by Lisa Gardner
“Friday evening. When Nathan was admitted into the ICU. Afterwards, Dr. Rocco informed me he couldn’t be Nathan’s doctor anymore. The head of Pediatrics had asked him to remove himself from the case. Instead, he was referring me to a geneticist, Dr. Iorfino. We have an appointment for Monday.”
“And when did you make that appointment?”
“I didn’t make the appointment. Tony did.”
“Personal touch,” the blonde murmured with an arched brow.
“My son is very sick. He needs expert care. And in the medical field it takes an expert to get an expert. If I had called Dr. Iorfino, I would’ve been put on a waiting list. But Tony could get us right through. Maybe he doesn’t have the best ethics in his personal life, but Tony is a very good doctor; he’s always done right by my son.”
“Sounds to me like you still love him.”
“I loved my husband.”
“Even when he used you as a human punching bag? Even when he had a gun? Seems to me like you’re not making out too badly, Mrs. Gagnon. Now you get all the benefits of the house, the car, the bank accounts, without any of the expensive Jimmy baggage.” The blonde’s eyes were shrewd. “Why, there’s not even anyone around to accuse you of harming your son. You’re totally free and clear.”
Catherine stood up. “Get out.”
“We’re going to talk to Prudence, you know. And the nanny before her, and the nanny before her. We’re going to go all the way back, until we know every single thing that ever happened in this household.”
“Out.”
“And then we’re going to talk to Nathan.”
Catherine stabbed her finger at the door. The three finally rose. “Too bad about Dr. Rocco,” the blonde commented casually as they crossed the marble foyer. “Especially for his wife and kids.”
“What about Tony?”
“He’s dead, of course. Murdered last night. At the hospital.” The blonde stopped, staring hard at Catherine’s face. For a change, Catherine didn’t bother to shield her expression. She was honestly shocked. Then stupefied. Then, just plain terrified.
“How?” she murmured.
“Boo,” the blonde murmured, and Catherine froze.
The investigators passed through the doorway. At the last moment, the ADA turned.
“You ever hear of GSR?” Copley asked.
“No.”
“It’s gunshot residue. Anytime someone fires a gun, traces of GSR end up on their hands and clothing. Guess what we tested for at the morgue, Mrs. Gagnon? Guess what we didn’t find on your husband’s hands or clothing?”
Catherine didn’t say a word. Boo, she was thinking wildly. Boo.
The trio headed down the front steps. “One mistake,” Copley called back over his shoulder. “That’s all I need. One little mistake, Mrs. Gagnon. Then, you’re mine.”
Chapter
18
Sunday morning. The sun was shining, the air crisp with the promise of winter. Half of the pedestrians in Boston scurried from overpriced shop to overpriced shop, their heads tucked like turtles deep in the folds of their scarves, their hands crammed into the pockets of their coats. Not Mr. Bosu. He walked through the Public Garden with its grand old trees, no coat, no hat, no gloves. He loved this kind of weather. The scent of the decaying leaves. The last gasp of a fading winter sun.
When he was a kid, this had been his favorite time of year. He’d stay outdoors playing long after dark. His parents didn’t care. Being outside was good for the boy, his father would say, before burying himself once more in the daily paper.
Not a bad childhood. He really couldn’t complain. He had fond memories of G.I. Joe figurines and toy cement mixers. He rode his dirt bike, played well with the other children. Even had birthday parties in his mother’s gold-colored living room, decorated with the little orange and yellow flowers people thought were absolutely darling back then.
He heard it was all coming back in fashion now. Retro. That was the word. Mr. Bosu had been in prison just long enough for his childhood to once again become cool.
He wondered what would happen if he returned home. His parents probably lived in the same house on the same block; hell, maybe they even drove the same car. If it’s not broke, don’t fix it, the senior Mr. Bosu had always liked to say.
They never visited Mr. Bosu in prison. Not once. After the day that girl had taken the stand, pointed at Mr. Bosu, and said, “Yes, sir, that’s the man who grabbed me,” his parents hadn’t even attended the trial.
He supposed you could say he’d broken his parents’ hearts. People like them were supposed to have an ordinary son. One who would join ROTC, end up with a college degree and serve his country on weekends. Then he’d marry an ordinary girl, maybe a younger version of his mother, and she would stand in a vogue retro kitchen, whipping up retro casseroles while their two point two children played with retro toys out back.
Mr. Bosu’s fantasies were different. They involved a Catholic schoolgirl in a green plaid skirt and white knee-high socks. She would have her long dark hair tied back in a red bow. She would carry her schoolbooks tight against her just-budding chest. She would say “Yes, sir” or “No, sir.” She would have a tight virginal body, untouched by any man, and she would do whatever he wanted, how he wanted, when he wanted.
She would be his forever.
Mr. Bosu hadn’t been a dumb boy. He’d kept his fantasies to himself. When he was sixteen, he’d made his first attempt. Approached a girl in a playground, pretending to be looking for his younger sister. The girl hadn’t run away immediately, so he’d offered to push her on the swing. The feel of her small bony ribs beneath his hands, however, had led to consequences. His pants had been too tight, no way to hide the results. She’d gotten one look, started to scream, and run all the way home.
Later, her parents had approached his parents about his “inappropriate” behavior. He’d blushed, stammered, lied shamelessly that he’d actually been watching a blonde cheerleader walk by. Of course he hadn’t meant … He just didn’t know how to control … Oh gosh, he was just so, so sorry.
Boys will be boys, his father had said, shaking his head and reaching once more for his paper.
After that, he’d been more careful. Taking his parents’ car, driving far away from the neighborhood. He practiced and he learned. Nicer clothes were less threatening, particularly given his hulking size. A good story was important. Not candy, everyone warned their children about strangers bearing candy. Better to be looking for a lost sister, lost cat, lost dog. Something a child could relate to.
He learned, he perfected. And one day, he struck.
It was short, messy. Not at all like he’d pictured. Afterwards, he panicked. Didn’t know what to do with the body. Finally he’d weighted it down and driven all the way to the Connecticut border, where he found a river.
He’d returned home shaken, disturbed, and interestingly enough, remorseful. He’d watched the news for days, palms sweating, waiting to be discovered.
But nothing happened. Simply … nothing. And then the fantasies started again. He dreamed and he hungered and he wanted. Until one day, he’d turned down a street not far from his parents’ house, and there had been the girl. She’d been wearing a brown corduroy skirt instead of green plaid, but otherwise, she’d been close enough.
It had been surprisingly simple after that. He’d approached it a whole new way, and it had been satisfying. Right up until that moment when the girl had taken the witness stand.
He’d been young still. He saw that now. He’d been young and he’d made mistakes. Of course, he’d now had twenty-five years to learn better, and people who didn’t think you got an education in prison had obviously never been there.
Mr. Bosu wandered down Park Street until he found the giant Gothic cathedral he remembered from his youth. He sat outside on one of the wooden benches, next to an elderly woman who was feeding bread crumbs to the pigeons. She smiled at him. He warmly smiled back.
“Lovely mo
rning,” he said.
“It is, it is,” the woman said, and gave a little giggle.
Yesterday, he’d gone on an afternoon shopping binge, courtesy of Benefactor X. The oversized, slightly menacing man from Faneuil Hall was gone. In his place was a classy, middle-aged gentleman who obviously prided himself on being fit. Oh, the wonders of Armani and a decent haircut.
The old woman threw more crumbs at the fat pigeons waddling around their feet. Mr. Bosu tilted back his head and lifted his face to the sun. Damn, it felt good to be outside.
Presently, the church bells started to ring. Grand wooden doors were thrown open. Families poured down the front steps, first proud fathers, then harried mothers, and then finally screeching children.
Mr. Bosu opened his eyes. He admired dark-haired girls, their long lustrous locks tied back in big white bows. He smiled at the teeming throngs of little blonde princesses, all flouncy white dresses and high-polished Mary Janes. In the vast city block yawning in front of the church, parents were already deep in conversation with other parents while their children ran wild.
Here were five little girls playing tag. Here were two little girls swinging arms. Here was one little girl, already half unnoticed, chasing the scattering pigeons.…
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” the elderly woman said.
“Nothing so attractive on earth,” he assured her.
“Makes me remember my own youth.”
“Funny, mine too.”
He smiled once more at the woman. She looked a little puzzled, but smiled back. He got off the bench and walked into the sea of young, racing bodies, feeling the breeze of their quick passes like a tingle up his spine.
He walked to the front steps of the church, ascended to the two large doors, then turned and surveyed his kingdom.
People had a tendency to be wary in the city. But this was a particularly upscale area. A posh little island in the middle of an ocean of concrete. Besides, people grew lax in the comforting embrace of their church. They paid more attention to their earnest networking, or the contest over who was driving the right kind of car or drinking the right kind of coffee. They liked to believe they were keeping watch over little Johnnie or little Jenny out of the corner of their eye. But they weren’t. Children wandered away, particularly when their parents were talking to other adults.
Sometimes, they never wandered back.
Mr. Bosu felt a surge, sudden and unexpected. A fierce, rushing appetite that leapt up from his gut and demanded now, now, NOW. He leaned over the steps. He swept his gaze across the screeching, laughing, playing throngs. He was a hawk, circling in the sky. There, no, there, no. There, YES.
One single child. A little girl, maybe four years old, toddling off in pursuit of a dried leaf scattering in the wind. No parental gaze followed her progress. No doting sibling gave chase.
He could walk down the steps now. Moving smooth but casual. Place his bulk between her and the crowd. Herd her a little more right and she’d be behind a tree. Then one last look, left, right, wait for that go-feeling in his gut and scoop her up effortlessly. One blink of the eye and it would be over and done. Child Disappears in Broad Daylight, the headlines would read. Frantic Parents Desperately Search for Clues.
They would never find any. Not when it came to the incredible, powerful Mr. Bosu.
He was halfway down the stairs before he caught himself. His hands found the wrought-iron railing. With genuine effort, he forced himself to take one deep breath. Then another. Then another. Slowly, he relaxed his hands on the railing, his fingers opening up, his hands slowly returning to his sides.
He forced himself to recall last night, the rusty scent of blood, the feel of the blade in his hands, the genuine look of surprise in another, lesser human being’s face. It wasn’t the same, of course. But it had been more satisfying than he’d expected. Like a pity date. Not his type, not his first choice of entertainment, but action just the same.
Better yet, for the first time in his life, he’d been paid. Up front. In cash. Ten thousand dollars. When Mr. Bosu had been released from prison yesterday, a driver had been waiting for him out front. Mr. Bosu had gotten into the car. A suitcase was waiting for him in the back. Inside was a note, and plenty of cash. The note contained instructions, and with the note came a list. For each target, there was a dollar amount. Now, this was a decent system.
Of course, Mr. Bosu wasn’t as stupid as his mystery employer seemed to think. In the note, Benefactor X suggested that things would be easier in the future if Mr. Bosu opened a savings account. Money could be wired directly in, etc., etc. Benefactor X volunteered ways for Mr. Bosu to get ID. Benefactor X even supplied a list of banks.
Benefactor X was an idiot. Banks were monitored. Money transfers were traced. Worse, banks weren’t open on Sundays and Mr. Bosu wasn’t doing anything for free. He would stick to cash, thank you very much. Nice, thick bundles of dirty green he could strap to his stomach and spend to his heart’s content.
Mr. Bosu took the briefcase. His wordless driver dropped him off at Faneuil Hall, handing Mr. Bosu a cell phone containing preprogrammed numbers; that’s how they would keep in touch.
Mr. Bosu nodded a lot. He let the driver think he was grateful. Of course, Mr. Bosu knew exactly who his driver was. Most of the guys in the joint knew the go-between by reputation, and of course Robinson’s reputation was definitely no match for Mr. Bosu’s.
Mr. Bosu didn’t say anything, though. As he’d learned in prison, knowledge was power.
Mr. Bosu stuck his hands in his pockets. He started whistling as he sauntered down the church steps and walked one last time through the smorgasbord of running, happy, laughing treats. All in good time.
Now, he was off to find a puppy.
Chapter
19
“So how does this kind of thing work?” Bobby was sitting in a small cramped office in Wellesley. He counted four gray steel filing cabinets, one oversized oak desk, and about half a dozen cheap bookcases overflowing with legal reference texts and piles of brightly lettered manila folders. In the two-foot strip of wall space available between the teetering stacks of bureaucracy and the water-stained ceiling, two framed diplomas crookedly announced UNIVERSITY OF MASSACHUSETTS AMHERST and BOSTON COLLEGE.
Bobby tried to picture the office of the lawyers that were representing James Gagnon. It probably didn’t look much like this. For starters, he would bet the diplomas came from places like Harvard or Yale. That office also probably came with a receptionist, cherry-paneled conference room, and unbeatable skyline views of downtown Boston.
Harvey Jones, on the other hand, was essentially working out of the attic of an old hardware store. He was a one-man show who’d been practicing law for the past seven years. He had no partners. He had no secretary. Today, at least, he wasn’t even wearing a suit.
One of Bobby’s fellow cops had recommended the guy. And the minute Harvey had heard Bobby’s name, he’d agreed to meet with him. Immediately. On a Sunday. Bobby didn’t know if that meant good things or bad things yet.
“So,” Harvey was trying to explain to him now, “a clerk-magistrate hearing takes place in front of a judge in the Chelsea District Court. Basically, the plaintiff will bring forth evidence that probable cause exists that you committed a felony. Our job is to refute that fact.”
“How?”
“You’ll testify, of course, saying why you felt the situation justified the use of deadly force. We’ll bring in other officers who were present that night. The lieutenant in charge—what did you say his name was?”
“Jachrimo.”
“Lieutenant Jachrimo, we’ll want him to testify. Then any other officer who can independently corroborate that you had reason to believe Jimmy Gagnon was going to shoot his wife.”
“There isn’t independent corroboration. I was the first sniper deployed. No one else saw what I saw.”
Harvey frowned, made a note. “Aren’t snipers generally sent out in pairs? With a spotter, someth
ing like that?”
“We didn’t have enough manpower yet.”
More frowning, more notes. “Well, we can still go after two things. One, we’ll boost your credibility. Bring in the training you’ve done, have your lieutenant testify as to your expert skills. Establish that you are a well-trained, highly experienced police sniper, qualified to make tough judgment calls.”
Bobby nodded. He’d expected that much. Every training exercise performed by the STOP team was heavily documented for just this sort of thing—so someday, if necessary, their lieutenant could prove they were qualified to act as they’d acted. If it’s not documented, it didn’t happen, the rule of thumb went. Lieutenant Bruni made sure every last thing they did had the proper paper trail.
“Of course,” Harvey was saying now, “James Gagnon has politics on his side.”
“Being a judge?”
“Being a superior court judge,” Harvey said, and grimaced. “As the civil side of the court, a clerk-magistrate doesn’t spend a lot of time contemplating what may or may not entail criminal charges. That’s what the superior court does. So, think of it from the clerk-magistrate’s perspective—here’s a judge who’s an expert on criminal law testifying that he believes a felony took place. That’s going to carry a lot of weight for the clerk-magistrate. If the Honorable James F. Gagnon says it was murder—well then, it must be murder!”
“Wonderful,” Bobby muttered.
“But we still have some tricks up our sleeves,” Harvey said brightly. “We can hope for a decent ruling from the DA’s office—that they’ve investigated the incident and found the shooting to be justified. That would be huge. Of course,” he murmured now, “that’s probably why Gagnon filed the motion so fast. It’ll take weeks for the DA’s office to render an opinion, so Judge Gagnon will try to cram through this motion in a matter of days. Then we’re back to his word against your word, with no tie-breaker from the DA.”
“Can he move things that fast?”
“If he has the bucks to pay all the attorneys who’ll be working overtime, sure, he can do as he pleases. Of course, I’ll do what I can to delay. Then again …” Harvey looked around his crammed office and Bobby followed his gaze. One-man show versus hordes of top-billing legal eagles. Attic space versus an entire wood-paneled law firm. They both got the picture.