by Lisa Gardner
Instead, his phone rang. He picked it up and he wasn't even surprised anymore.
“This is Catherine,” a husky female voice whispered straight out of his dreams and into his ear. “Come over right away. I think someone's broken into my house. Please, Officer Dodge, I need you.”
Then the phone went click and the sound of dial tone filled Bobby's ear.
“Intruder, my ass,” Bobby muttered, but then he shrugged. The call solved one problem for him. Now he had an excuse to get his gun.
D RIVING BY THE Gagnon residence, Bobby expected to feel a creepy sense of déjà vu. He didn't. Thursday night it had been all lights, cameras, action. Now, nearly midnight on a school night, the dignified brick neighborhood was quiet, discreet, a proper lady gone to bed with curlers in her hair.
He looked around for a patrol car and was slightly surprised none were about. He would've bet money Copley was having the BPD keep close tabs on Mrs. Gagnon.
Bobby parked twelve blocks away, at the movie theater by Huntington Ave. He made a note of the late shows and when they started. The cool, detached part of his mind found it interesting that he was already building an alibi.
Making the dozen-block hike to Back Bay, the saner part of his mind tried to reason with him. What was he doing? What did he honestly think was going to happen? He didn't buy Catherine's intruder story for a minute. Instead, he was thinking of what Harris had told him. She's going to call you again. She's going to tell you that you're the only hope she has left. She's going to beg you to help her. It's what she does, Officer Dodge; she destroys men's lives.
Would she try to seduce him? Did he care if she did? His career was already in the toilet. He'd had his first drink in ten years and just this evening he'd officially ended things with the woman who was probably the best damn thing that had ever happened to him.
He was footloose and fancy-free. He was feeling reckless, and yeah, more than a little self-destructive. A sordid rendezvous sounded just about right. He could already recall the warm, cinnamony scent of her perfume. The way her fingernails had felt, raking lightly across his chest.
It didn't take too much for his mind to fill in the rest. Her long, pale legs wrapped around his waist. Her strong, lithe body writhing beneath his own. He bet she moved like a pro, moaned like a pro. He bet she was the type of woman who'd do just about anything.
So Harris had been right all along—Jimmy'd been dead only four days, and Bobby already couldn't wait to fuck his wife.
He walked into the neighborhood, head down against the cold, hands thrust deep into the front pockets of his down jacket. A dozen bad seduction scenes ran through his mind, each more sordid than the last.
Then he looked up, saw the fourth-story window, and felt the air freeze in his chest.
Holy shit!
Bobby started to run.
C ATHERINE WAS DOWNSTAIRS in the lobby. She was curled up at the base of the townhouse's elevator, Nathan pressed tight against her chest, his face buried against her neck. Bobby barely had time to register the irony of it—that this is how Catherine and Nathan had looked on Thursday night, that every time he met this supposed child abuser, she was cradling her son—then he was vaulting for the stairs to her second-story unit, gun in hand.
“You hear gunshots, get out. Head straight for your neighbors', bang on the door, and tell them to call the cops.”
He didn't wait to see if she nodded, but bounded up the stairs.
Bursting low and fast through the open front door, he came to an immediate crouching halt beside a fake ficus tree, breathing hard, realizing he was moving too fast, too heedlessly, and now trying to regroup. Face-to-face confrontation was really no different than sniping. The winner was usually the guy who could control his adrenaline the best.
Bobby took another deep breath and steadied his nerves. He'd never been inside the Gagnons' townhouse. Four stories, he'd been told on Thursday night. The Gagnons occupied the top four stories of a five-level townhouse, with the top story being converted to cathedral ceilings.
So he needed to head up.
He gazed around the marble-tiled foyer, identifying what appeared to be a formal parlor to his left and a vast, open expanse of family room and kitchen directly ahead. His back pressed against the wall, two hands holding his nine-millimeter dead center against his chest, he approached the parlor first.
He led with his gun, ducking in low and sweeping the dark, shadowy space. Finally satisfied that it was empty, he departed, closing the door, then moving the fake tree in front of it: he didn't want someone doubling back behind him.
He hit the family room and kitchen next, though he was relatively sure that area would be secure. Too many lights, too much vast, open space. If someone was still in the townhouse, they wouldn't hide here.
For protocol's sake, he cleared the pantry, the walk-in closet, and the laundry room. That left him with the stairs.
He could smell it now. Wafting down the dark, shadowed space. No lights here. Just steps leading to a thicker gloom, and thanks to the unmistakable odor, a bitter, unhappy end.
His heart was pounding again. His palms sweating. He turned his focus inward. Part of the moment, but outside the moment. A predator on a trail. A calm, well-oiled machine doing what it was trained to do.
He drifted up the stairs silently, patient footstep after patient footstep. He came to a small, dark landing. Closed doorway to his left. Open doorway straight ahead. He went through the open doorway first, the smell noticeably fading as he entered the room. He didn't snap on the overhead light—the sudden rush of illumination would leave him exposed—but instead used the dim light seeping through two windows to make out his surroundings. It was a small living suite: bathroom, bedroom, playroom. Nathan's space, judging by the murals of cowboys and bucking broncos decorating the wall. He checked the closet, checked the shower, even thought of the toy chests.
Finally satisfied that no intruder lurked in the shadows, he picked up a discarded shirt of Nathan's and hung it on the doorknob as he shut the door behind him.
Closed-door time. A little riskier, but he was finding the zone now, each movement smoother and more controlled than the last. Go low, turn sideways to present less of a target, open the door and slide inside in one fluid motion.
Another suite of rooms, equally dark. Strictly utilitarian now. Queen-sized bed, old eighties loveseat, hand-me-down bedroom furniture. The nanny's quarters, he'd bet. Functional, but not fancy. He was almost sorry he didn't find anything here. Because that left only one place. The vaulted fourth floor. The infamous master bedroom.
Very carefully, Bobby headed up the stairs.
The smell was unmistakable now. Sharp, acrid. Bobby's gun had slipped lower. He wasn't holding it as tightly. Somehow, he didn't think he was going to need it anymore. What had happened in the master bedroom was all about presentation. That's what he'd seen from the street.
The door was wide open. No overhead lights. But candles. Dozens and dozens of flickering little candles, all framing the scene.
The body hung from the rafters in front of where the glass sliders used to be. The plastic had been removed, letting in the breeze. The candles flickered. The body swayed creakily.
Bobby walked around. And the pale, stricken face of Prudence Walker slowly twisted into view.
I NEED TO call it in.”
Bobby and Catherine were speaking in hushed tones in the parlor. Bobby had shut up the master bedroom. Then, after a second pass through the residence, he'd escorted Catherine and Nathan back inside; the BPD detectives were going to want to question them at the scene.
Now, Nathan sat in the living room, staring slack-jawed at the TV as his eyelids slowly began to droop. The kid would be asleep in a matter of minutes. Better for him. Better for all of them.
“I don't understand. Prudence hanged herself?”
“So it would appear.”
Catherine was still bewildered. “Why would she do that?”
He hesitat
ed. “There was a note,” he said at last. “She claimed she was despondent over Jimmy's death.”
“Oh, please! Pru didn't give a rat's ass about Jimmy. And he certainly didn't pay attention to her. Let's just say they weren't each other's type.”
“Are you saying . . . ?”
“Pru was a lesbian,” Catherine supplied impatiently. “Why do you think I hired her? Anyone else, no matter how old, always ended up in Jimmy's bed, if only just for sport.”
Bobby sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. Sighed again. “Shit.”
“There's more in the note, isn't there?”
“It says she couldn't go on living, knowing who really killed Jimmy.” He looked Catherine in the eye. “Her note very clearly targets you.”
Catherine expelled her opinion of that in one simple word: “James!”
“You think your father-in-law killed your nanny?”
“Not personally, of course, don't be stupid. But he hired someone, or hired someone to hire someone. That's the way he always works.”
“You're accusing a judge of murder?”
“Of course I am! You don't understand. This is perfect for him. The police come, they read the note, and they arrest me. Then James turns up just in time to take custody of Nathan.”
Bobby tried to sound reasonable. “Mrs. Gagnon—”
“Catherine! I am not my mother-in-law.”
“Look, the judge has already started legal action against you. I think we both can agree that given his money and connections, it's only a matter of time before he wins. Why would he even bother to take a chance with murder?”
“So he can have Nathan tonight.”
“Mrs. Gagnon—”
“Catherine! You don't know what he's like. James wants total, utter control. Of the money, of Nathan, of me. Who do you think told Jimmy I was abusing Nathan? Who did you think probably first suggested divorce? The judge has never liked me. Maryanne has never liked me. And now they're going to take Nathan, and they're going to get all the money, and I'll have nothing! I'll be all alone.”
Catherine's gaze took on an unhealthy light. He had only a second's warning, then she was across the room, striding toward him. Her touch was light, yet the minute her thumb came to rest in the open V of his shirt, his body went hard and the air froze in his lungs.
She reached down and very deliberately raked her nails across his thigh.
“I can do things,” she murmured. “Things you've only watched in cheap pornographic movies. Tell me the truth, Officer Dodge: Aren't you tired of the same old, same old? Haven't you always wondered what it would be like to meet a woman with whom you no longer had to pretend?
“Want to rip open my sweater and pinch my nipples? Do it. Want to bite my neck, pull my hair? I don't mind. You don't even have to call me later or make fake proclamations of love. You can take me right here and now, we'll do it doggy style on the floor, or I can bend over on the couch, or maybe you don't want to fuck at all. Maybe you're more oral. That's fine by me. Or maybe”—her throaty voice changed, grew more calculating—“you'd prefer a fantasy.”
Her hand tightened suddenly on his crotch, squeezing his balls. He flinched like an uninitiated schoolboy, then, in the next instant, surged against her touch. She laughed huskily, her left hand stroking him hard while her right hand feathered back his hair.
“Would you like the sweet Catholic girl? I'll wear the plaid skirt and knee-high socks. You can have the ruler. Or do you like wild and wicked? Black leather, stiletto boots, cowhide whips. Ever done a sixty-nine? Ever gone round the world? Tell me, Officer Dodge, what do you secretly dream about?”
He said, “Stop.”
She merely laughed and worked him harder. “Oooh, it must be something very special. Bestiality maybe? I can put on a horse tail, utter a few good neighs while you mount. Or is it worse than that? Homoerotic? Or maybe . . . Some men like it when I reenact for them. Would you like that, Officer Dodge? I can act out for you every single thing he ever made me do. I'll be the little girl and you can be the pedophile.”
He didn't get it at first. He was too lost in the moment, the darkness in her finding an unexpected match in the darkness in him. He did want to rip off her clothes. He wanted to throw her down. He wanted to possess her in a way that was violent and raw. He felt as if he'd been pretending his entire life, and only now, in this moment, did he finally feel an emotion that was real.
But then, the full meaning of her words penetrated. A shudder moved through him, cold as ice. He grabbed her right hand, grabbed her left, and twisted them behind her back.
“Don't,” he said harshly.
“Ooh, you do like it rough.”
“Catherine, what happened to you . . . it wasn't your fault.”
Her eyes widened. In the shadowed room he could see her pupils grow large. She jerked savagely out of his grip. Then she slapped him.
“Don't talk about things you know nothing about!”
Bobby didn't say anything. He was breathing hard. So was she. She spun away from him, walking haughtily across the space. Her gray sweater fell off her shoulder, exposing the black lace of her lingerie. She tugged at the fabric impatiently, still not meeting his eye.
There was something he should say right now, but he couldn't get the words out. He was too rattled, seeing not the woman in front of him, but the little girl who'd been trapped down in the dark.
The desire was long gone now. He felt drained, almost detached. Harris had been right. The little girl who had been cast down into that pit was not the same girl who had finally crawled her way to the top.
“Fine,” Catherine announced crisply from across the room. “You don't want to play nice, I won't play nice. Call the police. By all means, tell them to come here. Let them see you in my home. I'll confess that we're lovers. Have been for months. The whole shooting, in fact, was your idea. Jimmy didn't even have a gun. I had it. I fired the warning shots for the neighbors to hear. Then you showed up, claimed he had a gun, and blew him away. It'll be your word against mine, Officer Dodge. How do you feel about doing twenty-five to life?”
“By tomorrow at five p.m.,” Bobby said steadily, “if I don't tell the world that you were threatening your husband on Thursday night, Judge Gagnon has promised to put me in jail.”
Catherine chewed on her bottom lip furiously. “I'll tell them Prudence was sleeping with you, that's why she hanged herself!” She stabbed her finger at him. “You! You're the one she alludes to in the note. You're the one she knows killed Jimmy, and it broke her heart because you're the love of her life.”
“That story would work better if Prudence had hanged herself.”
“What?”
He finally took pity on her. “There's no bruising around her throat. No burn marks from the rope, no broken fingernails from frantic clawing at the knot. Hanging's messy business. Prudence is too clean.”
“I don't . . .”
“Someone killed her. Most likely snapped her neck. Then brought her to your bedroom and set the stage.”
Catherine paled. She swayed slightly on her feet. “Boo,” she murmured. “Boo.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“The point is, Catherine, I saw that right away. The BPD detectives will, too.”
“What if they think I killed her?”
“Prudence had thirty pounds on you. There's no way you single-handedly strung her from the rafters.”
“What about the note?”
“If the hanging's not a suicide, then the note's not a suicide note. By definition, all of its contents are in doubt.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice.
“Prudence was murdered, Catherine. It's time to call the cops.”
He headed out of the parlor toward the family room, where he'd seen a phone. Catherine stopped him halfway through the doorway.
“Bobby . . .”
He turned. For the first time since he'd met her, she appeared genuinely uncertain, genuinely fr
agile.
He regarded her levelly, as curious as anyone what she would do next. She was cold and calculating, no doubt about it. If he hadn't told her the truth about the nanny's death, she would've sold him out. Maybe, in time, she still would. But he couldn't bring himself to hate her. He kept seeing that little girl again, which was maybe her biggest trick. She could play the victim, even while staging her next plan of attack.
“You understand . . .” She gave up on the apology, waving her hand instead. “I can't lose Nathan. I can't.”
“Why'd you fire the housekeeper for feeding him?”
She didn't seem surprised he'd heard the story. “Tony Rocco had ordered a strict diet—no wheat, no dairy. Dairy by-products are in everything from cereal to tuna fish. It was simpler to order people not to give him snacks. Unfortunately, not everyone saw it that way.”
“And the poopy diapers in the fridge?”
“Fecal matter collections to rule out cystic fibrosis. Jimmy kept throwing them out, however, so we had to do it many times.”
“People say the boy is sicker when you're around.”
She said tiredly, “Nathan is sick all the time, Bobby. Maybe people just notice it more when they have someone around to blame.”
“So he really is sick?”
“Yes.”
“But Jimmy didn't believe you.”
“No. Jimmy's parents told him I was the root of all evil, and as time passed, Jimmy loved me less and believed them more.”
Bobby still had to think about it. “All right,” he said quietly, and went to find a phone.
D .D. WASN'T HAPPY to see him again. He'd called her direct and she was on-scene in twenty minutes, wearing a leather jacket, stiletto boots, and a scowl. The crime-scene techs followed close on her heels.
“You're a fuckin' idiot,” she growled as she stormed through the door. “One suicidal fuckin' idiot.”
“Careful. Kid.” Bobby jerked his head toward the front parlor, where Catherine now had Nathan fast asleep in his nest of pillows. Bobby didn't know how the kid could sleep through all the chaos, but then, he didn't know anything about kids.