F OR A MOMENT, Catherine didn't speak. She appeared too stunned to react to the news. In contrast, for Bobby, the pieces were finally coming together.
“But Jimmy and I weren't related,” Catherine protested. “My family is from Massachusetts; his family is from Georgia. We knew our parents, there is no way—”
“It's not you,” Bobby said.
She turned to him, still confused. “But who?”
“The Gagnons. The judge and his wife. It's why they left Georgia. It's why she doesn't exist—because, of course, they had to give her a new name. And probably why there is no marriage license—they never would've passed the blood test.”
He turned to Dr. Iorfino. “Can genetic defects skip a generation?”
“Absolutely.”
“And can two interrelated parties still have a healthy child? Or would the children have to have the defect?”
“No, there could be healthy offspring. Think of the royal families of Europe in centuries past. Many of them married first cousins, and still had relatively healthy offspring. But inbreeding weakens the gene pool. Sooner or later . . .”
“So James and Maryanne get together. Say they're first cousins.” Bobby frowned, glanced at Catherine. “Harris said Maryanne's family died before the wedding. What about James's family? Have you ever heard talk of other relatives? Grandparents, aunts, uncles, anyone?”
“No, Jimmy said his parents came from small families. There was no one left alive.”
“So James and Maryanne meet. God knows her family couldn't have been wild about the idea, but then they died. Problem solved. James and Maryanne move up here, start fresh with a new name for Maryanne, new past for both of them. Have a son.”
“Jimmy's older brother,” Catherine whispered. “The one who died young.”
“Maybe Nathan isn't the first Gagnon male to show signs of Fanconi-Bickel. Harris said James Junior was a sickly baby.”
“Fanconi-Bickel varies in its severity,” Dr. Iorfino provided. “In a very severe case—”
“But Jimmy didn't have signs of any . . . disorders,” Catherine protested.
“Again, inbreeding doesn't guarantee genetic disaster, Mrs. Gagnon, it just makes it more probable.”
“A ticking time bomb,” Bobby said quietly.
“Oh my God, poor Nathan . . .” And then, Bobby could tell she had reached the same conclusion he had, because her eyes suddenly widened with a fresh look of horror. She turned toward him. “But if Nathan has this syndrome . . . if others find out that Nathan has this syndrome, then . . .”
He nodded grimly. “Yeah. This is why the judge is so determined to get custody. Whoever has Nathan has the key to unlocking the Gagnons' deepest, darkest secret. And that's something worth killing for.”
A S HE WALKED out of Dr. Iorfino's office to the lobby, Bobby's cell rang. He grimaced, but Catherine merely pushed him toward one corner of the lobby.
“I need to call my father, anyway,” she said. “I'll tell him we're ready for him to bring Nathan.”
Bobby nodded, giving Catherine some space as he flipped open his phone. It was D.D. She sounded strange.
“Where are you? I've been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I had things to do. What's up?”
“Are you with her?” D.D. asked.
Bobby didn't have to ask who D.D. meant. It was implicit in her tone.
“D.D., what do you want?”
“Where are you?”
“You answer my question, then I'll answer yours.”
There was silence. Bobby frowned, trying hard to interpret that silence. He didn't get very far.
“Got ballistics back on Jimmy Gagnon's gun,” D.D. said. “The nine-millimeter was fully loaded. Not a single cartridge missing from the clip. No GSR on the barrel, handle, anything. It was never fired.”
“But I thought . . .” Bobby paused, struggling to get his bearings. He could feel the danger, but he still couldn't see it coming.
“But what about the reports of shots fired?” D.D. filled in.
“Yeah.”
“Fascinating development. Last night, when we were at the Gagnon residence cutting down the nanny's body, one of the crime-scene techs bumped the bureau. Guess what had been taped to the underside of the top, inside a drawer? Guess what then fell down?”
He got it now. He closed his eyes. He turned away from Catherine completely, because he couldn't look at her and hear this news. “A second gun.”
“Also nine-millimeter. Recently fired. Two bullets missing from the clip.”
“Prints?”
“Her prints, Bobby. Her gun, registered in her name, loaded with the bullets purchased by her, according to the gun dealer. Jimmy Gagnon never fired a shot Thursday night. She did.”
Bobby tried to make the words sink in. Then tried to tell himself it didn't matter. Jimmy abused her, she had cause. Or maybe, Jimmy abused her, and she was just looking out for her son. He didn't know. He tried on the thought as many ways as he knew how. He was still left cold and empty.
“Did you tell her how to do it, Bobby?” D.D. asked now. “Is that how it played out? You met her at the cocktail party. Decided to trade in your current blonde for a more exotic model. Catherine's a big step up, I gotta give you credit for that. Did she promise you money, or was it all for love?”
“It didn't happen like that.”
“No? So it was just sex? She used your body, and you shot your mouth off in the postcoital glow?”
“D.D., I only met Catherine for one brief moment at that party. I never saw her again until Thursday night.”
“Catherine framed you, Bobby. She fired the gun, she set the stage. If we did have audio, I bet it would be filled with all sorts of venomous things she yelled at Jimmy to keep his anger high, to keep him waving that pistol. After that, it was only a matter of time.”
He didn't protest anymore. He had squeezed his eyes shut. It still didn't stop him from seeing what he didn't want to see. Jimmy Gagnon's head in his sights. His finger, squeezing the trigger.
“I just don't get it, Bobby,” D.D. said quietly. “So maybe she could get you to take out Jimmy. Maybe you even thought it had to be done. But what in the world could she have said to make you turn on Copley? Jesus, Bobby, he was one of our own!”
“What?”
“We both know he was on to you. It was only a matter of time. But still, you could've pled down, Bobby. You're a law enforcement officer with a distinguished career. So you made a mistake. You still had options. You didn't have to do . . . God, Bobby, a knife? I wouldn't have even thought you had it in you.”
“D.D., I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“One more time, Bobby, where are you?”
But he already knew better than to answer. Something had happened to Copley. A knife. Umbrio probably. Except they thought he did it, and if his fellow law enforcement officers thought he did it . . .
You didn't go after an expert-ranked police sniper with a pair of handcuffs.
Jesus Christ, he was in a world of hurt.
“D.D.,” he said urgently. “Listen to me. Saturday morning a man was released from prison. His name is Richard Umbrio. Look him up: you'll find he was the same man who kidnapped and raped Catherine Gagnon twenty-five years ago. You'll also discover that he wasn't due for parole. Judge Gagnon arranged it. He set it up. He's using Umbrio to kill the people close to her.”
“Copley wasn't close to her.”
“I don't know why he killed Copley! Honest to God . . . You said knife. Umbrio used a knife at the Rocco crime scene. Umbrio's the one who killed Tony Rocco, as well as Prudence Walker.”
“Copley wasn't dead, Bobby. He used to be a boxer in college. Did it surprise you how much he put up a fight? Did you think it would get that messy? Well, he still had the last laugh. As he lay in the bathtub, bleeding out, he left us one last clue. He wrote your name, Bobby, in his own blood.”
Shit, Bobby thought.
&n
bsp; “Colleen Robinson,” he said quickly, trying to get out as much as he could. “She's a middleman, hired by Judge Gagnon to hire Richard Umbrio. Pull the judge's financial records, track down Robinson. You'll find corroboration of what I'm saying. The judge did it, D.D. He's desperate to cover up evidence of his and Maryanne's incest. Contact Dr. Iorfino, he'll tell you all about it.”
“Turn yourself in, Bobby.”
“I can't.”
“For the last time—”
“If I'm behind bars,” he said simply, “there's no one left to protect Catherine.”
“Goddammit, Bobby—”
He flipped the phone shut. He turned away. Then he was crossing the room, powered by grief and rage. Catherine was still on the phone, face pale, eyes wide.
He grabbed her shoulders and, before he could stop himself, shook her hard.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Bobby—”
“Did you think I wouldn't care? Did you think I wouldn't mind being used as a tool for murder?”
“It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.”
“The hell it doesn't! You used me. You lied to me. You set me up to kill another human being.”
“I didn't have any other choice! Bobby, please listen to me—”
“Shut up!” he roared.
And then she slapped him. Across the face. Hard. His ears rang. His eyes blinked. The shock rocketed through him, and for an instant, he found his own arm pulling back. He could see himself in his mind's eye, swinging forward, smacking her back. She would fall, cut down by the blow. And he'd, what . . . lord it over her? Feel triumphant in his physical superiority? Watch her cower, as his mother used to cower, alone on the kitchen floor?
His arm came down. The roaring subsided in his brain. He came back to himself. Saw that he was still gripping Catherine's shoulder with one hand, and that his fingers were squeezing mercilessly while the tears poured down her face.
He let her go so abruptly, she stumbled.
“He was going to take Nathan away from me,” she said. “He was going to leave me with nothing simply because he could. You don't know what it's like, Bobby, to have nothing.”
“You had no right—”
“It never would've worked if he hadn't hated me. That's the real trick to manipulation, you know. You can never make someone do something they really don't want to do. You can only make them do what was already in their heart.”
“You don't know that.”
“I saw his face, Thursday night. I looked into Jimmy's eyes, and, in that one instant, I knew I was dead.”
“Liar.”
“Bobby, I didn't thank you for killing him,” she said steadily. “I thanked you because you saved my life.”
He couldn't talk anymore. He was too heartsick.
“Bobby.” Her hand came up. Tentatively, she stroked his arm. He flinched at her touch. “I need you. You have to help me.”
He laughed hollowly. “What, already got in mind someone else to kill?”
“Just now, when I called, my father didn't answer his phone, Bobby.”
“So what?”
“Richard Umbrio did.”
M R. BOSU HAD no problem finding the neighborhood. This had been his first request when initially contacted by Robinson. He wanted to know everything about Catherine. Her home, her family, her husband, her son. He got a list of every job she'd ever had. He demanded photos and driver's license information and details down to her grocery shopping list and her favorite restaurant. Some of the information had been boring. But most had intrigued him.
The fact that her parents had never moved—that had genuinely fascinated him. Mostly, because he was willing to bet the last penny he would soon be making that his own parents were sitting in the same old house, on the same old sofa, staring at the same old living room from all those years before. They were two peas in a pod, he and Catherine. He had not expected that in the beginning, when he had randomly plucked her off the street with an abbreviated scream and scattering of schoolbooks. It had come to him slowly, day after day, as he continued to let her live. She was the only person in the world who could truly meet his needs. She was the only person in the world who knew the real him.
The day he'd arrived to find her gone was the worst day of his life.
But that was okay. He was going to correct all that real soon.
Mr. Bosu was whistling when he pulled into the driveway. He was still whistling when he got out of his car.
“Stay put,” he told Trickster. “This time around, I'm flying solo.”
He mounted the steps, banged on the door.
He heard the voice from the other side, wary and cautious. “Who is it?”
Mr. Bosu smiled. He flipped open the ID he'd found on Colleen and waved it briefly in front of the peephole. Enough to give the impression of possessing an official ID, without giving away the actual photo.
“Detective Bosu,” he announced. “I'm afraid, Mr. Miller, I have some bad news about an old case. We should talk right away.”
“Is it Richard Umbrio?” Frank Miller asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Catherine's father unlocked the door. And Mr. Bosu walked right in.
I T TURNED OUT that Frank Miller was no dummy. Mr. Bosu wasn't sure what he'd expected. Maybe someone smaller, more shrunken, more beaten by the lousy blow delivered to his family earlier in life. Someone more like his own dad.
Instead, Frank Miller was tall, erect, trim. Active for his age, no doubt prided himself on living alone.
He took one look at Mr. Bosu's hulking build, older, fleshed-out face, and promptly paused.
“Don't I know you—?” he started. Then recognition struck. The older man's eyes went wide. Much faster than Mr. Bosu ever expected, Frank Miller pulled back his right arm and nailed Mr. Bosu in the eye.
“Shit,” Mr. Bosu gasped, staggering back, belatedly trying to cover his face. The old geezer didn't wait. He went for Mr. Bosu's kidneys. Got him with a good three or four jabs that would definitely have him coughing up blood later tonight.
Miller launched his right hook again. Enough was enough. Mr. Bosu held up his meaty hand. He caught Miller's blow in his palm. Then he wrapped his fingers around the older man's hand and bore down hard.
The blood drained out of Miller's face. And for the first time, fear appeared in his eyes.
“Tell me where the boy is.”
Miller didn't speak.
“I know you have him. She had nowhere else to go. Of course she brought him to you.” Mr. Bosu forced back Miller's hand now, bending the wrist until the man's knuckles nearly touched his own forearm. Miller went bug-eyed with the pain.
“You can tell me sooner, or you can tell me later. But I'm going to get the information. The only question is, how much will you suffer?”
“Fuck . . . you,” Miller said. Then he surprised them both by kicking Mr. Bosu in the kneecap. Mr. Bosu went down. Startled, he released his grip on the man's hand, and Miller promptly bolted for the kitchen.
Mr. Bosu sighed. There was only one thing left to do. He got out the knife.
M R. BOSU ENTERED the kitchen just as Miller reached into the utility closet. Mr. Bosu had a split-second warning, then he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He didn't wait. He sprung forward, left arm outstretched to grab the gun barrel and force it up, even as Miller fumbled with the trigger. The gun didn't go off and Mr. Bosu didn't expect that it would. Few people left a loaded shotgun lying around the house, particularly given the presence of a child.
Miller's retrieval of the gun told Mr. Bosu something else. The utility closet was only inches from the back door. Surely Miller had had enough time to run out, flee to safety. Instead, he'd chosen to take a stand.
The boy was somewhere in the house. That's why Miller hadn't run. He couldn't bring himself to leave his grandson.
Noble, Mr. Bosu thought idly, as he drove the serrated blade into the soft spot beneath the man's ribs. Miller made a
curious wet sound. Not a scream. Not a groan. Almost a sigh. A man who knew what was coming next.
“Sorry to hear about the wife,” Mr. Bosu said. “Otherwise, I would've done her next.”
He pulled the knife over and up. It didn't take much after all. The old man collapsed, a shriveled husk on the kitchen floor. Mr. Bosu remembered to step back more quickly this time. He didn't want to ruin a second pair of shoes.
He washed up in the kitchen sink, grimacing at the sight of blood still staining his shirtsleeve and now fresh splatters on his pants. No doubt about it, he was a mess. He rinsed the knife before returning it to the sheath wrapped around his calf. Then he went to search the house.
He found the boy upstairs, in a room decorated with faded pink and purple flowers. As he pushed open the door, the boy said in a hopeful sort of voice, “Mommy?”
Mr. Bosu smiled. First time he'd seen the boy was in the hospital the night he went after the doctor. That night, the boy had called him Daddy. It was nice to know Mr. Bosu could be so loved.
He pushed all the way into the room and the boy sat up on the bed. For a moment, they regarded each other soberly. The boy was small, pale, and sickly. Mr. Bosu was huge, heavily muscled, and stained with blood.
“So,” Mr. Bosu said at last, “would you like to see a puppy?”
The boy held out his hand.
As they were leaving the house, the phone rang. Mr. Bosu didn't have to be a psychic to know who it would be. He picked up the phone.
“Dad,” Catherine said.
“Catherine,” Mr. Bosu said.
“Oh my God.”
“Hey, Cat. Your son says hi.”
W E'RE GOING TO need a gun,” Bobby said.
Catherine didn't reply. She was in a state of shock, her gaze unfocused as she followed him blankly down the stairs. He'd made a conscious decision to bypass the elevators. The hospital had security officers. Would they already be on the lookout for him, maybe lying in wait in the lobby?