The Detective D. D. Warren Series 5-Book Bundle

  I shrugged. “As a cop or what?”

  She smiled. “Or what.”

  “If I found him naked in my bed, I wouldn’t kick him out.”

  “Have you?”

  “That’s not exactly the nature of our relationship.” Though the image of Bobby, naked, was taking longer than I would’ve thought to clear from my head. “Now, him and D.D., on the other hand …”

  “Never happen,” Catherine said immediately. “Sex, maybe, but a relationship? She’s far too ambitious for him. I doubt she’ll settle for anything less than a politically minded DA, or perhaps a crime boss. Now, that would be interesting.”

  “You two don’t like each other very much.”

  Her turn to shrug. “I have that effect on women. Perhaps it’s because I sleep with their husbands. Then again, if the husbands weren’t sleeping with me, they would simply be fucking their secretaries, and if you were going to be jilted, wouldn’t you rather be jilted for someone who looks like me than for a peroxide blonde with cheap taste in shoes?”

  “I never thought of it that way before.”

  “Few do.” Catherine put down her tea. She traced a random pattern on the tabletop with her red-lacquered nail. When she spoke again, her voice was low, with a trace of vulnerability again.

  “Once upon a time,” she said quietly, “I invited Bobby to move to Arizona with me. Offered him everything, my body, my home, a glamorous life of leisure. He turned me down. Did you know that?”

  “Was this before or after he shot your husband?” I asked.

  She smiled, seemed amused that I knew that minor detail. “After. You’ve been listening to D.D., haven’t you? She’s obsessed with the notion I set up Bobby to kill my husband. I think she’s read one too many suspense novels. Ever heard of Occam’s razor—the simplest explanation is the best one?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, simply put, Jimmy beat the shit out of me, Bobby made the right choice that night, and I’m now living happily ever after, can’t you tell?”

  Her voice hit a brittle edge on the last word. She seemed to hear it, picked up her tea, and took another sip. I said nothing for a while, just absorbed this woman in front of me, who packaged herself as a walking advertisement for sex, when I was pretty sure now she hadn’t felt a thing in nearly twenty-seven years.

  Is this the fate I had narrowly avoided when my father decided to flee? And if so, then why didn’t I feel more relieved? Because mostly I felt sad. A deep down achy kind of sad. The world was cruel. Grown men preyed on little kids. People betrayed the ones they loved. What was done could never be undone again. That’s just the way things worked.

  As if reading my mind, Catherine’s head came up. She looked me in the eye: “Why are you here, Annabelle?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Richard isn’t your stalker. By the time you were seven, he was already sentenced to life in prison. Besides, Richard’s fantasies involved physical intimidation and domination. He wasn’t subtle enough for stalking.”

  “You were only twelve; it wasn’t your fault.”

  She actually smiled at me. “You think I don’t know that?”

  “And you survived.”

  Now she laughed, a full throaty sound that caused several of the other diners to glance our way. “You think I survived? Oh Annabelle, you are simply precious. Come now, as a seven-year-old target yourself, surely you learned something.”

  “I happen to be an expert kickboxer,” I heard myself say stiffly. “My father took my safety very seriously—taught me self-defense, criminology one-oh-one, when to run, when to fight, and how to know the difference. I grew up with over a dozen different aliases, living in a dozen different cities. Trust me, I know how serious this is.”

  “Your father taught you?” Arched brow again.

  “Yes.”

  “The academic from MIT?”

  “The same.”

  “And how did your father know so much about criminology or self-defense?”

  I shrugged. “Necessity is the mother of invention. Isn’t that what they say?”

  Catherine stared at me in bemusement. “Wait, wait,” she said, when she could tell I was getting pissy again, “I’m not trying to mock you. I want to understand. When this all happened, your father …”

  “He moved my family away. We packed our suitcases in the middle of the afternoon, loaded up the car, and disappeared.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “With fake names and everything?”

  “Absolutely. There is no other way to be safe. Which reminds me, you’re supposed to be calling me Tanya.”

  She waved away my alias, clearly unconcerned. “And did your father get another job with a university in Florida?”

  “Couldn’t. Not without a curriculum vitae, and fake driver’s licenses rarely come with those kinds of attachments. He drove a taxi.”

  “Really? And your mother?”

  I shrugged. “Once a homemaker, always a homemaker, I guess.”

  “But she didn’t protest? She didn’t try to stop him? Both of your parents did this for you?”

  I was growing puzzled now. “Well, of course. What else was there to do?”

  Catherine sat back. She picked up her tea. Her hand had started to shake, causing the liquid to slosh. She set the china cup back down.

  “My parents never spoke of what happened,” she said abruptly. “One day, I vanished. Another day, I returned home. We never spoke of the time in between. It was like the twenty-eight days had been some minor blip in the space-time continuum, best left forgotten. We stayed in the same house. I returned to the same school. And my parents resumed their same old lives.

  “I never forgave them for that. I never forgave them for being able to still live, still function, still breathe, when every part of me hurt so much I wanted to tear the house apart board by board. I wanted to gouge out my own eyeballs. I wanted to yell and scream so badly, I couldn’t make a single sound.

  “I hated that house, Annabelle. I hated my parents for not saving me. I hated the block I lived on. And I hated every single child in my school who had walked home safely on October twenty-second without trying to help a stranger find a lost dog.

  “And they whispered, you know. They told stories about me on the playground, shared winks and nudges in the locker room. And I never said a word because everything they whispered was true. Being a victim is a one-way ticket, Annabelle. This is who you are now, and no one will ever let you go back.”

  “That’s not true,” I protested. “Look at you—you are not weak or defenseless. When Umbrio got out of prison, you didn’t just curl up in a ball. You shot him, for God’s sake, and more power to you. You met the challenge. You won, Catherine.

  “Not like me. I’m all training and no trial. I’ve spent my entire life running and I don’t even know who it is I’m supposed to fear. ‘Can’t trust anyone,’ was my father’s favorite motto. ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’ I don’t know. Maybe my father had a point. Seems like it’s always the handsome, charming husband who brutally murders his wife, the mild-mannered Boy Scout leader who’s secretly a serial killer, the quiet coworker who one day opens up with an AK-47. Hell, I’m suspicious of the mailman.”

  “Oh, me, too,” Catherine said immediately. “And utility workers, maintenance workers, and customer-service representatives. The amount of information they have at their fingertips is positively scary.”

  “Exactly!”

  “I formed a shell company,” she said matter-of-factly. “Put everything in the company’s name and—badda bing, badda boom—ceased to exist on paper. It’s the only way to be safe. I can have Carson look into it for you.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t exactly have those kinds of assets.…”

  “Nonsense, it’s about security, not money. Trust me on this one. I’ll have Carson set you up. You need to think about the future, Annabelle. The real tr
ick to security is keeping one step ahead.”

  I nodded, but that quickly her words took the wind out of my sails. One step ahead? Of what? What did the future really hold for someone like me? I’d been trained for twenty-five years to live out of suitcases. To lie. To distrust. To commit to no one. Even in Boston, I had only a passing acquaintance with my Starbucks coworkers, and barely registered one step above a maid with most of my wealthy clients. I attended church, but I always sat in the back. I never wanted to be asked too many questions; I didn’t want to lie to a man of God.

  And as for my business, what would happen if it did take off, if I tried to hire employees? Would my fake ID hold up under the intense scrutiny of business-licensing boards, referral services? I kept telling myself I was optimistic. I kept telling myself I was in control, had a dream. I would not be my father’s pawn! But truth was, week after week, I slogged through the same under-the-radar routine. My business did not grow. I did not make friends or date seriously.

  I would never fall in love. I would never have a family. Twenty-five years after I started running, my parents were dead, I was all alone, and I was still terrified.

  And then I understood Catherine Gagnon. She was right. She had never escaped from that pit in the ground. Just as I had never stopped living like a target.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” I mumbled.

  “I’m done, too.”

  “Please, I think I just need a minute.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll powder my nose.”

  She followed me to the ladies’ lounge, taking up position in front of a gilded mirror. I went into one of the stalls, where I pressed my forehead against the cool metal door and worked on regaining my composure, finding focus.

  What was it my father had always said? I was strong, I was fast, and I did have a fighter’s instinct.

  What did my father know? For all his scheming, he hadn’t been able to dodge a lost taxi.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, thought of my mother instead. The way she had stroked my hair. The look on her face that fall afternoon in Arlington, when she had told me that she loved me, that she would always love me.

  From my pocket, I took out the picture Mrs. Petracelli had given me. Taken at a barbecue in the Petracellis’ backyard. I was sitting on the picnic table next to Dori. We were grinning at the camera, each holding a Popsicle. My mom stood to the side, toasting the camera with a margarita, smiling at us indulgently. My father was toward the back, working the grill. He had also noticed the camera, maybe heard Mrs. Petracelli say “Cheese,” and had turned with a large, beaming smile.

  The smell of searing hamburgers, freshly cut grass, and roasting corn on the cob. The sound of neighbors’ sprinklers and other small children playing next door.

  I could feel the nostalgia welling in my throat, the tears burning my eyes. And I understood why I never made it forward. Because mostly I wanted to go back. To the last days of summer. To those final weeks when the world still felt safe.

  I wiped my eyes. Flushed the toilet. Pulled myself together, because what else was there to do?

  I made it to the sink, setting the photograph carefully to the side so it wouldn’t get wet while I washed my hands. Catherine wandered over, regarded my reflection in the mirror. She had retouched her lipstick, brushed out her long black hair.

  Side by side, we did look like sisters. Except she was the glamorous one, destined for a life amid the stars, while I was clearly going to become the crazy cat lady who lived alone down the street.

  Her gaze drifted down, spotted the photo. “Your family?”

  I nodded, then felt, more than saw, her stiffen.

  “I thought you said your father was a mathematician,” she said sharply.

  “He was.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Annabelle. I met him. Twice, in fact. Really, you could’ve just said he was with the FBI.”

  We violated curfew. Catherine didn’t get me back to the hotel Bobby and D.D. had booked until 12:23 a.m. I took a staggering step out of the limo, waved good-bye to my newfound best friend, and worked my way resolutely to the lobby. I figured either Bobby or D.D. would be keeping watch. It was Bobby.

  He took one look at my disheveled appearance and stated the obvious. “You’re drunk.”

  “It was just one glass of champagne,” I protested. “We were toasting.”

  “To what?”

  “Oh, you had to be there.” We’d been toasting lies, and the men who told them, and that hadn’t taken us one glass of champagne, but three. I was totally shit-faced, going-to-hate-myself-in-the-morning drunk. Catherine had simply mellowed enough to show me photos of her son and smile happily. She had a beautiful son. I wanted a son one day. And a daughter, a precious little girl who I would keep very, very safe.

  And I wanted sex. Apparently, champagne made me horny.

  “Do you like to barbecue?” I asked Bobby. Then found myself humming, “If you like piña coladas, or getting caught in the rain …”

  Bobby’s eyes widened. “We should never have left you alone with her!”

  I did a little dance around the lobby. It was tricky, trying to get my feet to move in conjunction with my brain. I thought I did pretty well, though. In the ring, I’d always been admired for my footwork. Maybe I’d take up ballroom dancing. It was all the rage these days. Maybe that would do me good. Practice something beautiful and flowing and flirtatious. You know, instead of hanging out in gyms where sweaty men pummeled one another to death.

  Yep, in the morning, I was turning over a new leaf. I was reclaiming my name. Annabelle Granger was going to shake hands with the first stranger she met. Hell, I’d post my Social Security number online and include all my personal banking information. What was the worst that could happen?

  Bobby had a nice set of shoulders on him. Not overpumped; I never like that on a guy. Bobby’s shoulders were compact, well-defined. He wore a loose-fitting polo shirt, and it was fun to watch the way his pectorals rippled beneath the cotton expanse. I liked the way he moved, coiled, lithe. Like a panther.

  “You,” he said, “need water and aspirin.”

  “Gonna take care of me, Detective?” I sidled over. He sidled away.

  “Ah Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

  I smiled up at him. “Does the hotel have a pool? Let’s go skinny-dipping!”

  I thought he actually squeaked.

  “I’m calling D.D.,” he declared, and made a beeline for the lobby phone.

  “Ah, don’t spoil my fun now,” I called after him. “Besides, you’ll want to hear my news.”

  That stalled him. “What news?”

  “Secrets,” I murmured. “Deep, dark family secrets.”

  But I didn’t get a chance to tell them. Just then, all those thousands of tiny little champagne bubbles finally penetrated my brain, and I passed out cold.

  D.D. didn’t have a sense of humor. I had suspected that before. Now I knew it. Bobby half carried, half dragged my sorry ass up to D.D.’s room. No romantic tucking in of precious little Annabelle. Detective Dodge dumped me onto D.D.’s sofa. The sergeant doused me with a glass of ice water.

  I bolted upright, sputtering wildly, then racing for the toilet to vomit.

  When I came back out, footsteps still unsteady, D.D. greeted me with a fistful of aspirin and a can of spicy V8.

  “Don’t puke this up,” she warned me. “It’s from the minibar and it’s costing the department a fortune.”

  Expensive V8 did not taste any better than normal V8. I tried not to be ill.

  “Sit. Talk.” D.D. still sounded pissed.

  I managed to register now that she remained fully clothed, though we were passing one a.m. Her laptop was powered up on the desk, and her cell phone was winking madly that it had new messages.

  Apparently, D.D. wasn’t getting her beauty rest these days, and that made her one cranky bitch.

  I tried to sit. It made the nausea worse. I went with pacing.

  Later, when I thought about
it, I was very sorry I had the champagne. Not because it made me sick, but because it lowered my defenses. It made me talk when a sober Annabelle would’ve known better.

  “My father was an undercover FBI agent,” I blurted out.

  D.D. frowned, blinked her eyes, frowned at me again. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “My father. He was with the FBI. Catherine knew him. Hey, stop doing that!”

  “Stop doing what?” Bobby asked.

  “Exchanging glances. It’s very annoying. Not nearly as cool as you two seem to think.”

  This earned me a pair of arched brows instead.

  “Catherine has met your father?” Bobby asked skeptically.

  “He went to her hospital room where she was recovering after being rescued.” My chest practically swelled with pride. Or gas. “He visited her twice!”

  “Your father questioned Catherine?”

  “Yes. I’m telling you, he was an FBI agent. And that’s what FBI agents do, they question victims of crime.”

  D.D. sighed, rubbed her forehead, sighed again. “I’m going to brew coffee,” she said abruptly. “Annabelle, you’ve got a lot of sobering up to do.”

  “I am not lying! Ask Catherine! She will tell you. He came to her room twice.”

  “In the hospital,” Bobby said.

  I nodded, an ill-considered motion that almost made me puke again. “He said he was a special agent, FBI, and asked her all sorts of questions about her attack.”

  Halfway across the room, D.D. stilled, caught the pause, got herself moving again. “All sorts of questions?” she asked. “What kind of questions?”

  “Well, you know, FBI questions. Who grabbed her, what did he look like, what kind of car did he drive. Where did the perp take her.”

  “The perp?”

  “Oh yeah, the perp. Plus all the stuff you asked. Where, what kind of supplies, how long was she underground. What did Umbrio say, were there any other victims, how did she get away, blah, blah, blah.”

  The coffee was percolating now, the rich, caffeinated scent permeating the air.