Alone

  They were baiting him again. He still couldn't stop himself from asking, “The security camera?”

  “For the master bedroom,” D.D. supplied. “It was turned off Thursday night. Except according to the security company, that's not possible.”

  “I don't get it,” Bobby said honestly, finally standing in one place and rubbing the back of his neck.

  “The security camera in the master bedroom was set to turn off at midnight; instead, it magically shut down at ten p.m. Catherine gave us some song and dance about the control panel messing up the time. But we talked to the security company. Tuesday, when Jimmy filed for divorce, he contacted the company directly. He told them he had a situation at home—he wanted to be able to monitor the rooms without someone manually overriding the cameras. So the security company reset the whole system, then gave him a new code. As of Tuesday, the control panel was in proper working order, and more importantly, the only person who could alter the system was Jimmy Gagnon.”

  “So he shut off the camera in the master bedroom?”

  “No,” Copley said. “He didn't. She did.”

  “But you just said she couldn't—”

  “She couldn't. Which I bet you anything she didn't know, until ten o'clock Thursday night, when her plan went into play. I bet she stood in front of that control panel for ten minutes, trying to figure out why she couldn't override the system, and slowly getting desperate. She has to be in the bedroom. You of all people should know why.”

  Bobby opened his mouth to protest, but then abruptly, he got it. He got the whole sordid theory. He shut up and simply waited for Copley to finish his spiel.

  “You had to be able to see them, Officer Dodge. You had to be able to see Jimmy, who has no history with firearms, suddenly threaten his wife and child with a gun. The big questions, of course, are what got him going, and what—or who—put that gun in his hand. Now that's the kind of stuff Catherine can't afford for us to see. That's the kind of stuff she doesn't want caught on their home security system. So it comes to her. She advances the control panel's clock two hours, and boom, her work is done. The camera thinks it's midnight, and automatically shuts off. She's clever, I'll give her that. Almost too clever for her own good.”

  Copley switched gears. “Did you mean to help her, Officer Dodge? Were you just flirting a little at a cocktail party, bragging about your life with the STOP team, trying to make yourself sound good? Or did it go deeper than that? Few little rendezvous later, maybe this whole thing was actually your idea.”

  “For the last time, I don't remember ever talking to her!” Bobby shook his head, frustrated, fed up. He couldn't even bring any kind of concert event into focus in his mind. Frankly, the functions bored him. He attended on autopilot, pasting on a smile, shaking hands, and counting down the minutes until the evening was done and he could go home, take off the penguin suit and get Susan into bed.

  But then, all of a sudden, he did remember something. “What's the most common kind of call for a team like yours? Bank robberies, hostage situations, escaped felons?”

  “Nah. Around here it's mostly domestics. Drunk guy gets all pissed off and starts threatening his own family.”

  “And that's a SWAT call?”

  “If the guy is armed, you bet it is. It's called a domestic barricade, where the family members are considered hostages. We take those calls very seriously, especially if there are reports of shots fired.”

  It had been a Mardi Gras party, with all the symphony patrons floating around in elaborately feathered masks. Jimmy and Catherine Gagnon had stopped by to congratulate Susan on her performance. Catherine had had her black hair piled on top of her head and was wearing a formfitting gold dress and exotic peacock mask. At first glance, Bobby had been aware of a certain visceral-level response to the stunning costume. Then he'd been too busy watching Jimmy devour Susan with his eyes to pay Catherine much attention.

  He'd ended up breaking off the conversation abruptly, leading Susan away with some flimsy excuse or another. Later, they'd shaken their heads at Jimmy's obvious display, feeling that vague sense of moral superiority one couple gets when they meet another couple who is obviously more glamorous, more successful, and more fucked up.

  Bobby hung his head. Ah shit, he did not want to remember this now.

  “We're going to get her,” Copley repeated. “And you know Catherine's not the kind of woman to take the fall. First sign of real danger, and she's going to cry me a river. You don't want to get caught in that deluge, Officer Dodge.”

  “Got a deadline?” Bobby shot back, stung. “Let me guess. It's tomorrow by five.”

  Copley scowled at him. “Now that you mention it—”

  “Yeah, well, there we go. Tomorrow it is. I'll give you a call.” Bobby gestured them up, off his dilapidated sofa and out his front door. D.D. was regarding him strangely. He wouldn't look her in the eye.

  “One last thing,” Copley said, halting in the door frame. “Where were you last night, between ten p.m. and one a.m.?”

  “I was killing Tony Rocco, of course.”

  “What—”

  “I was sleeping, you piece of shit. But thanks for insulting me in my own home. Get out.”

  Copley was still in the doorway. “This is serious business—”

  “This is my life,” Bobby said and slammed the door.

  R OBINSON MADE THE mistake of answering the phone. Not a good thing these days. Now Robinson had to deal with the caller, and the caller was not happy.

  “His instructions were to make it look like an accident or, at the very least, random bad luck—say a carjacking. Carving someone up with a butcher knife does not appear accidental!”

  “I told you I couldn't control him.”

  “The police are crawling all over this. That's going to make things a goddamn mess.”

  “I don't think he's worried.”

  “Why? Because he's the world famous ‘Mr. Bosu'? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It's a piece of exercise equipment.”

  “What?”

  “Both Sides Up ball,” Robinson supplied. “BOSU ball. It's flat on one side, domed on the other. You balance on it to do squats, or place the domed side down for push-ups. Makes for a good workout inside a confined area.”

  “You're telling me I've hired a man who thinks he's a piece of exercise equipment?”

  Robinson said seriously, “I'm telling you you've hired a man who doesn't mind pain.”

  The caller was silent for a moment. So was Robinson.

  “Is he prepared for the next assignment?” the caller asked finally.

  “Working on it now. Of course, there's been a minor wrinkle.” Robinson spoke carefully.

  “Minor wrinkle?”

  “Mr. Bosu has some new terms: Instead of ten thousand dollars for the new job, he expects thirty.”

  The caller actually laughed. “He does, does he? The man just fucked up his very first assignment.”

  “I don't think he sees it that way.”

  “Did he at least open a bank account?”

  “Mmm, no.”

  “No?”

  “Mmm, he prefers cash.”

  “Oh, for the love of God. You tell Señor Psycho a few things for me. One, I don't have that kind of cash lying around. Two, he'll get ten thousand dollars and not a penny more. Frankly, he should be happy I'm willing to pay that much, given that we both know I'm only asking him to do something he already wants to do.”

  “I don't think he's into negotiation.”

  “Life is negotiation.”

  Robinson took a deep breath. No way around it now. “Mr. Bosu sent a note. It says if you want results, it will cost you thirty grand. It says if you don't want results, it will still cost you thirty grand. It says Mr. Bosu knows where you live.”

  “What? You haven't told him anything, have you? I thought you picked him up in a rental car, gave him a stolen cell phone. There should be no way for him to trace—”

 
“I think he's bluffing. But I can't be positive. I have my contacts. Maybe he has his.”

  The caller was quiet, breathing hard. Angry? Or fearful? It was hard to be sure.

  “I would pay him the money,” Robinson said very seriously. “Or, I would get the hell out of town.”

  The caller took a noisy breath. “Tell him there will be no new terms. Tell him I got him out of jail, I can sure as hell put him back.”

  Robinson was silent for a moment.

  “What?” the caller prodded.

  “Well, to put him back in jail . . . you kinda gotta catch him first.”

  Another pause.

  “Shit,” the caller said.

  “Shit,” Robinson agreed.

  M R. BOSU HAD a puppy. He'd had to buy it from a pet store, not his first choice but about all that was available to him on a Sunday afternoon. The shop, with its crowded shelves, cheap linoleum floors, and vaguely antiseptic smell, had given him the heebie-jeebies. Given that just forty-eight hours ago he'd been a victim of incarceration, looking at a bunch of puppies and kitties plopped down in tiny wire cages hadn't done much for him either.

  He'd planned on hanging out for a while. Pet stores on a Sunday afternoon, filled with fluffy kitties, soft puppies, and oodles of milling kids, what wasn't to love? But the dispirited air of the place made him cut and run.

  Mr. Bosu bought a beagle-terrier mix. The tiny, ecstatic puppy was all white with giant brown patches over each eye, dangling brown ears, and thumping brown tail. He was the cutest little bugger Mr. Bosu had ever seen.

  For his new charge, he acquired a leash, a small carrier that resembled a duffle bag, and about five dozen chew toys. Okay, so maybe he'd gone overboard. But the puppy—Patches, maybe?—had gnawed on his chin and nuzzled his neck so enthusiastically, Mr. Bosu pretty much bought anything and everything the puppy so much as sniffed.

  Now he had the puppy on the leash and they were both trotting merrily down Boylston Street. The puppy—Carmel? Snow?—appeared absolutely thrilled to be out in the fresh, fall air. Come to think about it, Mr. Bosu was happy, too.

  Mr. Bosu and the puppy—Trickster, maybe? Come on, how could you have a puppy without a name?—reached the street corner. Mr. Bosu got out the map tucked into his pocket. A woman paused beside him. She was blonde, beautiful, and dressed entirely in the fall collection of Ralph Lauren. She gave him a stunning smile.

  “What a beautiful puppy!”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Bosu looked around the woman. No kids in tow. He was disappointed.

  “What's its name?”

  “I just bought him fifteen minutes ago. We're still getting to know one another.”

  “Oh, he's adorable.” The woman was squatting down now, oblivious to the people trying to walk all around them. She scratched the dangling brown ears. The puppy closed his eyes in true puppy bliss. “Your first dog?” the woman asked.

  “I had another when I was a kid.”

  “Do you live in the city?”

  “At the moment.”

  “It won't be easy to have a puppy in an apartment.”

  “Fortunately, my job allows me to make my own hours, so it won't be so bad.”

  “You're really lucky,” the woman gushed. She was eyeing his Armani sweater and obviously liking what she saw. He flexed just for the hell of it, and her smile grew. “What do you do?”

  “Kill people,” the man said cheerfully.

  She laughed, a full, throaty sound. He bet she practiced that at night, just for guys like him.

  “No, really,” she said.

  “Yes, really,” he insisted, but then softened the words with a smile. “I would tell you more,” he said, “but then I'd have to kill you, too.”

  He watched her work it out. Was she amused, frightened, or confused? She glanced at his Armani sweater again, then the puppy—Trickster, he was starting to like Trickster—and decided to go with amused. “Sounds exciting. Very hush-hush.”

  “Oh, it is. And you?”

  “Recently divorced. He had money, now I'm spending it.”

  “Congratulations! No kids to worry about?”

  “Fortunately not. Or maybe unfortunately. There's a lot more money in child support.”

  “Indeed unfortunate,” he agreed. Her eyes were warm, practically glowing as they caressed his chest.

  “Maybe we could have dinner sometime,” he said. Those were the magic words. The woman whipped out a card with her name and number like a seasoned pro. He slid it into his pocket and promised that he would call her.

  Trickster was now peeing on a newspaper stand. Not quite so attractive, so Mr. Bosu tugged on the puppy and they headed on their way. He eyed the map again. Six blocks later, they were there.

  It was a lovely street, tiny, tucked deep within a maze of roads in downtown Boston. Clearly residential here. The lower level offered a corner grocer, florist, a tiny deli. Upstairs were the apartments. He counted from left to right until he found the number he was looking for. Then he eyed his notes once more.

  Okay, all was well.

  He found a bench by the corner grocer. He tapped the empty place beside him and Trickster jumped up, curling up beside his leg. The puppy made a long, soft sigh, obviously winding down from another hard session of busy puppy work.

  The man smiled. He still remembered his first dog, Popeye. A cute little terrier his father had brought home reluctantly from some guy at work. Neither of his parents had been into dogs, but a boy needed a dog, so they brought home a dog. Mr. Bosu was given its complete care and his mother learned to sigh and blink hard when Popeye chewed up her favorite shoes, then went to work on the plastic-covered sofa.

  Popeye had been a good dog. They'd run together through the neighborhood, playing endless games of fetch and diving through big piles of leaves.

  Mr. Bosu knew what people expected of a guy like him, but he'd never hurt his dog. Never even thought about it. In the silent, little house where he grew up, Popeye had been his best friend.

  It lasted five years, until the day Popeye rushed into the street after a squirrel and got flattened by Mrs. Mackey's Buick sedan. Mr. Bosu remembered Mrs. Mackey's horrified scream. Then watching his little dog twitching in the throes of death. There had never even been a question of bringing Popeye to the vet. It had been that bad.

  Mr. Bosu had wrapped Popeye in his favorite T-shirt. Then he'd dug a hole in the backyard, burying his dog himself. He hadn't cried. His father had been very proud of him.

  Mr. Bosu went to bed early that night, but never slept. He lay wide-eyed in his twin-sized bed, wishing his dog would return to him. Then he had an idea.

  He left the house shortly after one a.m. It didn't take him long. People parked their cars in the street, and in a neighborhood like his, no one ever locked the doors. He popped the hood. He used a screwdriver. Punched a few holes. In the end, it was simple and neat.

  They said Mrs. Mackey never saw it coming. One minute she was braking for the intersection, the next she was sailing right through the stop sign. The oncoming traffic nailed her at thirty miles an hour. Gave her a concussion and broke several of her ribs, not to mention her hip.

  Didn't kill her though. Damn Buick.

  Still, it wasn't a bad effort from a twelve-year-old. Of course, he'd gotten much better since then.

  Now Mr. Bosu eyed the apartment window up on the second floor. Still no sign of movement. That was okay. He could wait.

  He leaned back against the bench. He closed his eyes against the warm sun. He let out a long, low sigh, very similar to Trickster's. Then he scratched his puppy's ears.

  Trickster thumped his tail appreciatively. Just a man and his dog, Mr. Bosu thought.

  Yeah, just a man, his dog, and his hit list.

  B OBBY WENT FOR a run. Daylight was failing. The sunny fall afternoon had come to an end, and the evening loomed dark and cold. Heading out the door, he found himself automatically grabbing his neon yellow running jacket, and that filled him with a sense o
f relief that was hard to explain. Even after everything he'd been through, his subconscious wasn't trying to kill him just yet. He wondered if he should call Dr. Lane and give her the good news.

  He hit the streets, pounding down one long city block and up another. The streets were quiet, people tucked in their homes, preparing for another work week. Lone cars zoomed by here and there, illuminating him briefly before sweeping past.

  He planned on running to the old Bath House, an easy five-mile loop from his home. But the Bath House came and went, his feet still churning pavement. He arrived at Castle Island, then swept around the shore's edge, running into the dark.

  He wanted to blame James Gagnon for his current mood. Or Catherine Gagnon or even bloodthirsty ADA Rick Copley, so eager to sink his chops into a good, juicy homicide he already had saliva dripping from his teeth.

  But in all honesty, he knew what his mood was all about. Tonight, he was thinking about his mother.

  It had been so long ago now, he didn't know if the face he recalled was actually hers or some composite carefully crafted by his mind. He had a vague impression: brown eyes, dark hair curling around a pale face, the scent of White Shoulders perfume. He thought he remembered her squatting before him, saying urgently: I love you, Bobby. Or maybe that was merely a product of mental fiction. Maybe she'd actually said, Don't stick your hand in the light socket, son or Don't play with guns.

  He didn't honestly know. He'd been six when she'd left. Old enough to hurt, young enough to not understand. Your mother's gone and she's not coming back. His father had announced it one morning over breakfast. Bobby and George had been chomping away on the sugarcoated Apple Jacks their mother always refused to buy, and as a kid, that had been Bobby's first thought—Wow, Apple Jacks every day. His father didn't seem upset, George was nodding solemnly, so Bobby went along.

  Later, he'd lie in bed at night, a crushing weight building upon his chest that would still be there when he woke up in the morning. Then there'd been the night he'd heard George yelling at their father. Then there had been the subsequent trip to the emergency room.

  After that, no one in their house had spoken of his mother again.