by Lisa Gardner
D.D. grimaced. She disappeared upstairs to view the scene for herself. He waited patiently in the foyer, leaning against the wall. More uniforms were coming in now. One fresh-faced kid set himself up discreetly in the entranceway, where he could watch Bobby standing in the foyer and Catherine sitting silently in the parlor. Periodically, Bobby would look over at the rookie and yawn mightily. It was fun to watch the rookie struggle not to yawn back.
Fifteen minutes later, D.D. returned, jerking her head toward a quiet corner. He obediently followed her over for the sidebar. They both understood they had to talk sooner versus later—it was only a matter of time before Copley stalked onto the scene, drawn by the fresh scent of blood.
“What the hell are you doing, Bobby?” D.D. demanded without preamble.
“She called, said there was an intruder in her house and asked me to come over. What was I supposed to do?”
“Call BPD.”
“You think they would've taken her seriously? Thanks to Copley, most of the department seems to have her pegged as a murderer.”
“Not your concern, Bobby. Your career is your concern, and just to enlighten you, these little stunts don't help you out.”
“Funny how many people suddenly care about my career,” he murmured.
“Bobby—”
“I didn't think there was an intruder,” he said.
D.D. finally quieted. Now that he was getting serious, her temper calmed. “What'd you think?”
He shrugged. “That it was a ploy. That she wanted to talk to me alone. That she was probably going to lobby me for one thing or another.”
“About the shooting?”
“Yeah.”
D.D. grunted. “Better reason for you not to have come.”
“Of course. Officer should have no contact with the victim's family postincident. Think I haven't read the manual? I've read the manual.”
“So why did you come?”
“Because I shot this woman's husband, and what the manual doesn't tell you is that leaves you feeling all torn up inside, and yeah, desperate for answers, or maybe even just for someone to say, ‘Officer, you did the right thing. Officer, I forgive you. Officer, you can go on with your life now, it's gonna be okay.'”
D.D. expelled a breath. “Ah Jesus, Bobby—”
Bobby cut her off. He didn't want to hear it anymore. “I received a call from Mrs. Gagnon shortly after ten-thirty,” he said crisply. “Upon arriving in Back Bay, I parked my car and walked the rest of the way here. Halfway down the block, I saw the silhouette of a body hanging in the fourth-story window. You can say I moved a little quicker.
“Upon entering the lobby of the townhouse, I encountered Mrs. Gagnon and her son curled up on the floor in front of the elevator, obviously fearful. After instructing Mrs. Gagnon and her son to stay put, I took the stairs up to the front entrance of her residence. I entered armed with a fully loaded nine-millimeter, which I am licensed to carry. I conducted a full sweep of the residence, level by level, finishing in the master bedroom, where I walked through the open door to find the body of Prudence Walker swinging from the rafters.
“After reading the note resting upon the mattress, I exited the room, careful not to disturb anything and closing the door behind me with the cuff of my shirt. I then came downstairs and notified Mrs. Gagnon that it was time to call the police.”
D.D. mimicked his stilted professional tone back to him. “And how did Mrs. Gagnon react to the news?”
“She appeared startled that Prudence would hang herself.”
“What did she say?”
“That since Prudence was a lesbian, it was highly unlikely that she was Jimmy Gagnon's lover.”
“Really?” That caught D.D.'s attention. She made a note. “Do you have confirmation?”
“Well, we could ask Prudence,” Bobby said dryly, “but she's dead.”
D.D. rolled her eyes. “What else did you and Mrs. Gagnon discuss?”
“She was concerned about what the police would think of the note. In particular, she and her in-laws are engaged in a custody battle over her son and she feared the police might use the note as an excuse to remove Nathan from her custody.”
“Reasonable fear.”
“I told her the police were smart enough to realize that the suicide was staged.”
“You fucking did not!”
“I fucking did.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Bobby, why the hell didn't you hand her evidence to destroy as well?”
“If I hadn't told her that, she wouldn't be here right now, D.D. She'd have grabbed the kid and fled.”
“And you would've stopped her.”
“How? By pointing my gun at her and her four-year-old son? Somehow, I don't think she would've taken me seriously.”
“You had no right to give away details of a scene. You deliberately hampered the progress of this investigation—”
“I called you in. Without me, you had nothing.”
“With you, we have nothing.”
“No, you have a name.”
“What name?”
“James Gagnon.”
D.D. stopped, blinked her eyes several times, then peered at him in genuine confusion. “Judge Gagnon? You think he killed Prudence Walker?”
“Catherine thinks he did. Or hired someone to.”
“Why?”
“To implicate her in the death of her husband. Ask around, D.D. It's no secret that Judge Gagnon is real distraught over the death of his son. And it's no secret he blames Catherine.”
“For God's sake, Bobby, he's a superior court judge—”
“Who just yesterday invited me up to his hotel suite, where he offered to drop all criminal charges against me in return for my promise to testify that on the night of the shooting, I heard Catherine deliberately provoke Jimmy into pointing the gun.”
“You don't have audio.”
“I mentioned that. The judge said not to worry about it. He'd take care of it.”
“He'd take care of it?”
Bobby shrugged. “All he needs is one other guy who was at the scene to say he heard what I heard. The judge has long arms and deep pockets. I'm guessing I'm not the only one receiving his outreach.”
“Shit,” D.D. said heavily.
“I have a deadline—five o'clock tomorrow,” Bobby said quietly. “I can lie about Catherine and watch my legal troubles go away. Or I can tell the truth, in which case, the judge will seek to bury me.”
D.D. squeezed her eyes shut. “Politics and murder. Great, great, great.” She opened her eyes. “Okay, so what are you going to do?”
He was honestly offended. “You shouldn't have to ask.”
“I didn't mean it that way.”
“The hell you didn't.”
“Bobby—”
“We were friends once. I still remember it, D.D. Do you?”
She didn't answer right away. Which was answer enough. Bobby pushed away from the wall. “Investigate how you need to investigate, D.D. But if you want my two cents, Tony Rocco and Prudence Walker are both dead for the same reason.”
“Because they knew Catherine Gagnon.”
“Because they were allies of Catherine Gagnon. I spoke to Dr. Rocco the day he died—he fervently believed Catherine wasn't harming Nathan. Catherine trusted him as Nathan's doctor, just as she trusted Prudence to help with Nathan. Now she has no one.”
“She has a father,” D.D. pointed out.
“Really? I'd send a few patrol cars in his direction. Maybe he's next.”
“To be attacked by a knife-wielding butcher or to mysteriously hang himself? Come on, Bobby, the MO's don't even match!”
“He's isolating her.”
“He's a well-respected judge who doesn't need to resort to murder. By your own admission, he's got money, influence, and an intimate knowledge of the legal system. Face it, Bobby: if Judge Gagnon wants custody of his grandson, he's going to end up with custody of his grandson. He sure as hell doesn't need to res
ort to murder.”
“Five o'clock deadline,” Bobby said. “The judge wants me testifying tomorrow and he obviously prefers possession of his grandkid tonight. The judge is in a hurry.” He grimaced. “I wonder what's up.”
D. D. INTERVIEWED CATHERINE next, sequestered in the front parlor. Bobby wasn't allowed in the room. He roamed the foyer, trying to catch Catherine's muffled replies through the closed parlor door, and wondering why Copley still hadn't shown his ugly mug.
Catherine and Nathan had been out most of the day. Bobby caught that much of Catherine's report. The security system had been set when she'd left; it was still set when she returned. No, she hadn't seen Prudence all day; she assumed the girl had left before she'd gotten up that morning. No, she didn't know much about the girl's local associates or friends. Prudence had a cell phone; that's what Catherine used to reach her. No, she had not tried to contact Prudence all day; she hadn't had a reason.
Catherine didn't know where the candles had come from. She didn't know where the rope had come from. A ladder had also been discovered. Maybe from their storage unit in the basement? She didn't know much about these things; the basement was Jimmy's domain.
Last time she'd been in the master bedroom had been the night before. She'd been concerned about security, so she and Prudence had moved the dresser in front of the broken slider. She hadn't known that anyone had moved it away, and she doubted Prudence would've done so—the dresser had been too heavy for either of them to move it alone.
At this point D.D. asked dryly if the bedroom security camera was on—or did it still not know how to tell time?
Catherine responded stiffly that she hadn't touched the security system at all, but she knew for a fact there would be no video footage from the master bedroom—the police had seized all the tapes.
Having achieved conversational stalemate, D.D. switched to more neutral ground.
Prudence had worked for her for six months, Catherine supplied. She'd been referred by an agency in England. Yes, Catherine had based part of her decision to hire her on the fact that Prudence was gay. Just because she'd come to terms with Jimmy's incessant infidelity didn't mean she was going to encourage him.
She had thought Prudence was an excellent nanny. Quiet, hardworking, discreet. No, the girl had not seemed particularly upset about what happened to Jimmy. Did that seem odd to her? Well, the British were known for their reserve.
Prudence had been more concerned about Nathan's health, as she should be.
Had Prudence visited Nathan in the hospital? No, Nathan had been in the ICU, where only family members were allowed.
But Nathan had been in the hospital for the past two days. So what had Prudence been doing? Her employer was dead, her charge was in the ICU. What was Prudence doing?
For the first time, Catherine hesitated. She didn't know.
Had she seen Prudence? Not really. Catherine had been out a lot—she'd been with Nathan at the hospital.
Had she talked to Prudence? Not much.
So in fact, Prudence could have been quite upset about Jimmy's death. Prudence could have understandably been terrified about staying alone in a house where a man had been shot. Maybe she'd even harbored a secret crush on Jimmy. He'd been charismatic, charming, handsome. Or maybe, she'd overheard a few things. A girl that quiet, that discreet . . . Maybe she knew more than she was saying about Thursday night, and that had left the girl extremely upset.
So upset, Catherine countered quietly, that she'd snapped her own neck?
Bobby could pretty much hear D.D.'s mental curse through the door. D.D. would be writing up a report this evening; his name would not be mentioned favorably. And with her would go the other few allies he had within the BPD.
Isolation, he thought. Of himself, of Catherine. He wanted to think it was due to choices of his own making. Or was Judge Gagnon really that good?
The interview wound down. Little more D.D. could ask. Little more Catherine would tell.
The door finally opened. D.D. stalked out, looking even angrier than when she'd stalked in. Bobby didn't bother to try to apologize.
He slid up beside her, just as she was walking out the door.
“Get the fuck out of my way, Bobby—” she started.
“I know how the murders are connected,” he said. She wasn't going to ask, so he supplied on his own: “Overpowering a grown man and snapping a young girl's neck. Whoever did this is very big and very strong.”
D.D. whirled on him with surprising vehemence. “She's leading you around by the tail between your legs. She's turned you from a good cop into a fucking idiot. Well, you'd better be enjoying the sex, Bobby, because this is the end of your damn career.”
T WO A.M. THE whole world was sleeping snug as bugs in their beds. Mr. Bosu thought he'd like to join them. Unfortunately, Trickster had other ideas. The puppy was currently whining in the bathroom, scratching at the door. A part of Mr. Bosu thought, Fuck it. It was only his second night in a real bed on real sheets, for chrissakes. He could spread out his arms and legs. He could bury his face against the mattress and not smell the stink of piss. Like hell he was getting up for some sniveling little dog.
The other half of his mind was relentlessly logical—he was already wide-eyed. Had been for hours. Might as well take care of his dog. Who knew that when he finally got out of the joint, he wouldn't be able to stand the quiet?
Life was so unfair.
Mr. Bosu got out of bed. He threw on his five-hundred-dollar trousers. He opened the bathroom door. Trickster came shooting into his arms, wriggling ecstatically and licking at his chin.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He tried to sound gruff. Trickster kissed half of his face, and Mr. Bosu's grumpiness melted once and for all. He supposed he'd slept enough the past twenty-five years. Now he was a free man, hanging out with his dog.
“Outside it is.” He snapped on Trickster's leash and headed out the door. Mr. Bosu had selected a Hampton Inn tonight, nice but not that noticeable. He'd be just another guy in a suit, passing through. Here today, gone tomorrow, not even worth remembering.
Trickster found a good bush in the parking lot, squatted and ejected a shockingly strong spray. No one was about at this hour. What the hell. Mr. Bosu unzipped his trousers and joined him. A man and his dog, taking a leak. Made him feel better about things.
Which was good, because earlier this evening, Mr. Bosu had been feeling blue.
The day had been disappointing. Productive but . . . flat. He'd found the girl. He'd watched her exit the identified apartment. He'd fallen in step beside her and struck up a conversation using the dog. Everything had gone smooth as silk. Except . . .
She hadn't been taken in by his new clothes, for one. He'd seen no spark in her eyes, no iota of interest. It had actually started to piss him off. He looked pretty damn good, you know. Good enough, at least, for some lady he'd never met to want to meet him for dinner. But here was this young girl—and no beauty contestant at that—barely giving him a second glance.
In fact, after a brief pat of Trickster's ears, she'd been on her way.
Flustered, he'd had to do a quick two-step to catch up. Funny thing about spending twenty-five years in the slammer—you don't think so good on your feet.
The stupid cow was walking away. He couldn't make a scene, but couldn't let her go. After all, she was never going to believe he just magically crossed her path again later. No, this was it. He'd selected his strategy and now it had to work.
It had come to him halfway across the street. What did he know and love? Kids. What did a nanny know and love? Children. He started spouting off about his two point two kids and the lack of good daycare. Boom, he got her attention back.
Turned out Prudence Walker was looking for a change of employers. Interestingly enough, she found her current family “kind of frightening.” Apparently, when the father of the family is killed pointing a gun at his wife and child, it doesn't make the childcare provider feel too good about things.
&nbs
p; Not that the father was sorely missed. Wandering hands when it came to the nanny, violent drunk when it came to the family. Guy sounded like a real loser. Rich, though, which would explain why he maintained a house in Back Bay while the other losers went to prison. Again, life was unfair, yada, yada, yada . . .
Mr. Bosu grew tired of hearing about the father. He wanted to know about the mother. He wanted to know about Catherine. . . .
Real piece of work, said the nanny. Mrs. Gagnon pranced around in impossibly high heels—a woman her age, bloody well ridiculous. (Mrs. Gagnon was beautiful, Mr. Bosu translated in his head, more beautiful than the young nanny, and twice as sexy.)
Too many rules, too. Boy can't eat this, boy must eat that. “Poor bugger can't weigh more than a blade of grass,” the nanny prattled on. “Seems to me, she should be grateful for anything he wants to jolly well stuff down his face.”
The mother was cold and arrogant. Held herself too high, put on airs. The woman didn't work, didn't tend the house, didn't raise her own son, and yet she was never home. Probably kept too busy by all her various boyfriends.
Mr. Bosu didn't have to talk anymore, just said “Oh no” or “Oh yes,” in an appropriately sympathetic voice. The girl had worked herself into a state, obviously having kept too much locked inside. He found now that, with just the slightest nudge, he could steer her back to Catherine, that dreadful woman who did such dreadful things to her poor, poor son.
And then, briefly, he felt the old magic again. The sun was shining. Trickster was prancing. They were walking along, a regular bounce in their steps as his nerve endings prickled to life and the world took on a slow, surreal feel. This was Mr. Bosu prowling the urban jungle. This was Mr. Bosu, closing in beautifully, magnificently, on his prey.
Thirty thousand dollars, he was thinking. Wow, who had ever known he could get paid for this shit.
Corner bus stop now. The nanny came to a halt, suddenly seeming to realize how long she'd been talking and that he was still with her. For the first time, she appeared uneasy.
