mr. Bosu grabbed the man's jacket, snatched the man's master key—a card hanging from a chain around his neck—and stepped back inside the elevator.
Nathan was staring at him. The boy's eyes were solemn and wide.
“My mommy warned me about men like you,” the boy said.
Mr. Bosu grinned his full, awful grin. “Yeah, I bet she did.”
E
NTERING THE HOTEL
LeRoux, Bobby watched for security guards while Catherine did the talking.
“James and Maryanne Gagnon,” she told the receptionist.
“They're expecting you?”
“Tell them it's about their grandson.”
“Nathan?” the receptionist asked brightly.
Catherine became hyperaware. So did Bobby. “You've seen Nathan?” Catherine asked sharply.
“Why, yes. Just ten minutes ago. One of our bellhops escorted him upstairs.”
“Was he with a man?” Bobby broke in. “Big, maybe looked like he'd been in a fight?”
“Yes, he mentioned he'd been hurt—”
They didn't wait to hear the rest. “That man is a convicted pedophile,” Catherine screamed. “He kidnapped my son earlier today. Call the police
and get us upstairs
!”
T
HE RECEPTIONIST WAS
flustered. She wanted to call for security. She wanted to dial the room. She needed permission, she needed help. She clearly didn't know what to do.
Bobby was already in front of the elevators, stabbing at the buttons, pacing wildly.
“Fine, call the room!” Catherine pleaded. “Dial the room number now. Get them on the phone, please, go ahead.”
The overwhelmed receptionist picked up the phone. She punched in a four-digit number. Catherine blatantly memorized it. Thirty seconds later, however, the receptionist was more confused than ever.
“No one's answering. I don't understand. Why, just a few minutes ago—”
A sudden, sharp scream. The elevator doors opened. A well-dressed man and woman came stumbling out.
“There's a body!” the woman wailed. “There's a body on the third floor.”
“It's a bellhop,” the man said. “I'd swear someone snapped his neck.”
Pandemonium broke out. Now security guards did come running, bellhops, too. The parking valet went sprinting by Bobby. Bobby grabbed the man's arm, then flashed his badge.
“Police. Give me your pass key.
Now!”
The bewildered valet turned over his pass key. Bobby jerked his head at Catherine.
They bolted into the elevator, slammed the key into the slot, and headed for the penthouse floor.
“You look for Nathan,” Bobby said. “I'll take care of Umbrio.”
“What about James and Maryanne?”
Bobby shrugged. “If they're working with Umbrio, then they're probably safe. If they're against Umbrio, then we probably don't have to worry about them anymore.”
“Oh God . . .”
“Let's go,” Bobby said.
M
R. BOSU KNOCKED
once. He went for a childlike rat-a-tat.
The door opened, and, without bothering to wait, Mr. Bosu slammed his fist into the man's face. There was a wet crunching sound. Then the man sprawled onto the vast marble floor.
“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.
Chapter
39
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.
“Shit!” she cried.
She arrived in the bedroom, still shaking uncontrollably and now reeking of gunpowder. Her eyes were dark saucers in her pale face, her hair a disheveled mess. But she was still standing, still bearing her pistol, and Bobby thought she looked gorgeous as hell.
Now she saw the blood pouring down Bobby's shoulder. “Oh no!”
“Who is that man?” Maryanne cried. “And where is Nathan?”
C
ATHERINE GOT BOBBY
into a sitting position. Good news, Umbrio had missed a major vein. Bad news, he'd injured the joint and now Bobby's right arm dangled uselessly at his side.
“I don't understand,” Maryanne was babbling. “The receptionist called. Nathan was coming up, and I was so excited. I wanted to get the door, to be the first to greet Nathan, but James said no, let Mr. Harris get it. Then the door opened and I heard an awful noise, like a crunch. James yelled at me to run, so I ran. Then James pushed me into this bedroom, told me to get into the closet and not come out no matter what happened. So I hid. Then came the sound of footsteps.
“I thought it would be Mr. Harris, or maybe James. Instead, the closet door opened and that hideous man was staring at me. He was smiling. He was holding a knife and smiling. What kind of man does such a thing?”