by Lisa Gardner
Now, however, D.D. was peering inside a dark green BMW 450i while chewing her lower lip. Across from her, a crime-scene technician armed with a camera was busily shooting away. The snap and whir of the advancing film echoed across the vast expanse of the cement parking garage and seemed to punctuate Bobby's approaching footsteps.
Garage was a little crowded, given that it was three a.m. Coroner's van, crime-scene van, numerous patrol cars, several detectives' vehicles, and a much nicer sedan Bobby recognized as belonging to the ADA. Lot of cars for a homicide. Lot of attention, period.
Bobby's breath exhaled in frosty pants. He sank his hands deep into the pockets of his down jacket and did his best to blend in. Several heads turned his way. Some faces he recognized, some he didn't. All knew him, though, and despite his best efforts, a buzz was building by the time he arrived at the BMW.
“Hey, Bobby,” D.D. said without ever looking up.
“Nice boots.”
She wasn't fooled. “Kind of late to be out on the town,” she said.
“Couldn't sleep.”
“'Cause your phone was ringing off the hook?” She finally looked at him, blue eyes narrowed speculatively. “You got good ears, Bobby, given that we're doing everything we can to keep this one quiet.”
He understood her question, but decided not to answer it. “If I happen to spend the next hour leaning against that concrete support column over there, studying my nails, how much of a problem would that be?”
“I'd say this is strictly a no-manicure zone.” D.D. jerked her head left, and Bobby spotted ADA Rick Copley in deep conversation with the ME. Last time Bobby had seen Copley, Copley's men had been engaging in a friendly game of pin-the-shooting-on-the-beleaguered-state-trooper. So yeah, Copley would consider Bobby's presence a big problem.
“Highlights?” he asked D.D. under his breath.
She gave him another look. “When we profile the vic, how many times are we gonna find your name?”
“Once. This afternoon. Met him for the first time today to ask him about Nathan Gagnon.”
She processed that, put two and two together very quickly and said, “Ah, shit. He's the kid's doctor?”
“Yeah.”
“What else?”
“Had an affair with the boy's mom. Was already being questioned for a possible custody battle to be waged between the parents. Your turn.”
She flicked her gaze across the way. Copley was still talking to the ME, but now looking in their direction, a frown marring his pug-nosed face.
“One DOA doctor in the front seat,” D.D. murmured quickly, gesturing inside the car. “Looks like he just got his door open and someone nailed him from behind.”
“Shooting?”
“Knife.”
“Strong,” Bobby said, trying to glance inside the car himself, and being blocked by D.D.'s shoulder.
“That's not even the half of it,” D.D. said.
Copley had started their way.
“You gotta run,” D.D. told Bobby.
“Yep.”
“But remember, we'll always have Paris.”
Bobby got the message. “See ya.”
Bobby found the stairwell exit just as Copley closed the distance and the first crime-scene tech said, “Holy shit, is that blood?” and the second technician answered, “Actually, I think it's women's lipstick.”
C ASABLANCA'S WAS A swanky Mediterranean restaurant in Cambridge. It featured a full martini bar and an eclectic menu targeted toward Harvard's more upscale clientele—namely the well-to-do parents of its Ivy League student population. Bogey's on the other hand was a tiny little diner tucked away just down from the statehouse. It offered twenty-four-hour service, peeling vinyl stools, and an extra-large griddle that hadn't been cleaned in years. Now, this was a place for cops.
Bobby walked all the way there, using the freezing early morning temp to clear the last of the sleep from his head and icicle half his eyelashes. It was shortly after five when he arrived, the sun not even up yet but the diner already hopping. He waited twenty minutes in the egg-and-bacon-scented heat, then finally got to steal a booth in the back. His stomach was growling; he ordered up three fried eggs, half a dozen pieces of bacon, and a butter-soaked English muffin. He wasn't sure if this qualified as a decent meal or not, but it did involve protein. He chased the food down with an extra-large OJ, then started in on the coffee.
He was entering that no-man's-land between food coma and caffeine buzz when D.D. finally walked into the diner. She sported a tight-fitting white T-shirt that announced in scripted red sequins, Felonious. It worked well with the boots.
She slid into the booth, glancing at Bobby's empty plate. “What, you didn't save anything for me?”
“What'd you want?”
“Eggs, bacon, French toast. With the world's biggest OJ. And maybe a side order of pancakes.”
“The case that good?”
“Oh yeah. I'm starved.”
Bobby walked up to the counter to place her order. When he returned, D.D. was emptying the last of his coffee urn into a mug she'd swiped from the serving station. He returned to the counter, refilled the urn and loaded up on cream. If memory served, D.D.'s appetite ran somewhere between a Marine's and a truck driver's. Lots of cream, lots of sugar, and anything else that was guaranteed to harden an artery.
When he returned to the table, loaded down with coffee and condiments, she finally appeared impressed.
“So, who gave you the heads-up?” she wanted to know, going straight to work on the sugar packets.
“Harris Reed. An investigator. Works for the Gagnons.”
“The Gagnons? As in Judge and Maryanne?”
“The dynamic duo themselves.”
She frowned. “And how'd this Reed know?”
“Didn't say.”
“Have contacts inside the department?”
“Probably.”
She grimaced. “Police stations. One guy drinks a glass of water and everyone else takes a piss. So the Gagnons are keeping an eye on things?”
“Apparently.”
“Interesting.” She'd finished sweetening up her brew and now poured in the cream. “And you, Bobby? All things considered, shouldn't you be off fishing or something?”
He spread his hands. “I can't fish.”
“I heard about the lawsuit. That sucks.”
He didn't disagree.
“Got a lawyer? How bad does it look?”
“Don't know.” He shrugged. “Haven't gone attorney shopping yet. Been busy.”
She stopped stirring her coffee. “Bobby, you gotta take this kind of thing seriously. If a cop can get pulled into criminal court just for doing her job . . . this is cause for concern.”
Again, he didn't disagree.
“You have friends, you know. You guys covered for us when you took that call Thursday; no one wants to see you get hosed.”
Bobby didn't feel like discussing it. What was done was done. “So what's up at the garage?” he asked. “What happened to the good doctor?”
D.D. sighed, took a long swig of coffee, and settled back in the booth. “Not sure. For starters, however, I'd say he screwed around one too many times.”
“A wronged lover?”
“More likely a lover's pissed-off spouse. Good doctor was attacked from behind. Subject wielded so much force, the blade severed half of Dr. Rocco's neck.”
“Messy,” Bobby murmured.
“And how. Subject got the doctor leaning forward into his car, so most of the ewww is contained in the driver's side of the BMW. Except, the fun didn't end there. The good doctor was kind of, well, dismembered.”
“Dismembered?”
“Dis-membered,” D.D. said heavily. “We found it in the glove compartment.”
“Ouch,” Bobby said.
“Ouch,” D.D. agreed.
He frowned. That was pretty personal. And an awful lot of activity for a public parking garage. “Got video footage from the surveillance cameras?�
��
“Looking into it now. Film I have seen is very grainy and doesn't show much. Whoever did this was thinking. Got the doctor incapacitated and into his vehicle. Then, best I can figure it, the killer crawled into the passenger side. BMW has tinted windows; it's late at night. Anyone who walks by is just gonna catch the silhouette of two people sitting in a car. Except one was kind of dead and the other was getting jiggy with a serrated blade. People. I swear they've all seen too many movies.”
D.D.'s food arrived. She started layering the French toast with the fried eggs and pieces of bacon, her eyes positively gleaming. Then she got her hands on the syrup.
“Gotta be a lot of blood,” Bobby said. “That kind of work . . . I'd think you'd have splatter everywhere.”
“You'd think.” She sawed off a bite of French-toast breakfast sandwich with her fork and munched away blissfully. “You were at the scene, Bobby. Picture that big cold garage, think of the facility it was attached to, and tell me what we got.”
Bobby thought back. Under the glare of the floodlights, the cement floor had appeared smooth and unmarred, not a red drip in sight. He frowned, considered the matter again, then suddenly smiled. “A hospital. Surgical scrubs!”
“Bull's-eye. We found a garbage bag filled with bloody scrubs and shoe booties in a dumpster outside of the west-side entrance. It would appear our clever killer donned scrubs, did the deed, then balled up the discarded garments and shoe booties and tossed them tidily away. So most likely he walked into the garage looking like any old surgeon. Once he was done, he waited for a quiet moment, got out of the car, peeled off the garments, and sauntered away.”
“You'd get two footprints,” Bobby said. “Him exiting the car.”
“Found smeared blood outside the passenger's seat. Looks like he wiped up the spot, maybe with part of the scrubs. Didn't get it perfect, but did obliterate any tread patterns. Ingenious little shit.”
“Foresight,” Bobby thought out loud. “Planning.”
“Yes and no. Did take some thought, but everything he needed was on site. So, he didn't have to plan too far in advance. Assuming, of course, that the killer wasn't actually a surgeon, which, of course, given the location, isn't something we've ruled out.” D.D. was halfway through her plate now and positively sighing. “Oooh, that's good. I swear if it wouldn't give me an immediate coronary, I'd come here every day.”
“So what about suspects?”
“Funny you should ask.”
“You're not thinking me, are you?” He was genuinely startled.
“Should I be thinking you?”
“D.D.—”
“Relax, Bobby. It's your girlfriend we're going after. Catherine Gagnon.”
Bobby frowned. The girlfriend comment had been dangled as bait, but he refused to bite. “I don't see it,” he said after a bit.
“ADA's office started looking into the widow yesterday. Rumor is, she had a lot to gain from her husband's death. Rumor is, she might have been shopping around for some hired help—or a misplaced fool's heart.”
“Copley thinks Catherine approached Tony Rocco about killing her husband?”
“Copley tried to schedule an interview with the good doctor yesterday afternoon. Rocco blew him off.”
Bobby nodded, holding his coffee mug between his hands and thinking hard. “If Tony Rocco was Catherine's ally, why would she kill him or find someone to kill him?”
D.D. shrugged. She wouldn't meet his eye. “Rocco obviously didn't kill Jimmy.”
“No,” Bobby agreed quietly, “he didn't.” He kept gazing at D.D., but her eyes were now locked on her plate.
“But maybe Catherine spoke to Rocco about doing it,” D.D. said after a moment. “And maybe she got word that the ADA was looking into it. That would give her motive to want Tony Rocco dead—so Rocco couldn't rat her out.”
“But the killer was most likely a male.”
“She has looks, she has money. Either one would get her help.”
“Help to eliminate the help,” Bobby pointed out dryly.
D.D. shrugged. “It's Copley's theory. Me, I'm still going with the jealous spouse. After all, if you were just killing someone to be expedient, would you really engage in postmortem weenie whacking?”
“That does seem more personal.”
“Plus there's the message to consider.”
“The message?”
“Yeah. Written on the back window. That's what got Dr. Rocco found; someone leaned closer to read the script.”
“And it says?”
“‘Boo.'”
“Boo?”
“Yeah, written in women's lipstick.”
“Women's lipstick?”
“Yep. And I'll bet you anything that on Catherine Gagnon this is a particularly killer shade of red.”
D .D. POLISHED UP her plate. Bobby grabbed the bill.
“Copley's gonna pay you a visit this afternoon,” D.D. mentioned.
“Is he flirting, or do you think it's true love?”
“He says that yesterday you and the missus were spotted playing together at the Gardner Museum.”
Bobby unfolded the bills from his money clip and started counting out ones.
“It's not good,” D.D. continued quietly, “to be seen with the dead man's wife. Makes people talk.”
He needed a ten. Didn't have one. Settled on two fives.
“She's trouble,” D.D. said.
Two singles should do it for the tip.
“He was going to divorce her, you know, and take full custody of the kid. Sometimes, there's a very fine line between being a destitute ex-wife and being a wealthy widow. Thursday night, Catherine Gagnon crossed that line. In this business, you have to wonder about that sort of thing.”
Bobby finally glanced up. “Do you really think she could've set it up? Engineered a fight, arranged for her husband to have a gun, then manipulated everything so that he got shot and she didn't?”
D.D. didn't say anything right away. When she finally spoke, he wished she hadn't. “Did you know her, Bobby? Had you had any contact with her before the call? Even a casual acquaintance, a friend of a friend?”
“No.”
D.D. sat back, but her face was still troubled, her eyes watching. Bobby stood up, fumbling to get his money clip back in his pocket and now biting back a curse.
“Bobby,” she said after a moment, and something in her voice stopped him. She had an expression on her face he'd never seen before. A certain grim curiosity. For a moment, it appeared she'd changed her mind, but then the question came out anyway, as if she simply had to know.
“When you took the shot . . . was it difficult, Bobby? Seeing a real person, did it make you hesitate?”
It would be easy to be offended, to give her a dirty look, then cut and run. But D.D. was a friend. A fellow cop from way back. And maybe, if he dug deep, Bobby understood her question even better than she did. It was the one thing every cop had to wonder. So much time spent in training, but when it came down to it, in the field, when it was your life, or worse, a fellow cop's on the line . . .
He gave it to her straight.
“Honest to God,” he said quietly, “I didn't feel a thing.”
D.D.'s gaze fell to the floor. She wouldn't look at him again. And he didn't bother to be surprised anymore. Three days after the shooting, he was finally learning that that's the way these things went.
Bobby nodded at her one last time, and headed out the door.
B OBBY HAD WALKED two blocks from the diner when the sleek, black Lincoln Town Car pulled alongside him. A darkened window purred down. Bobby took one look inside and cursed.
“Don't you have a hobby?” he asked Harris Reed, who was slowing down the sedan to match Bobby's walking speed. A string of irritated honks promptly sounded from the traffic behind him.
“Get in,” Harris said.
“No.”
“My employers would like to talk to you.”
“Tell them to file another lawsuit.
”
“They're very powerful people, Officer Dodge. The right conversation with them, and all your troubles could go away.”
“How wonderfully patronizing of them.” He picked up his step. “Still walking.”
Harris changed tactics. “Come on, Officer Dodge. You killed their son. Surely you can give them ten minutes of your time.”
Bobby's footsteps slowed. Harris braked the car. “That's not fighting fair,” Bobby said with a scowl. He reluctantly opened the car door. Harris grinned like an asshole.
T HE GAGNONS WERE ensconced at the Hotel LeRoux, a new, high-end hotel across from the Public Garden. Apparently there were too many reporters at their multimillion-dollar Beacon Hill townhouse, so they'd been forced to retire here. Mrs. Gagnon, Bobby was informed, could barely eat or sleep. Judge Gagnon had booked a luxurious penthouse suite, with round-the-clock masseuse, to help ease her nerves.
Harris was chatty about his employers. How the Gagnons were originally from Georgia, so don't be surprised by their Southern accent. Mrs. Gagnon had been a real, genuine debutante, complete with satin dress and bouffant hair, when she'd met James Gagnon back in '62. The money came from her side, actually. But the judge was an ambitious law student even back then. Her family had approved the match and her daddy was preparing to set up Jimmy at his own law firm.
Sadly, Maryanne's entire family—mother, father, younger sister—died in a fiery car crash a week before the wedding. Needless to say, Maryanne had been devastated. In an attempt to comfort his shattered fiancée, Jimmy had whisked her away from the state. They'd moved to Boston, tied the knot in a small civil ceremony, and made a fresh start.
In the good-news department, they'd gotten pregnant right away. In the bad-news department, their baby, the original James Jr., was born sickly. The infant had died in a matter of months, and James and Maryanne had returned to Georgia for one more funeral, burying their son in the family plot in Atlanta.
Two years later, young Jimmy had arrived, and James and Maryanne hadn't looked back since.
Bobby thought it was creepy they'd name the second child the same as the first. The first boy was Junior, the second, Jimmy, Harris told him. Bobby still thought it was creepy.
