by Lisa Gardner
He remembered what he'd told Dr. Lane only hours before: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.
“They took Jimmy's guns,” Catherine said abruptly, panting a little as Bobby rushed them downstairs. “He kept them in the safe. An officer took them all away.”
Except for the one she'd hidden in the bureau, Bobby thought, but now was not the time.
“I have three handguns and a rifle at home, but I'm pretty sure they already have officers positioned at my front door.” He frowned, hammered down another long flight, and found a solution. “My father. Pop. Maybe they haven't reached him yet.”
There was no cell signal in the stairwell. Bobby had to wait until they reached the lobby. He spotted two security officers positioned by the main doors. They didn't seem to be watching for anyone in particular, but Bobby didn't feel like taking a chance. He grabbed Catherine's hand and pulled her down the side hallway. They emerged out a smaller entrance into a busy side street. Perfect.
“Grab a cab,” he ordered.
“I have a car—”
“And the police know your plates.”
She went to work on the cab. He flipped open his cell phone and pressed the speed-dial button for his father. Pop picked up on the second ring.
“Pop, I need a favor.”
“Bobby? Two guys came here earlier. Looking, asking, making a lot of nasty suggestions.”
“I'm sorry, Pop. I can't talk, and I can't explain. I need a gun, though, and I don't have time to drive out to your place.”
“What do you want?” his father asked.
“Handgun. Nothing fancy, but plenty of ammo. Are they watching you?”
“You mean the two guys in suits across the street?”
“Shit.”
“They told me you're in over your head.”
“I'm still swimming.”
“I saw on the news. . . . They're flashing your photo, Bobby, saying you're wanted for questioning regarding the murder of a local ADA.”
“I didn't do it.”
“Never thought you did.”
“Do you trust me, Pop?”
“Never had a moment's doubt.”
“I love you, Dad.” And that comment, probably more than any other, scared them both.
“Where?” his father asked quietly.
Bobby thought of Castle Island.
Thirty minutes later, his father met them there.
M R. BOSU WAS also on the phone. Winding his car through the maze of back streets in downtown Boston, he was semi-lost, but not quite worried about that yet. The boy sat quietly in the front seat. He was a good boy, passive, obedient. He already reminded Mr. Bosu of his mother.
Trickster was on the boy's lap. Nathan was stroking Trickster's ears. Trickster was nuzzling Nathan's hand. Mr. Bosu smiled at them both indulgently as his call was finally picked up.
“Good afternoon!” he boomed into Robinson's cell phone.
“Who is this?” the man asked.
“Mr. Bosu, of course. And this is Judge Gagnon, I presume.”
The good judge, aka Benefactor X, was obviously flustered. “Who . . . what—”
“Do you prefer me to use the name Richard Umbrio? I would think on an open phone line, you wouldn't, but I don't care. Either way, you owe me money.”
“What are you talking about?” the judge demanded.
Mr. Bosu glanced over at the boy. Nathan was regarding him curiously. Mr. Bosu grinned. He meant it to be friendly. Maybe he'd spent too much time among felons after all, for the boy promptly turned away, focusing intently on the dog. Trickster licked his chin.
“You owe me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Mr. Bosu said matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“For your grandson.” Mr. Bosu had finally found the side street he wanted. He turned onto a row of grand old homes in the middle of Beacon Hill.
“That is not funny—”
“Nathan, my good boy, tell your grandfather hi.”
Mr. Bosu held out the phone. Nathan called out, “Hi.”
“You monster!” the judge boomed. “Where the hell are you?”
And Mr. Bosu said merrily, “Right at your front door.”
B OBBY'S FATHER WANTED to join them. Bobby lost ten precious minutes explaining to his father that it was too dangerous, that Pop was a custom pistolsmith and not a trained marksman, etc., etc., etc.
In the end, Bobby got rude, grabbing the gun, loading up Catherine, and climbing impatiently into the front seat of his father's car. Bobby drove away, with the image of his father standing lost and alone captured vividly in the rearview mirror.
Bobby's hands were tight on the wheel.
“Where do we start?” Catherine asked.
“Your father's house.”
“Do you think . . .”
“I'm sure Nathan is all right,” he tried.
She gave him a feeble smile, but the tears were building in the corners of her eyes.
“My father and I have always fought,” she said quietly. Then she turned her head away from him to cry.
F RANK MILLER'S HOUSE looked quiet from the front. Door was closed. Blinds were drawn. Nothing and no one stirred. Bobby cruised by once, saw no police in the neighborhood, and rounded the block.
He parked on the corner, instructing Catherine to take over the wheel. “You see him,” he said, no need to define him, “just hit the gas and get the hell out of here.”
“And if he has Nathan?”
“Then hit the gas and aim for clipping Umbrio's kneecaps. He'll go down, you can grab your son.”
She liked that idea. It infused color into her cheeks and put a spark in her eyes. She took over the driver's seat with a look of pure determination, while Bobby rechecked the gun his father had given him, then headed down the street.
The front door was unlocked. That gave him the first hint. Walking into the living room, the heavy, rusty scent told him the rest. He checked the whole house just to be sure. But it was empty. Umbrio had come and gone, leaving nothing but a corpse in his wake.
Bobby couldn't bear to look too closely at Catherine's father. The gray hair, the bent, sprawled form, already reminded him too much of Pop. He saw the shotgun on the floor and picked it up, recovering a box of shells from the yawning closet. The man had put up a fight. He'd held his ground for his grandson.
He'd tell that to Catherine, see if that gave her any measure of comfort for all the days to come.
Bobby exited with the shotgun, jogging back to the car, unbearably aware of time. Umbrio had now had Nathan for nearly an hour. Sixty whole minutes. There was no telling what a man like that could do with so much time.
But he didn't think Umbrio had killed the boy—at least not yet. If that's all Umbrio wanted, Bobby would've found Nathan's body with his grandfather's. No, when it came to Nathan, Umbrio had something much grander in mind.
And that thought left Bobby chilled to the bone.
He dialed 911 as he approached the car.
“Body found, male deceased, definite homicide,” he reported, and rattled off the address. He flipped his phone shut just as the 911 operator asked him to hold, opening the car door and sliding into the passenger seat.
Catherine looked at the shotgun, then at his face.
Her face was pale; she struggled briefly, then got it together. “Nathan?”
“No sign of him. I'm sure he's still all right.”
“Okay,” she said, but her voice was clearly strained, barely holding it together. She took a shaky breath. “Where?”
“I think it's time we go straight to the source.”
“Walpole?”
“No. Your father-in-law.”
M R. BOSU WAS extremely pleased with himself. He parallel-parked the car in front of the Gagnons' prestigious townhouse, address courtesy of Colleen's records, and prepared to hear the judge hastily renegotiate terms.
Instead, over the phone, the judge had started to chuckle.
“Let me get this straight,” the judge was saying, “you want two hundred and fifty thousand dollars or you'll do what?”
Mr. Bosu glanced at the boy next to him. Interestingly enough, he couldn't bring himself to say the words with the boy sitting right there.
“I think we both know what,” Mr. Bosu said primly. He peered out the window, scowling at the townhouse. Place looked dark. Deserted. For the first time, Mr. Bosu began to wonder about things.
“I don't care.”
“What?”
“You heard me. The boy was a problem I was going to have to take care of sooner or later. In a curious sort of way, you've now done me a favor and I thank you.”
“I don't want your gratitude,” Mr. Bosu said with a scowl. “I want your money!”
“I'm calling the police,” Judge Gagnon announced silkily. “I'm telling them you, a convicted sex offender, kidnapped my grandson. Then I'm bringing every FBI agent, state police trooper, and pissant local sheriff down on your ass. I'd start running, Mr. Bosu. You don't have much time left.”
The phone clicked off. Mr. Bosu sat there, stunned. What the hell? The man would even sell out his own grandson?
Mr. Bosu got out of the car. He forgot about Nathan sitting in the front seat, he forgot about the bloodstains on his shirt. He reached the front door of the townhouse and banged hard. Nothing. He rang the doorbell. Then, in a fit of temper, he banged and kicked on the solid oak door with all his might.
The house was empty. Abandoned. Deserted. As in, rats were always the first to abandon ship.
Mr. Bosu was breathing hard. His forearm throbbed from the earlier cut. He was also starting to feel nauseous, a junkie coming down hard from a fix.
He took a few seconds and thought long and hard about things.
So the judge was taking care of the judge. To hell with paying Mr. Bosu, and to hell with saving his grandson.
That was it. Mr. Bosu was officially pissed off. He didn't even care about the money anymore. Now, it was the principle of the thing.
Nobody crossed Mr. Bosu. Nobody.
Mr. Bosu returned to Robinson's car. The boy sat in the passenger seat, tickling Trickster's ears.
“Say, does your grandfather have a second home?” Mr. Bosu asked casually.
The boy shrugged, played with the dog.
“Anyplace he likes to go in particular? You know, his own special place?”
Another shrug.
Mr. Bosu grew impatient. “Nathan,” he said sternly, “I'm supposed to be returning you to your grandfather. Don't you want to see your grandfather?”
“Okay.”
“Then where the hell is he?”
The boy looked up at him. He said promptly, “At the Hotel LeRoux.”
Mr. Bosu smiled. He put the car in gear. “Nathan,” he said seriously, “when the time comes, I'll make sure you never feel a thing.”
I DON'T UNDERSTAND,” Catherine was saying. “You think my father-in-law hired Umbrio?”
“He used a middleman, Colleen Robinson, to make the arrangements. Umbrio got paroled in return for agreeing to perform a few favors.”
“So why am I still alive?”
“Because killing you isn't as important as discrediting you.”
“Come again?” She blinked her eyes.
“The judge hates you. Hates you for Jimmy, hates you for marrying into the family. But mostly, I think, he hates you for Nathan. As long as you continue to press about Nathan's health, you're on the verge of uncovering his and Maryanne's secret.”
“If I died, I wouldn't be a threat anymore.”
“No. But Dr. Rocco would be. And maybe your father would be. There would always be those who'd observe Nathan's poor health and wonder. Unless, of course, they already had a reasonable explanation for why Nathan was sick.”
“I was poisoning him,” she filled in. “I was a bad mom.”
“Exactly.”
“But once he won custody of Nathan . . .” She frowned. “Wouldn't the fact that Nathan didn't magically get better become a problem?”
“I don't think the judge planned on letting that become a problem,” Bobby said quietly.
“You think he would really harm his own grandson?”
“I think,” Bobby answered grimly, “the man may have already killed his own son.”
I T TURNED OUT a luxury hotel made a pretty good fortress. Sure, Mr. Bosu valet-parked his car. Sure, he strolled right in with Nathan, and even Trickster, because who was going to say no to a cute boy and his puppy?
That didn't solve his problem. He didn't know what room the judge was in, and the pretty young desk attendant was polite, but firm about the hotel's policy of not giving out such information. She could call Judge Gagnon for him, she could notify Judge Gagnon that he had guests, but without the judge's permission, she could not let the guests go to the judge.
Mr. Bosu had already determined another problem. According to the boy, the judge had described a luxury suite in the hotel. That meant the upper floors, which required a special keycard inserted into the elevator. Assuming the judge was staying in a penthouse suite, Mr. Bosu would not be getting up there any time soon.
It was perplexing. A dilemma, and Mr. Bosu was getting very tired now. He suddenly missed his nice clean bed at the Hampton Inn. Hell, he even missed his prison cot.
He and the boy walked outside, where Mr. Bosu had another Red Bull and contemplated things. The bloodstain on his shirt bothered him; the suspicious stare of the twerpy doorman bothered him. The whole fucking world bothered him.
Then Mr. Bosu had an idea.
He downed his Red Bull. He walked Nathan back into the hotel lobby and took him straight to the receptionist's desk.
“This is Nathan Gagnon, grandson of Judge Gagnon,” he announced in his most cordial voice. “If you call up, you'll find the judge is expecting him. Unfortunately, I've received a bad cut—” Mr. Bosu flashed his bloody arm, “and I need to seek medical attention. Do you have someone who could escort Nathan upstairs to his grandparents? They'd greatly appreciate the boy not being left alone.”
The receptionist smiled at him. “Of course. One minute, sir.”
She dialed the room. Mr. Bosu held his breath. Surely the good judge couldn't refuse his grandson, particularly if the boy was coming up alone.
“Mrs. Gagnon?” the receptionist said brightly. Mr. Bosu exhaled. The wife. Perfect. “Yes, we have a fine young man here, Nathan Gagnon. . . . Yes, your grandson. What a handsome boy, too. We'll send him right up with a bellhop. Do you know Nathan has a puppy? Not a problem, ma'am, but we do have a form we'll need filled out. Excellent. I'll send that up, as well. Thank you.”
The receptionist put down the phone, the perky smile still on her face. “Mrs. Gagnon is very excited to see her grandson. If you'd like to depart, sir, we can take it from here.”
Mr. Bosu graciously thanked the woman. He even shook Nathan's hand. “So happy I could get you to your grandparents, young man. The puppy's name is Trickster. Your mom wanted you to have him as a surprise.”
“Mommy?” the boy asked hopefully.
“Trust me, you'll be with her soon enough.”
This pacified the kid, and he nodded his head vigorously while clutching Trickster against his chest. Then the bellhop came over, admiring the fine boy, admiring the fine dog, and all was well.
They headed for the elevator. “The penthouse suite,” the bellhop was telling Nathan. “That sucker's bigger than my house. You're gonna love it up there.”
The elevator doors opened. Mr. Bosu turned. The receptionist was attending someone else, the bellhop was busy with Nathan. . . .
Mr. Bosu bolted for the stairs. He sprinted up three levels, bam, bam, bam, taking the stairs two at a time. Then he burst onto the third floor—blissfully empty—where he pounded the elevator button. The elevator came to an immediate halt.
The doors opened. The bellhop appeared surprised to see Mr. Bosu standing right there.
“Weren't you in the lobby—”
Mr. Bosu seized the young man by the shirt and jerked him into the hall. One quick snap and the man crumpled to the floor. Mr. Bosu grabbed the man's jacket, snatched the man's master key—a card hanging from a chain around his neck—and stepped back inside the elevator.
Nathan was staring at him. The boy's eyes were solemn and wide.
“My mommy warned me about men like you,” the boy said.
Mr. Bosu grinned his full, awful grin. “Yeah, I bet she did.”
E NTERING THE HOTEL LeRoux, Bobby watched for security guards while Catherine did the talking.
“James and Maryanne Gagnon,” she told the receptionist.
“They're expecting you?”
“Tell them it's about their grandson.”
“Nathan?” the receptionist asked brightly.
Catherine became hyperaware. So did Bobby. “You've seen Nathan?” Catherine asked sharply.
“Why, yes. Just ten minutes ago. One of our bellhops escorted him upstairs.”
“Was he with a man?” Bobby broke in. “Big, maybe looked like he'd been in a fight?”
“Yes, he mentioned he'd been hurt—”
They didn't wait to hear the rest. “That man is a convicted pedophile,” Catherine screamed. “He kidnapped my son earlier today. Call the police and get us upstairs!”
T HE RECEPTIONIST WAS flustered. She wanted to call for security. She wanted to dial the room. She needed permission, she needed help. She clearly didn't know what to do.
Bobby was already in front of the elevators, stabbing at the buttons, pacing wildly.
“Fine, call the room!” Catherine pleaded. “Dial the room number now. Get them on the phone, please, go ahead.”
The overwhelmed receptionist picked up the phone. She punched in a four-digit number. Catherine blatantly memorized it. Thirty seconds later, however, the receptionist was more confused than ever.
“No one's answering. I don't understand. Why, just a few minutes ago—”
A sudden, sharp scream. The elevator doors opened. A well-dressed man and woman came stumbling out.
“There's a body!” the woman wailed. “There's a body on the third floor.”