by Lisa Gardner
A resident was reporting, “Severe epigastric pain—”
A nurse was shouting: “Temp one-oh-two. Heart rate one fifty, BP one fifteen over forty—”
Dr. Rocco was already barking out commands: “I need two milligrams morphine, cold compresses, TPN nutrition. Come on, people, move!”
The first time Catherine had been through this drill, she had trembled uncontrollably. Now, she was grim-faced as a combat veteran as two people pinned Nathan’s writhing body to the bed and two others sliced off Nathan’s cowboy-print pajamas and slapped on wires for the heart monitor. Nathan screamed in pain; they held him harder.
So it went, on and on and on, Nathan fighting for his life and the hospital staff fighting with him.
Afterwards, when the worst had passed, when the nurses and residents had moved on to more pressing cases, when only Nathan remained, unconscious, breathing strained, a tiny form lost in the middle of the metal-framed hospital bed, Dr. Rocco took her aside.
“Catherine … I know things must be difficult at home right now.”
“You think?” The words came out too harshly. Catherine regretted her tone almost immediately. She turned her head away from Dr. Rocco and stared at the walls, which were really much too white. She could hear the beep of Nathan’s monitor, faithfully counting out the rhythm of his heart. Sometimes, she heard that sound in her sleep.
“Jimmy, we have to do something about Nathan.”
“Jesus, Catherine, can’t you leave the poor boy alone?”
“Jimmy, look at him. He’s sick. Really, really sick …”
“Is he? None of these fancy tests you order ever prove anything. Maybe the problem isn’t with Nathan, Cat. I’m beginning to wonder—maybe the problem’s with you.”
“Catherine, he has pancreatitis again. That’s the third time this year. Given his heart and the rest of his health, he can’t keep battling these kinds of infections. His liver is enlarged, he’s still showing signs of malnutrition, and worse, he’s lost a pound since I saw him last. Have you been following the special diet we discussed? Lots of small meals, only soy products?”
“It’s hard to get him to eat.”
“What about favorite foods?”
“He likes the soy yogurt, but even then, after a bite or two, he’s done.”
“He’s got to eat.”
“I know.”
“He must take his vitamins.”
“We’re trying.”
“Catherine, four-year-olds don’t get anorexia. Four-year-olds don’t starve themselves to death.”
“I know,” she whispered helplessly. “I know.” And then, more tentatively, “Isn’t there anything else you can do?”
“Catherine …” The doctor sighed. Now he stared at the walls, too. “I’m recommending you to Dr. Iorfino,” he said abruptly.
“You’re sending me to another doctor?”
“He can see you on Monday. Three p.m.”
“But another doctor will mean more tests.” She was flabbergasted. “Nathan is tired of tests.”
“I know.”
“Tony …” The word came out as a plea. She was sorry the instant she said it.
Dr. Rocco finally looked at her. “The head of Pediatrics has formally asked me to remove myself from this case. I’m sorry, Catherine, but my hands are tied.”
And then finally, Catherine got it. James. Her father-in-law had gotten to him, or had intervened with the higher-ups in the hospital, or maybe both. It didn’t matter anymore. As a doctor for Nathan, as an ally for her, Tony Rocco was done.
She rose steadily, careful to keep her chin up and her back straight. As gracefully as she could, she held out her hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Doctor,” she murmured.
For one moment, he hesitated. “I’m sorry, Cat,” he said softly. “Dr. Iorfino, he’s a good doctor.”
“Older? Balding? Fat?” she asked bitterly.
“A good doctor,” Tony repeated.
She just shook her head. “I’m sorry, too.”
She left the room, went down the hall where she could stand outside the window of ICU and watch Nathan’s skinny chest rise and fall amid the sea of wires. In the morning, if his temperature was down and the worst of the inflammation past, she would take him home. He would sit in his own room, surrounded by his own toys. He would not ask many questions, this somber child of hers. He would simply wait, as they always waited, for the next crisis to occur.
She would have to think of a good time to tell him about the new doctor. Maybe she would have Prudence take him to a movie first, or make him some kind of treat. Or maybe it was better to wait for when he was already in a bad mood. She could layer on the misery and let him deal with it all at once.
Prudence would be there. Prudence would hold his hand if he finally cried.
Catherine couldn’t stand being in the ICU anymore. She headed for the families’ lounge, desperate for brighter lights, fresher air. People didn’t make eye contact here or worry about some infamous widow whose husband had just been shot; they were too busy with problems of their own.
She was halfway right.
A man walked up to her the minute she appeared. He wore a brown suit and bad hairpiece and moved with a single-minded focus.
“Catherine Rose Gagnon?”
“Yes.”
“Consider yourself served.”
She took the sheaf of paper in bewilderment, barely noting the surprised glances of the other families. The man disappeared as quickly as he’d come, an intruder who knew he didn’t belong. Then it was just her and a room full of strangers, all with loved ones battling for their lives down the hall.
Catherine unfolded the thick legal document. She read the heading, and even though she thought she’d considered everything, she was still stunned. Her stomach went hollow, she swayed on her feet.
And then she started laughing, the hysteria building like a bubble in her throat.
“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” she half laughed, half sobbed. “What have you done?”
In a darkened room of a darkened house, the phone rang once. The call was expected, but that didn’t stop the recipient from feeling rather nervous.
“Robinson?” the caller asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did you find him?”
“Yeah.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Keep up your end of the arrangement and he’ll keep up his.”
“Good. I’ll wire you the money.”
“You understand what you’re doing, don’t you?” Robinson blurted out. “I can’t control him. He was a killer before he went to jail, he was a killer while he was in jail, and now—”
The caller cut him off. “Trust me: that’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”
Chapter
8
Bobby woke up blearily to the sound of a phone ringing. For a moment, he lay there, blinking his eyes at the ceiling and feeling the pounding in his head. Jesus, he stank of beer.
Then the phone rang again and the next thought flashed across his mind as a small hopeful flare: Susan.
He grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
The woman on the other end of the phone was not Susan and it amazed him how much he was disappointed.
“Robert Dodge?”
“Who’s this?”
“Catherine Gagnon. I believe you shot my husband.”
Jesus Christ. Bobby sat up. The shades were drawn, his room was dark, he couldn’t get his bearings. His gaze scatter-shot around the room, finally finding his bedside clock and reading the glowing red numbers. Six forty-five a.m. He’d been asleep what, three, four hours? It wasn’t enough for this.
“We can’t talk,” he said.
“I’m not calling to blame you.”
“We can’t talk,” he said again, more emphatically.
“Officer Dodge, I wouldn’t be alive right now if you hadn’t done what you did. Is that what you need to hear?”
“Mrs. Gagnon, t
here are lawsuits, there are lawyers. We can’t be seen talking.”
“Point taken. I believe I can make it to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum without being followed. Can you?”
“Lady—”
“I’ll be there after eleven. In the Veronese Room.”
“Have a nice tour.”
“Haven’t you ever heard, Officer Dodge? The enemy of your enemy is your friend. We have the same enemy, you and I, which means now we’re the only hope either of us has left.”
Eleven-fifteen a.m., Bobby found her in front of a Whistler portrait awash in vivid shades of blue. The artwork featured a lounging woman, nude, voluptuously curved and swathed in bright oriental fabrics. In contrast, Catherine Gagnon stood out as a stark silhouette. Long black hair, tailored black dress, skinny black heels. Even from the back, she was a striking woman. Slender, self-contained, oozing pedigreed wealth. Bobby decided she was too skinny for his tastes, too rich-bitch, but then she turned and he felt something tighten low in his gut. Something about the way she moved, he thought. Or maybe it was the way her dark, oversized eyes dominated her pale, sculpted face.
She looked at him. He looked at her. And for a long moment, neither took a step.
First time Bobby had seen her, he’d had the impression of a dark Madonna, a slender mother wrapping herself protectively around her young son. Now, with the allegations of child abuse fresh in his mind, he saw a black widow. She was cool. Ballsy, to call him up out of the blue. And probably, most likely, he decided, dangerous.
“You can relax,” she said quietly from across the way. “It’s an art museum. No cameras allowed, remember?”
“Clever,” he acknowledged, and she flashed him a fleeting smile before returning her attention to the artwork.
He finally crossed to her, standing in front of the Whistler display, but leaving plenty of distance between them.
The room wasn’t crowded yet; early November was off-season in Boston. Too late for leaf-peeping, too early for holiday shopping. Bobby and Catherine shared the opulent room of the mansion-museum with only four other souls, and those four didn’t appear to be giving them a second glance.
“Do you like Whistler?” she asked.
“More of a Pedro Martinez fan, myself.”
“Believe in the Red Sox curse?”
“Haven’t seen anything to prove otherwise.”
“I like this Whistler study,” she said. “The long sensuous lines of the woman’s body against that opulent blue fabric. It’s extremely erotic. Do you think this woman was merely a model for him, or after posing for this, did she become Whistler’s lover?”
Bobby didn’t say anything. She didn’t seem to require an answer.
“He had a reputation for being a dandy, you know. In 1888, however, just a few years after painting this piece, he supposedly married the love of his life, Beatrice Godwin. She died eight years later from cancer. What a pity. Did you know that Whistler’s a local artist? Born in Lowell, Mass—”
“I didn’t come for the art.”
She merely arched a brow at him. “Shame, don’t you think? It’s a wonderful museum.”
He gave her another look, and she finally relented. “Let’s go upstairs. Third level.”
“More Whistler?”
“No, more privacy.”
They mounted the wide, curving staircase to the top level of the museum. They passed by more people, then several guards standing stony-faced in designated rooms. Fourteen years ago, two thieves disguised as Boston police officers had stolen thirteen works of art from this museum. The theft gave the museum a certain level of notoriety that the security guards didn’t forget. Now they scrupulously studied each person walking by, causing Bobby to avert his gaze.
When they finally arrived on the third floor, he found that he was breathing harder than necessary. Catherine Gagnon wasn’t as cool as she’d like to pretend either. He could see both of her hands trembling at her sides. As if sensing his gaze, she stopped the motion by curving her fingers into fists.
She walked all the way to the back and he followed, noting things he didn’t want to note. Like the smell of her perfume, rich, almost cinnamony, like barely suppressed heat. Or the way she walked, lithe, graceful, like a cat. She worked out. Yoga or Pilates would be his guess. Either way, she was stronger than she looked.
In the back room of the third floor, no one was around. Bobby and Catherine positioned themselves at random, close but not too close, and Catherine started to talk.
“I loved my husband,” she said softly. “I know that must sound strange to you. When I first met Jimmy, he was … amazing, generous, sweet. He took me on whirlwind weekends to Paris and grand shopping tours. I … I had some trouble earlier in my life. Some sadness. When I first met Jimmy, for the first time, things felt right. He entered the picture and literally swept me off my feet. He was my knight in shining armor.”
Bobby wondered what some sadness meant. He wondered, for that matter, why Catherine Gagnon was telling him any of this. He’d killed Jimmy Gagnon; he didn’t want to hear stories about the man now.
“I was wrong about Jimmy,” Catherine said abruptly. “Jimmy wasn’t a knight in shining armor. He was drunk and abusive, a manipulative, charismatic man who would smile at you when he got his way, and go after you with a knife when he didn’t. He was everything I swore to myself I knew better than to marry. But I didn’t see it. I didn’t understand until it was much too late, and then I could only wonder.… I knew better. How had I still ended up married to the likes of him?”
She stopped abruptly, a person biting off an unspoken curse. She turned away again, but her steps were hard now, agitated as she paced the tiny room.
“He beat you?” Bobby asked.
“I can show you bruises.” Her hands moved immediately to the belt of her dress. He held up his palm to stop her.
“Why didn’t you tell the cops?”
“They were Boston cops. Jimmy’s father, Judge Gagnon, had already handed down an edict: If Jimmy was in trouble, cops were to call him and he’d personally take care of it. Jimmy liked to brag about that. Shortly before he’d knock me unconscious.”
Bobby frowned. He didn’t like these kinds of stories, cops turning a blind eye, yet it fit with what two BPD cops had already told him. Jimmy Gagnon was a wild one, and he used his father as his own personal get-out-of-jail-free card.
“And your son?”
“Jimmy never touched Nathan. I would’ve left him if he had.” She said the words too quickly; Bobby knew she lied.
“Seems to me a man knocking you around should be reason enough to grab the kid and run. Of course, life on the road wouldn’t involve so much money.”
“Oh, Jimmy didn’t have any money.”
“Yeah? What do you consider a home in the heart of Back Bay?”
“Jimmy’s father bought it. His father bought most of the things we used. Jimmy’s money is still tied up in a trust. His father is the executor and he doles out the money at will. It’s from a clause dating back to Jimmy’s great-great-grandfather on his mother’s side. He hit it big in oil, then grew obsessed that future generations would squander the family fortune. His solution: he tied up the assets in trusts that don’t dissolve until the inheritor turns fifty-five. Each successive generation has kept it that way. So the family has money—Maryanne inherited a positively filthy amount of money when she turned fifty-five—but Jimmy … Jimmy didn’t have any wealth of his own yet.”
“And now that Jimmy’s dead?”
“The money goes straight to Nathan, also in a trust. I don’t receive a cent.”
Bobby remained skeptical. “But there are provisions for the boy’s guardian, I’m sure.”
“Nathan’s guardian will receive a monthly allowance,” she acknowledged. “But you’re assuming I’m his guardian. This morning, I was served with court papers. James and Maryanne are officially suing me for custody of Nathan. They claim I’m trying to kill him. Can you imagine that
, Officer Dodge? A mother trying to harm her own son?”
She moved toward him, coming to a halt closer to him than strangers normally stand. He became aware of her perfume again, and the pale curve of her slender neck and the way her long, dark hair draped down her back, a rich, black curtain as erotic as the blue fabric in the Whistler portrait had been.
She made no other move, said no other word, and yet there was something about her that invited touch. Something about her that reached out to him as a man, and begged him to conquer her as a woman.
She was playing him. She was using her body as a weapon, deliberately trying to befuddle the brains of the poor, stupid state cop. Funny, even knowing that, he was still tempted to step forward, to press his body against hers.
“My son is in the hospital,” she murmured.
“What?”
“He’s in the ICU. Pancreatitis. Maybe that doesn’t sound life-threatening to you, but for a boy like Nathan it is. My son is sick, Officer Dodge. He’s very, very sick and the doctors don’t know why, so my in-laws are blaming me. If they can make his illness my fault, they can take Nathan away. Then they’ll have their grandson—and the money—all to themselves. Unless, of course, you help me.”
Bobby let his gaze drift down the length of her body. “And why would I help you?”
She smiled. It was a fully feminine smile, but for the first time, Bobby also saw a spark of emotion in her eyes—she was sad. Catherine Gagnon was deeply, horribly sad. She reached up a hand and delicately splayed her fingers across his chest.
“We need each other,” she said quietly. “Think about the clerk-magistrate hearing—”
“You know about the hearing?”
“Of course I know about it. The two motions go together, Officer Dodge. The custody battle is the foundation of the probable cause hearing. Basically, if I’m abusing Nathan, then you committed murder.”
“I didn’t commit murder.”
Her fingers fluttered across his chest. “Of course. Just like I’m not the kind of woman who would ever dream of harming her son.” She leaned closer, her breath whispering across his lips. “Don’t you trust me, Officer Dodge? You should, you know. Because I have no choice but to trust in you.”
