by Lisa Gardner
Nurse Brandi stepped into the space. Dr. Gerritsen, James, Maryanne, and Catherine disappeared back behind the curtain.
Dr. Gerritsen didn't waste any time. “Judge Gagnon tells me that there is a custody issue with Nathan,” the doctor said, looking Catherine straight in the eye.
“Judge Gagnon and his wife have filed for custody of Nathan,” Catherine replied evenly. She was desperately eyeing the head of Pediatrics, trying to get a quick read on the man. Older. Wedding ring on his left hand. Happily married? Or bored, egotistical—ripe for the attentions of a young, beautiful widow?
“He has concerns for the boy's safety,” Dr. Gerritsen said. His tone was level. Serious. Very serious.
Catherine abandoned all notions of flirtation. She went instead for the concerned daughter-in-law, respectful and caring. She turned her head slightly and said in a low voice, as if she didn't want to upset her in-laws, “Judge Gagnon and his wife have recently lost their son. They are wonderful grandparents, but . . . they're not quite themselves right now, Dr. Gerritsen. Surely you understand how difficult this must be for them.”
“We're sharp as tacks and you know it,” James interjected harshly. “Don't play us for doddering fools.”
Dr. Gerritsen's gaze flickered to James and Maryanne, then back to Catherine. His expression was plainly perturbed. “I don't like being put in the middle of these things.”
“I never would have dreamed of getting you involved,” Catherine assured him.
“According to Dr. Rocco's records, Nathan falls ill a lot.” Dr. Gerritsen added pointedly, “And rather easily.”
“Dr. Rocco always took excellent care of Nathan.”
Dr. Gerritsen gave her a dubious look. He obviously knew of her relationship with Tony and wasn't fooled. “I don't think you should take the boy home,” the head of Pediatrics announced.
Catherine's heart fell. She could feel the panic bubble up in her throat, even as James began to smile.
“Unfortunately,” Dr. Gerritsen continued crisply, “I don't have any say in the matter.”
“What?” James this time, clearly stunned.
“As of this moment, she's still Nathan's legal guardian.” Dr. Gerritsen shrugged. “I'm sorry, Judge Gagnon, but my hands are tied.”
Maryanne started shaking her head, a woman suddenly coming awake only to find herself in the middle of a very bad dream.
“Exigent circumstances,” James countered quickly. “You felt there was an immediate and compelling threat to the boy, justifying sending him home with his grandparents.”
“But I don't know that there's an immediate and compelling threat.”
“The boy's health history. You yourself said it was suspicious!”
“He needs us,” Maryanne said plaintively. “We're all he has left.”
Dr. Gerritsen flashed Maryanne a sympathetic look, before returning his attention to James. “Suspicious, yes. Definitive, no.”
James was clearly furious now. “She is a threat to that child!”
“If I was a threat to Nathan,” Catherine interjected levelly, “why would I keep bringing him to the hospital for medical care?”
“Because it's what you do!” James barked. “Using your own child to gain attention for yourself, so you can play the role of the tragic mother. I tried to warn Jimmy, I tried to tell him what you're doing. Harming your own son. It's disgusting!”
“But I don't need to play the role of the tragic mother anymore to get attention, do I, James?” Catherine looked her father-in-law in the eye. “Now I'm the grieving widow.”
James growled, an unexpected snarl of frustration and fury in the back of his throat. Catherine feared for a moment that the man might leap forward, that he might actually wrap his hands around her throat. That would be a change of pace. Jimmy had always been so sloppy with his rage. His father, on the other hand, was cold.
“James, darling?” Maryanne was whispering. “Is she getting Nathan? You said it wouldn't happen. How can that happen?”
James put his arms around his shaking wife. He pressed her against him, comforting her with one hand, even as he continued to give Catherine a dark, angry stare.
“This isn't over,” he said clearly.
“It is today.”
Dr. Gerritsen had had enough of the family drama. The doctor was already gesturing Catherine back inside the curtained-off space. “I'm sorry, Judge Gagnon, but there is nothing I can legally do to stop Mrs. Gagnon from signing out her son. If circumstances change, I'll be happy to help you. But until then . . .”
Dr. Gerritsen shrugged; Catherine ducked around his arm. She didn't bother to flash James a triumphant smile over her shoulder. She didn't dare look at Maryanne's grieving face.
She simply bundled Nathan up in his coat and got the hell out of there.
N ATHAN WAS SILENT for the ride home. He sat in the back of the car, in his car seat, his right hand clutching the shoulder strap. Catherine thought there was something she should say. And then, for a while, she was simply as sad as Nathan that Prudence wasn't working today.
Pulling into a narrow parking space, she went around to get Nathan out of the back. The sun was shining, the afternoon surprisingly warm. She looked down the street and saw several of her neighbors out, walking kids, walking dogs. She wondered if it was strange that she didn't wave to her own neighbors. She wondered if it was stranger that none of them would've bothered to wave back.
Nathan piled out of the car, awkward in his heavy wool coat and new cowboy boots. The coat, a gift from his grandparents, was three sizes too big for him. The cowboy boots, purchased from the baby section of Ralph Lauren, at least fit.
Nathan wouldn't look up. Not down the street. Not at their townhouse. He put his hand in Catherine's obediently enough, but as they got closer and closer to the front steps, his feet began to drag. He shuffled along halfheartedly, kicking at stray leaves.
Catherine glanced up at their front door. She thought of the lobby behind it, then the stairs leading up to their unit. She thought of the master bedroom, with its torn-up carpet, splattered walls, and hastily rearranged furniture. Suddenly, she didn't want to go up those stairs either. She wished, for both of their sakes, that they could simply run away.
“Nathan,” she said quietly, “why don't we go to the park?”
Nathan looked up at her. He nodded so vigorously, it made her smile even as her heart ached. They set off down the street.
The Public Garden was crowded. Young lovers, dog walkers, urban families with stir-crazy kids. Catherine and Nathan walked along the water, where the swan boats paddled in the summer. She bought popcorn from a vendor and they amused themselves feeding the milling ducks. Finally they found a park bench at the edge of a clearing, where children the same age as Nathan, but twice his size, ran and tumbled and laughed in the now waning sunlight.
Nathan didn't even try to join them. At the age of four, these were the lessons he'd already learned.
“Nathan?” Catherine said quietly. “Now that you're home . . . some people are going to need to talk to you.”
He looked up at her, his face so pale, she felt compelled to run her finger down his cheek. His skin was cool and dry, the face of a boy who spent too much time indoors.
“Do you remember Thursday night?” she asked softly. “The bad night?”
He didn't say a word.
“Daddy had a gun, didn't he, Nathan?”
Slowly, Nathan nodded.
“We were fighting.”
Nathan nodded again.
“Do you remember what we were fighting about?” Catherine was holding her breath. This was the wild card, of course. How much did a frightened four-year-old remember? How much did he understand?
Reluctantly, Nathan shook his head.
Catherine released her pent-up breath. She said lightly, “All the people need to know, honey, is that Daddy had a gun. And that we were terribly scared. They understand the rest.”
“Daddy's dead,” Na
than said.
“Yes.”
“Daddy doesn't come home.”
“No, he won't come home again.”
“Will you?”
Catherine stroked his cheek again. “I will try to always come home to you, Nathan.”
“And Prudence?”
“She will come home, too.”
Nathan nodded gravely. “Daddy had a gun,” he repeated. “I was scared.”
“Thank you, Nathan.”
Nathan went back to watching the other kids. After a moment, he crawled onto her lap. After another moment, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rested her cheek against the top of his ruffling hair.
W HEN BOBBY RETURNED home, not one but three people waited outside his front door. And his day, he thought, just kept getting better and better.
“Shouldn't you be in church?” He asked ADA Rick Copley as he unlocked the door. Then he held up a hand. “Wait, I know: you already sold your soul to the devil.”
Copley scowled at Bobby's attempt at humor, then followed Bobby inside his first-floor unit. Behind Copley came D.D. Warren, careful not to look Bobby in the eye, and behind her came an investigator from the DA's office whom Bobby vaguely remembered from the initial shooting interrogation on Friday morning. He couldn't recall the man's name.
Investigator Casella was the magic answer, provided by Copley thirty seconds later as the ADA made introductions in the middle of Bobby's family room. The space was small, the furniture well broken in and currently cluttered with an assortment of empty take-out food boxes and piles of napkins. All three looked around, no one sure where to sit.
Bobby opted not to help them out. As far as he was concerned, these were not people he wanted getting too comfortable in his home.
He went into the kitchen, grabbed himself a Coke, and came back into the family room without bothering to ask if anyone else wanted something to drink. He pulled out a wooden kitchen chair and had a seat. After a moment, D.D. shot him a dry glance, then set about moving pizza boxes until the trio could plunk down on his ancient sofa. They promptly sank down four inches. Bobby used the Coke to cover his smile.
“So,” Copley said, trying to sound very authoritative for a man who now had his chin propped up on his knees. “We need to follow up on some questions from Thursday night.”
“By all means.” Bobby waited for Copley to start from the very beginning, making Bobby retell his story yet again and seeing what kind of details they could ferret out to trip Bobby up. Copley's first question, then, surprised him.
“Did you know that Catherine and Jimmy Gagnon were big supporters of the Boston Symphony?”
Bobby tensed. His mind was already racing ahead, and what he saw, he didn't like. “No,” he said carefully.
“They attended a lot of the concerts.”
“Is that right?”
“Fund-raisers, cocktail parties. The Gagnons were real active in those circles.”
“Good for them.”
“Good for your girlfriend,” Copley corrected.
Bobby didn't say anything.
“Susan Abrahms. That's her name, correct? Plays the cello with the orchestra.”
“We've dated.”
“We had a nice conversation with Susan this afternoon.”
Bobby decided to take a long sip of his Coke now. He wished it were a beer.
“You went to a lot of functions with her,” Copley said.
“We dated two years.”
“Seems strange to think that in all that time, at all those functions, you never met Catherine or Jimmy Gagnon.”
Bobby shrugged. “If I did, it never made an impression.”
“Really?” Copley said. “Because Susan remembered both of them just fine. Said they met on a number of occasions. Sounds like the Gagnons were regular groupies when it came to fine music.”
Bobby couldn't resist anymore. He glanced in D.D.'s direction. She not only refused to meet his gaze, but she was practically staring a hole through the carpet.
“Detective Warren,” Copley spoke up crisply, “why don't you tell Officer Dodge what else we learned from Susan Abrahms?”
D.D. took a deep breath. Bobby figured at this point, he already knew what was coming next. And now he remembered something else—why he and D.D. had broken up in the end. Because for both of them, the job always came first.
“Miss Abrahms recalls you meeting the Gagnons at a function eight or nine months ago. Catherine, in particular, asked you a lot of questions about your work with the ‘SWAT' team.”
“Everyone asks me about my work,” Bobby said evenly. “People don't meet a lot of police snipers. Particularly in those kinds of social circles.”
“According to Miss Abrahms, you made a comment later that you didn't like the way Jimmy was looking at her.”
“Miss Abrahms,” Bobby said with emphasis, “is a very beautiful and talented woman. I didn't care for how a lot of guys looked at her.”
“Jealous?” Investigator Casella spoke up.
Bobby didn't take the bait. Instead, he finished up his Coke, set it on the table, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Did Miss Abrahms mention how long this alleged encounter lasted?”
“Several minutes,” D.D. said.
“I see. So, let's think about this. In my day job, I probably meet fifteen new people a shift, so with twenty shifts a month, that's what? Three hundred new people a month? Which in the course of nine months, means twenty-seven hundred different names and faces crossing my path? Is it really so strange then, that I don't remember meeting two people I spoke with for a matter of minutes at some high-society function where frankly everyone in the room is unfamiliar to me?”
“Hard to keep all the rich pricks straight?” Investigator Casella deadpanned.
Bobby sighed. He was starting to get annoyed now. Not a good thing. “Never had a bad day at the office?” he asked Casella irritably. “Never said anything you later came to regret?”
“Susan Abrahms had some concerns about your relationship,” D.D. said quietly.
Bobby forced his gaze from Casella. “Yeah?”
“She said you'd seemed distant lately. Preoccupied.”
“This job will do that to you.”
“She wondered if you were having an affair.”
“Then I wish she would've said something to me.”
“Catherine Gagnon is a beautiful woman.”
“Catherine Gagnon has nothing on Susan,” Bobby said, and he meant it. At least he thought he did.
“Is that why you were bothered by Jimmy paying attention to her?” Copley spoke up. “Jimmy had money, looks. Let's face it—he was much more her type.”
“Come on, Copley. Did I kill Jimmy Gagnon because I was jealous of his attention toward my girlfriend, or did I kill Jimmy Gagnon because I was fucking his wife? Three days of questioning later, you can do better than this.”
“Maybe it's both,” Copley said crisply.
“Or maybe I honestly don't remember ever meeting either of the Gagnons. Maybe I went to those functions simply to support my girlfriend. And maybe I have better things to do with my time than remember every random stranger I've ever met.”
“The Gagnons make an impression,” Casella said.
Bobby was already waving him off. “Find me one person who ever saw me and Catherine Gagnon alone. Find one person who ever saw me and Jimmy exchanging words. You can't. Because it never happened. Because I really don't remember either one of them, and when I killed Jimmy Gagnon Thursday night, it was purely because he had a gun pointed at his wife. Take a life to save a life. Didn't any of you ever read the sniper's manual?”
He broke off in disgust. He got up, not caring anymore how agitated he appeared, and started to pace.
“Understand you've been drinking,” Copley persisted.
“One night.”
“I thought one night was all it took for an alcoholic.”
“I never said I was an alcoholic.�
��
“Come on, ten years without a drink . . .”
“My body is my temple. I take care of it; it treats me right.” He looked at the ADA's definitely softer middle. “You should try it sometime.”
“We're gonna nail her,” Copley said.
“Who?”
“Catherine Gagnon. We know that somehow, some way, she was behind it.”
“She arranged for me to kill her husband? Murder by police sniper? Come on . . .”
Copley had a calculating gleam in his eye. “You know, the Gagnons used to have a housekeeper.”
“Really?”
“Marie Gonzalez. Older woman, very experienced. Worked for the Gagnons for the past three years. Know why she was fired?”
“Since I didn't know they had a housekeeper, I obviously don't know why she was fired.”
“She fed Nathan a snack. Part of her tuna sandwich. The boy—who is twenty pounds underweight, by the way—was hungry. So Marie gave him some of her sandwich. Nathan wolfed down the entire half. And Catherine fired Marie the very next day. No one other than the nanny is supposed to feed anything to Nathan. Not even if he's starving.”
Bobby didn't say anything, but the wheels were once again turning in his mind.
“We're going through the other nannies now,” Copley said, almost casually. “So far, it's a string of strange and sordid stories. How Catherine would disappear for long periods of time. How no sooner did she reappear than Nathan would be sick again. Then there were the soiled diapers she demanded be kept in the refrigerator—”
“Soiled?”
“Filled with shit, to be exact. For six months, each and every one of them went straight into the fridge. Then there were the diets—lists of things he wasn't allowed to eat, lists of things he could only eat. This, combined with strange minerals and herbs and supplements and drugs. I tell you, Officer Dodge, I've been in the business fifteen years, and I've never seen anything like this. No doubt about it, Catherine Gagnon is abusing her son.”
“Do you have proof?”
“Not yet, but we'll get it. The security camera was her first mistake.”