Alone (41 page)

“And Maryanne?”

“She's devastated about what James put us through. I think she'd like a fresh start, too, and more time with Nathan. On the other hand . . . you know, she really loves James. Even after everything, I don't think she can bring herself to leave him.”

James was in a coma. Between the blood loss and damage to his internal organs, his system had shut down. Doctors didn't think he'd ever regain consciousness. Mostly, they were surprised the man was still alive.

“Maybe someday,” Bobby said.

Catherine nodded. “Maryanne likes Arizona. She mentioned they'd always talked about buying a home out there. So maybe, afterwards . . .”

His turn to nod. Now they both watched Nathan. The boy's cheeks were flushed, his breath coming in frosty pants. Trickster nipped at his heels and all the children laughed.

“The nightmares?” Bobby asked quietly.

She smiled wanly. “Only half a dozen a night.”

“You or him?”

She smiled again, but the look was sad. “Both. You know what's funny? I don't dream of Umbrio. First time in my life, I no longer fear a stranger turning down the street. I dream of Jimmy. That last look on his face. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear Nathan calling out for Jimmy, as well.”

“Ouch,” Bobby said.

“Ouch,” she agreed. She paused. “When we get to Arizona, I think I'm going to find a specialist. Someone who can help Nathan with the trauma. And maybe someone who can help me, too.”

“I think that would be a great idea.”

“You could come with us.”

“What, and give up all this cold?”

Her hand clutched his. “Bobby, I'm scared.”

“I know.”

“Do you not want to work? I can support you—”

“Don't.”

She turned away, immediately embarrassed, but he softened the blow by stroking her cheek.

“You're the most special woman I know, Catherine,” he said. “You love your son, you finally stood up to Umbrio. You're going to be okay. Both you and Nathan. It just takes time.”

“If I'm so special,” she challenged in a muffled tone, “why don't you come with us?”

Bobby smiled. He pulled his hand away from her, clasping his fingers on his lap. He looked at Nathan, running and laughing with the other kids, and then he said the only thing left to be said: “Got a call from Detective Warren the other day.”

Beside him, Catherine immediately stilled.

“She's been working the connection between Judge Gagnon and Colleen Robinson—looking for phone records, financial transactions, anything to tie the two together. The judge was a smart man. D.D. can find records of cash withdrawals but no indication of where the money went. And when it comes to phone records, D.D. can't find evidence of a single call. Not from the judge.

“But she found two calls from you.”

Bobby turned and looked at Catherine. In her cool gaze, he saw a wariness that told him more than any words.

“Turns out, Colleen Robinson had a bad time of it in prison. Getting out, she joined a female support group for post-traumatic stress syndrome. You might know the group, Catherine. According to the counselor, you attended some of the meetings.”

“I tried out group therapy once,” Catherine said levelly. “But that was ages ago. Before I met Jimmy. Surely you don't expect me to remember one woman from so many years ago.”

“Maybe you didn't. But maybe she remembered you.” Bobby shook his head, bouncing his fingertips off one another. “I've been turning over the pieces in my mind all week. On the one hand, I don't think you had the connections to get Umbrio out of prison. But once you knew he was out, that the judge had pulled those strings . . . Did Colleen give you a call? Is that how it worked? Maybe she wanted some sort of payoff, or maybe she was just trying to be helpful, give you a warning. Of course, a warning wouldn't help you, would it? Umbrio was legally paroled. And the police were too busy suspecting you of murder to be interested in offering you protection. No, you were all alone, backed into a corner. Is that when the idea came to you, Catherine? That you could use the judge's own weapon against him?”

“Richard Umbrio murdered my father,” Catherine said steadily. “How dare you suggest I had anything to do with him. For heaven's sake, he killed Tony and Prudence. What incentive did I have to engineer such a thing?”

“You didn't, not for Tony and Prudence. I suspect Judge Gagnon was the one who paid Umbrio for those targets. But Rick Copley, on the other hand . . . the ADA was going after you, Catherine. If he had his way, you would've lost Nathan.”

Catherine thinned her lips mutinously. She said nothing.

“And then there's the judge himself,” Bobby continued quietly. “A man so cautious, so clever, he left behind no phone or financial records that tie him to Colleen or Umbrio. And yet Umbrio headed straight for him. How did he know to go after Judge Gagnon, Catherine? Who gave him the judge's name?”

“You would have to ask Umbrio.”

“I can't, Catherine. You killed him.”

She didn't say anything more. Because she had no defense, or because she didn't think he'd believe her if she did? He doubted he would ever know the answer to that. When it came to Catherine, he doubted he would ever know the answer to a lot of things.

“Dr. Lane told me something early on,” he murmured. “She said that, for a woman like you, when it came down to protecting your world, there wasn't any line you wouldn't cross. It's true, isn't it, Catherine? To protect yourself against Judge Gagnon, you were willing to deal with the likes of Umbrio. Through Colleen Robinson, you paid money to the devil himself.”

He paused a heartbeat. “Rick Copley,” he said quietly, “was a very fine man. So, I think, was your father.”

Catherine didn't speak, but he thought he saw tears in her eyes.

“I hope,” she said after a moment, “that someday, when you have your own child, you will never know what it's like to fear for his life.”

“You had other people to help you, Catherine. I
helped
you.”

She finally looked at him. “But I didn't know that in the beginning, did I?”

She rose off the bench, still regal, still ungodly beautiful, and even knowing what he knew, he found himself holding his breath.

“D.D.'s a good detective,” he said softly.

“My son is safe. For that, no price is too high.”

“You really believe that, don't you?”

She smiled crookedly. “Bobby, it's the only thing that keeps me sane at night. I'll miss you in Arizona.”

“Goodbye, Catherine.”

Catherine retrieved her son. Bobby sat on the bench, snowflakes falling on his face, and watched them walk away.

After another moment, D.D. emerged from the white van parked down the street. She sat down heavily on the bench beside him.

“Told you you wouldn't get anything,” Bobby commented.

She shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

He reached inside his jacket, and went to work on the wires.

“You think she's honestly moving to Arizona?” D.D. asked. Then she added, “I can always extradite her when the time comes.”

“Sure.”

“I'm going to get her, Bobby.”

“It hardly matters.”

D.D. scowled. “What do you mean by that?”

“All she'll ever need is one man appointed to the jury, then Catherine will never spend so much as a day behind bars.” Bobby rose off the bench. “Face it, they don't make 'em like her anymore.”

“Thank God,” D.D. muttered.

Bobby smiled. He stuck his hands into his front jacket pockets and headed home.

Author's Note and Acknowledgments

As always, I'm deeply indebted to many folks for helping make this book happen. The following list of people kindly and patiently offered me expert opinions. Of course, any mistakes and incidences of artistic license are my responsibility alone.

For information on law enforcement sniping and tactical units, I would like to thank: Lt. Cary Maroni, Trooper John Bergeron, and Major Marianne McGovern of the Massachusetts State Police; Special Agent James Fitzgerald, FBI; and Lt. James Swanberg, Rhode Island State Police. I also pass along my sincerest appreciation to several other law enforcement professionals who wished to remain nameless; you know who you are.

Next up, the legal department. My deepest gratitude to Sarah Joss, Assistant Attorney General's Office; Bill Loftus, Civilian Investigator, Suffolk County DA's Office; Jerry Stewart, ADA, Suffolk County DA's Office; Detective Sgt. Richard Clancy, Boston PD, Suffolk County DA's Office; and Patrick Loftus, Defense Attorney.

For medical research, I couldn't have done without the wonderfully devious minds of Margaret Charpentier, Clinical Assistant Professor, College of Pharmacy, University of Rhode Island, and Kelly L. Matson, Clinical Assistant Professor of Pharmacy Practice, University of Rhode Island.

I'm also deeply indebted to my very good friend, Dr. Greg Moffatt for his insights into post-critical incident counseling as well as overall homicidal tendencies. And of course, where would I be without great friend and fellow writer Betsy Eliot, who spent a grand afternoon taking me all over South Boston, and siccing me on her relatives. You're the best, Bets!

In the fun news department, I'm very pleased to announce the first ever winner of the Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes. Many people entered, but only one could win the magnificent opportunity to have the person of his or her choice die in my novel. So here's to Jillian Zizza, winner of the contest, and to Jillian's dear friend, Colleen Robinson, whom she nominated to be the Lucky Stiff. Both will be receiving free signed books to celebrate this great honor!

If you would like to nominate yourself, or someone you love, to die in my next novel, never fear. Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy will begin again in the fall. Check out
www.LisaGardner.com
for more details.

Finally, to Kate Miciak, quite honestly the most brilliant editor a girl could have. To Melinda, Barbara, Kathleen, and Diana, for serving once again as brilliant proofreaders. To Brandi, because we all know I couldn't have done it without you. And to my husband and my very own Tuesday's child, for filling my world with grace.

Lisa Gardner on Detective D.D. Warren

D.D. Warren really exists. When I first named the hardened Boston detective in my 2005 novel,
Alone
, after a family friend, I wasn’t thinking additional novels or potential series character. I was thinking I needed a city cop for a single murder scene that fell in Boston jurisdiction. I liked the idea of a tough female who’d give my sniper hero, Bobby Dodge, a run for his money. I added stilettos, a killer leather jacket and next thing I knew, Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren took on a life of her own.

Turns out, she loves to eat, mostly because her job doesn’t leave her any time for sex. She doesn’t have pets, doesn’t trust herself with plants, and considers her three-man homicide squad to be her primary family. She’s not exactly a people-person, but she’s a first crack detective who, over the years, has handled the murder investigation of six girls, the disappearance of a South Boston wife, and a string of family annihilations that has left eleven people dead.

Which is funny, as the real D.D. Warren is known for her lush garden, her scrumptious baking skills, and her generous spirit. On the other hand, she is blonde, beautiful, and brilliant, so I like to think fictional D.D. Warren would be proud of her. She also has a great selection of shoes.

I gave my fictional character a friend’s real name because I like to do that kind of thing. My books are generally populated with old high school chums, various long lost relatives, and of course, the annual winners of my Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes (www.LisaGardner.com). It takes a lot of bodies to populate a busy suspense novel, and I can’t spend that much time creating new names. My brain is occupied by other Important Ideas, like how to kill them all off.

Which is how happy homemaker D.D. Warren became tough Boston Detective D.D. Warren, due to next save the city in my March 2011 release
Love You More
. It’s very satisfying when a character surprises me. And it’s very gratifying to have such an understanding friend.

Lisa Gardner 21
February 2010

Read on for a preview from Lisa Gardner’s upcoming novel

LOVE YOU MORE

Available March 2011

PROLOGUE

Who do you love?

It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing
.

Who do you love?

He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip
.

“Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent
.

My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us
.

“Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason
.

He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”

“Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”

“Belt. On the table. Now.”

“No.”

“GUN. On the table. NOW!”

In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side
.