by Lisa Gardner
Very slowly, she put her eye to the peephole.
Three people stood there. The police.
No, she thought wildly. Not now. Nathan was all alone. Didn't they know that at any time, a man driving a blue Chevy could turn down the street?
Knocking again. Slowly, Catherine opened the door.
“Catherine Gagnon?” the man standing in front asked. His nose was squashed, as if he'd been hit in the face one too many times. It appeared incongruous with his nice gray suit.
“Who are you?”
“Rick Copley, ADA for Suffolk County. I'm here with Detective D.D. Warren, BPD”—he gestured to a beautiful blonde with cheap taste in clothes—“and Investigator Rob Casella, DA's office.” He gestured to a particularly grim-faced man who was wearing a dark suit fit only for funerals. “We have a few questions we need answered. May we come in?”
“I'm on my way to see my son,” she said.
“Then we'll do our best not to take too much of your time.” The ADA was already pushing into her home. After another moment, she gave way. It probably was best to do this now. Before Nathan—or Prudence—returned.
The cheap blonde was looking around the downstairs foyer as if she wasn't impressed. The investigator, on the other hand, was already taking notes.
“I think we'd be more comfortable having a seat.” The ADA invited them all to enter the parlor to the left-hand side of the foyer. Catherine finally let go of her purse, shrugged out of her coat. She was watching the ADA most carefully; he was the one in charge.
She wondered what he thought of grieving widows. Then she caught his glance again. His expression was hard, calculating, a predator sizing up prey. So that's the way it was then. For as long as she could remember, Catherine had brought out only the extreme in the male of the species. Men who lusted after women lusted after her more. And men who hated women . . .
She would do better, she decided, focusing her energies on the man dressed for the funeral.
“I'm glad you stopped by,” she said firmly, shoulders back, sailing into the room. “I contacted the medical examiner's office yesterday. I confess I was quite startled to learn that I still can't claim my husband's body.”
“In these kinds of situations, it takes time.”
“Do you have children, Mr. Copley?”
He simply stared at her.
She said quietly, “This is a very difficult time for my son. I would like to finish planning the funeral, so we can both get this behind us. The sooner my son gets closure, the sooner he can begin to heal.”
Copley and his crew said nothing. Catherine took a seat across from them all in an antique wooden chair. She crossed one leg over the other, clasping her hands around her knee. She'd chosen her clothes with care this morning: a tea-length black skirt with a heather-gray cashmere turtleneck, belted at the waist. Pearl studs in her ears, her wedding band on her finger, her long black hair knotted at her neck. She was every inch the dignified, grieving widow, and she knew it.
If these people were really going to gang up on the dead man's wife, it would be up to them to start.
“We have some questions about Thursday night,” the ADA said finally, clearing his throat and breaking the silence. “Could you review some things for us one more time?”
She merely regarded them expectantly.
“Uhhhh, all right.” Investigator Casella had his notebook out and was flipping through the pages. Catherine didn't watch him anymore; she studied the blonde. The DA's office investigated police shootings, not the BPD, so why was the blonde here?
“In regard to the videotapes from the security system . . . we seem to be missing the one from the master bedroom.”
“There's no tape.”
“There's no tape? It's our understanding from the security company that a camera is installed in your master bedroom.”
She regarded Investigator Casella evenly. “It wasn't on.”
“It wasn't on?”
“Convenient,” the blonde murmured.
Catherine ignored her. “That camera is meant for when we are out. Jimmy had set it up to shut off automatically from midnight to eight a.m.”
“That's interesting,” Investigator Casella said. “Because according to your earlier testimony, Jimmy came home at ten p.m., so the camera should've still been on.”
“True, but it turns out the control panel can't tell time.”
“Pardon?”
“Check it,” Catherine said. “You'll see that the control panel is currently running two hours ahead, so what it thinks is midnight is really ten p.m.” She shrugged. “Jimmy's not very good with electronics. All that ‘spring forward, fall back'; I guess he must have messed up the time.”
“The security company never mentioned this.”
“I don't think he ever told them.”
The two men and the blonde exchanged glances.
“You said you and your husband had gotten into an argument,” Investigator Casella said finally. “What was it regarding?”
Catherine eyed him coolly. They had covered this before, Friday morning when the blood in her bedroom had still been fresh. She resented the fact that they were making her say it again.
“Jimmy could be jealous, particularly when he'd been drinking. Thursday night, he started in on me about Nathan's doctor. I wanted to take Nathan in to see Dr. Rocco, as Nathan wasn't feeling well. Jimmy thought that was just a ruse so I could see my old lover.”
“You were seeing Dr. Tony Rocco?” The ADA again, striving to sound surprised by the news when they all knew he was faking it. The police had their theatrics, she had hers. Which made this whole conversation—what, a Greek tragedy, or a hopeless Shakespearean farce?
She was suddenly more tired than she had ever been in her life. She wanted to see Nathan. She needed to know that her son, at least, was safe.
She answered evenly, “Yes, Tony and I had a relationship. It ended months ago, however, and as I reassured Jimmy, it was solely in the past.”
“And where was the nanny, Prudence Walker, when this discussion was taking place?” Investigator Casella picked up the questioning.
“Thursday night is Prudence's night off. Thursday nights, Sunday days.”
Casella frowned at her. “But it was pretty late when your husband returned home. You're sure Prudence still wasn't back? Maybe upstairs, sleeping in her room?”
“I believe she spent the night with a friend.”
“A boyfriend?” For the first time, the blonde spoke up. She was regarding Catherine sharply. “She often spend Thursday night with him?”
“She's often out all night,” Catherine conceded.
“Convenient,” the blonde murmured.
Catherine ignored her.
“And your son?” Investigator Doomsday said. “How did he end up being part of the altercation?”
“Nathan had awakened shortly after ten from a nightmare. I had just gone into his room to comfort him, when I heard Jimmy downstairs. I could tell . . . I could already tell that it wouldn't be good.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I could tell he'd been drinking. By the way he slammed the door. By the way he started shouting my name. Nathan, of course, immediately became more frightened.”
Not that he said anything. Nathan never said anything. He'd simply stared at her with those too-solemn blue eyes, his thin young body already braced, waiting. Jimmy was home, Jimmy was drunk. Jimmy was bigger than both of them.
She had wanted so much more for her son. That's what she'd been thinking on Thursday night, when Jimmy slammed the door, when Jimmy started yelling, when Jimmy headed for the stairs. She had looked down into Nathan's eyes and been terrified by the sight of her own hopeless gaze reflecting back at her.
“When did Jimmy get the gun?” the ADA was asking.
“I don't know.”
“Where did he get the gun?”
“I don't know.”
“He came up the stairs with it?”
“Yes.”
“He waved it at you and Nathan?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do, Mrs. Gagnon?”
“I told him to put the gun away. I told him he was scaring Nathan.”
“And what did he do?”
“He laughed, Mr. Copley. He said he wasn't the threat to Nathan in this house, that I was.”
“What did he mean by that?”
She shrugged. “Jimmy was drunk. Jimmy didn't know what he was saying.”
“And what was Nathan doing when all of this was going on?”
“Nathan was . . .” Her voice snagged, she forced herself to continue. “Nathan was in my lap. He had his head pressed against my shoulder so he wouldn't have to see his father. He had his hands over his ears. I told Jimmy I was going to put Nathan to bed in our room. I asked him to please calm down, he was frightening our child. Then I walked past him to our room. The minute I got inside, I locked the door and called nine-one-one.”
“Is that when Jimmy fired the gun?”
“I don't remember.”
“Neighbors reported two shots fired.”
“Did they?”
Copley's eyebrows rose. “You're saying you're not sure if your husband fired the gun?”
“I wasn't focused on Jimmy at that time. I was focused on Nathan. He was scared out of his mind.”
Mommy, are we going to die? Turn on the lights, Mommy. We need lights.
“Did Jimmy ever hurt you or your son before this?”
“Jimmy threw stuff when he was angry. Sometimes . . . We had some troubles in our marriage.”
“Troubles in your marriage?” The blonde again, sounding sarcastic. “Uniformed patrols were coming here every other week to respond to complaints. Except things were finally reaching the point of no return, weren't they, Mrs. Gagnon—Jimmy had filed for divorce.”
Catherine regarded her coolly. “True.”
“He had the money,” the blonde pressed. “He had the power. First the guy had been abusing you, now he was setting things up to screw you royally. Frankly, no one here can blame you for being a little pissed off.”
“We had issues. It didn't mean we were beyond help.”
“Puuuhhhllleeez. This guy beat you. This guy yelled and threw things at your kid. Why would you even want to work it out?”
“Obviously, you never met Jimmy.”
“Obviously, it didn't matter once you did, because you were still willing to play hide-the-stethoscope with your son's doctor.”
Catherine flinched. “That's crude.”
“You did see Dr. Rocco in the end, didn't you?”
“Nathan had an attack of acute pancreatitis on Friday. Of course I saw Dr. Rocco.”
“Did the doc miss you? Want you back? Jimmy's gone now. . . .”
“I'm insulted by that insinuation. My husband's body is barely cold—”
“Barely cold? You helped get him killed!”
“How? By being used as target practice?”
The blonde moved to the edge of the sofa. Her questions shot out rapid-fire. “Who started the argument Thursday night? Who first brought up Dr. Rocco?”
“I did. Nathan wasn't feeling well.”
“So you decided to mention your past lover to your jealous husband?”
“He was Nathan's doctor!”
“You kept your past lover as Nathan's doctor when you had a jealous, abusive husband?”
Catherine blinked her eyes, faltered, and tried frantically to regain footing. “Nathan doesn't like new doctors. New doctors mean new tests. I couldn't put him through that.”
“Oh, I see. So you kept seeing your old lover as a favor to your son?”
“Dr. Rocco is a good doctor!”
“Is a good doctor?”
“Is a good doctor,” Catherine repeated, feeling bewildered.
“Then you must be disappointed he won't be your doctor any longer.”
“It wasn't his fault. James Gagnon wields a lot of power. Tony was just doing what Tony had to do.”
For the first time, the blonde broke off, frowning. “When did you last see Dr. Rocco?” the blonde asked.
“Friday evening. When Nathan was admitted into the ICU. Afterwards, Dr. Rocco informed me he couldn't be Nathan's doctor anymore. The head of Pediatrics had asked him to remove himself from the case. Instead, he was referring me to a geneticist, Dr. Iorfino. We have an appointment for Monday.”
“And when did you make that appointment?”
“I didn't make the appointment. Tony did.”
“Personal touch,” the blonde murmured with an arched brow.
“My son is very sick. He needs expert care. And in the medical field it takes an expert to get an expert. If I had called Dr. Iorfino, I would've been put on a waiting list. But Tony could get us right through. Maybe he doesn't have the best ethics in his personal life, but Tony is a very good doctor; he's always done right by my son.”
“Sounds to me like you still love him.”
“I loved my husband.”
“Even when he used you as a human punching bag? Even when he had a gun? Seems to me like you're not making out too badly, Mrs. Gagnon. Now you get all the benefits of the house, the car, the bank accounts, without any of the expensive Jimmy baggage.” The blonde's eyes were shrewd. “Why, there's not even anyone around to accuse you of harming your son. You're totally free and clear.”
Catherine stood up. “Get out.”
“We're going to talk to Prudence, you know. And the nanny before her, and the nanny before her. We're going to go all the way back, until we know every single thing that ever happened in this household.”
“Out.”
“And then we're going to talk to Nathan.”
Catherine stabbed her finger at the door. The three finally rose. “Too bad about Dr. Rocco,” the blonde commented casually as they crossed the marble foyer. “Especially for his wife and kids.”
“What about Tony?”
“He's dead, of course. Murdered last night. At the hospital.” The blonde stopped, staring hard at Catherine's face. For a change, Catherine didn't bother to shield her expression. She was honestly shocked. Then stupefied. Then, just plain terrified.
“How?” she murmured.
“Boo,” the blonde murmured, and Catherine froze.
The investigators passed through the doorway. At the last moment, the ADA turned.
“You ever hear of GSR?” Copley asked.
“No.”
“It's gunshot residue. Anytime someone fires a gun, traces of GSR end up on their hands and clothing. Guess what we tested for at the morgue, Mrs. Gagnon? Guess what we didn't find on your husband's hands or clothing?”
Catherine didn't say a word. Boo, she was thinking wildly. Boo.
The trio headed down the front steps. “One mistake,” Copley called back over his shoulder. “That's all I need. One little mistake, Mrs. Gagnon. Then, you're mine.”
S UNDAY MORNING. THE sun was shining, the air crisp with the promise of winter. Half of the pedestrians in Boston scurried from overpriced shop to overpriced shop, their heads tucked like turtles deep in the folds of their scarves, their hands crammed into the pockets of their coats. Not Mr. Bosu. He walked through the Public Garden with its grand old trees, no coat, no hat, no gloves. He loved this kind of weather. The scent of the decaying leaves. The last gasp of a fading winter sun.
When he was a kid, this had been his favorite time of year. He'd stay outdoors playing long after dark. His parents didn't care. Being outside was good for the boy, his father would say, before burying himself once more in the daily paper.
Not a bad childhood. He really couldn't complain. He had fond memories of G.I. Joe figurines and toy cement mixers. He rode his dirt bike, played well with the other children. Even had birthday parties in his mother's gold-colored living room, decorated with the little orange and yellow flowers people thought were absolutely darling back then.
He heard
it was all coming back in fashion now. Retro. That was the word. Mr. Bosu had been in prison just long enough for his childhood to once again become cool.
He wondered what would happen if he returned home. His parents probably lived in the same house on the same block; hell, maybe they even drove the same car. If it's not broke, don't fix it, the senior Mr. Bosu had always liked to say.
They never visited Mr. Bosu in prison. Not once. After the day that girl had taken the stand, pointed at Mr. Bosu, and said, “Yes, sir, that's the man who grabbed me,” his parents hadn't even attended the trial.
He supposed you could say he'd broken his parents' hearts. People like them were supposed to have an ordinary son. One who would join ROTC, end up with a college degree and serve his country on weekends. Then he'd marry an ordinary girl, maybe a younger version of his mother, and she would stand in a vogue retro kitchen, whipping up retro casseroles while their two point two children played with retro toys out back.
Mr. Bosu's fantasies were different. They involved a Catholic schoolgirl in a green plaid skirt and white knee-high socks. She would have her long dark hair tied back in a red bow. She would carry her schoolbooks tight against her just-budding chest. She would say “Yes, sir” or “No, sir.” She would have a tight virginal body, untouched by any man, and she would do whatever he wanted, how he wanted, when he wanted.
She would be his forever.
Mr. Bosu hadn't been a dumb boy. He'd kept his fantasies to himself. When he was sixteen, he'd made his first attempt. Approached a girl in a playground, pretending to be looking for his younger sister. The girl hadn't run away immediately, so he'd offered to push her on the swing. The feel of her small bony ribs beneath his hands, however, had led to consequences. His pants had been too tight, no way to hide the results. She'd gotten one look, started to scream, and run all the way home.
Later, her parents had approached his parents about his “inappropriate” behavior. He'd blushed, stammered, lied shamelessly that he'd actually been watching a blonde cheerleader walk by. Of course he hadn't meant . . . He just didn't know how to control . . . Oh gosh, he was just so, so sorry.
Boys will be boys, his father had said, shaking his head and reaching once more for his paper.
After that, he'd been more careful. Taking his parents' car, driving far away from the neighborhood. He practiced and he learned. Nicer clothes were less threatening, particularly given his hulking size. A good story was important. Not candy, everyone warned their children about strangers bearing candy. Better to be looking for a lost sister, lost cat, lost dog. Something a child could relate to.
