Lisa Gardner - Alone

Would she try to seduce him? Did he care if she did? His career was already in the toilet. He'd had his first drink in ten years and just this evening he'd officially ended things with the woman who was probably the best damn thing that had ever happened to him.

He was footloose and fancy-free. He was feeling reckless, and yeah, more than a little self-destructive. A sordid rendezvous sounded just about right. He could already recall the warm, cinnamony scent of her perfume. The way her fingernails had felt, raking lightly across his chest.

It didn't take too much for his mind to fill in the rest. Her long, pale legs wrapped around his waist. Her strong, lithe body writhing beneath his own. He bet she moved like a pro, moaned like a pro. He bet she was the type of woman who'd do just about anything.

So Harris had been right all along-Jimmy'd been dead only four days, and Bobby already couldn't wait to fuck his wife.

He walked into the neighborhood, head down against the cold, hands thrust deep into the front pockets of his down jacket. A dozen bad seduction scenes ran through his mind, each more sordid than the last.

Then he looked up, saw the fourth-story window, and felt the air freeze in his chest.

Holy shit!

Bobby started to run.

Catherine was downstairs in the lobby. She was curled up at the base of the townhouse's elevator, Nathan pressed tight against her chest, his face buried against her neck. Bobby barely had time to register the irony of it-that this is how Catherine and Nathan had looked on Thursday night, that every time he met this supposed child abuser, she was cradling her son-then he was vaulting for the stairs to her second-story unit, gun in hand.

"You hear gunshots, get out. Head straight for your neighbors', bang on the door, and tell them to call the cops."

He didn't wait to see if she nodded, but bounded up the stairs.

Bursting low and fast through the open front door, he came to an immediate crouching halt beside a fake ficus tree, breathing hard, realizing he was moving too fast, too heedlessly, and now trying to regroup. Face-to-face confrontation was really no different than sniping. The winner was usually the guy who could control his adrenaline the best.

Bobby took another deep breath and steadied his nerves. He'd never been inside the Gagnons' townhouse. Four stories, he'd been told on Thursday night. The Gagnons occupied the top four stories of a five-level townhouse, with the top story being converted to cathedral ceilings.

So he needed to head up.

He gazed around the marble-tiled foyer, identifying what appeared to be a formal parlor to his left and a vast, open expanse of family room and kitchen directly ahead. His back pressed against the wall, two hands holding his nine-millimeter dead center against his chest, he approached the parlor first.

He led with his gun, ducking in low and sweeping the dark, shadowy space. Finally satisfied that it was empty, he departed, closing the door, then moving the fake tree in front of it: he didn't want someone doubling back behind him.

He hit the family room and kitchen next, though he was relatively sure that area would be secure. Too many lights, too much vast, open space. If someone was still in the townhouse, they wouldn't hide here.

For protocol's sake, he cleared the pantry, the walk-in closet, and the laundry room. That left him with the stairs.

He could smell it now. Wafting down the dark, shadowed space. No lights here. Just steps leading to a thicker gloom, and thanks to the unmistakable odor, a bitter, unhappy end.

His heart was pounding again. His palms sweating. He turned his focus inward. Part of the moment, but outside the moment. A predator on a trail. A calm, well-oiled machine doing what it was trained to do.

He drifted up the stairs silently, patient footstep after patient footstep. He came to a small, dark landing. Closed doorway to his left. Open doorway straight ahead. He went through the open doorway first, the smell noticeably fading as he entered the room. He didn't snap on the overhead light-the sudden rush of illumination would leave him exposed-but instead used the dim light seeping through two windows to make out his surroundings. It was a small living suite: bathroom, bedroom, playroom. Nathan's space, judging by the murals of cowboys and bucking broncos decorating the wall. He checked the closet, checked the shower, even thought of the toy chests.

Finally satisfied that no intruder lurked in the shadows, he picked up a discarded shirt of Nathan's and hung it on the doorknob as he shut the door behind him.

Closed-door time. A little riskier, but he was finding the zone now, each movement smoother and more controlled than the last. Go low, turn sideways to present less of a target, open the door and slide inside in one fluid motion.

Another suite of rooms, equally dark. Strictly utilitarian now. Queen-sized bed, old eighties love seat, hand-me-down bedroom furniture. The nanny's quarters, he'd bet. Functional, but not fancy. He was almost sorry he didn't find anything here. Because that left only one place. The vaulted fourth floor. The infamous master bedroom.

Very carefully, Bobby headed up the stairs.

The smell was unmistakable now. Sharp, acrid. Bobby's gun had slipped lower. He wasn't holding it as tightly. Somehow, he didn't think he was going to need it anymore. What had happened in the master bedroom was all about presentation. That's what he'd seen from the street.

The door was wide open. No overhead lights. But candles. Dozens and dozens of flickering little candles, all framing the scene.

The body hung from the rafters in front of where the glass sliders used to be. The plastic had been removed, letting in the breeze. The candles flickered. The body swayed creakily.

Bobby walked around. And the pale, stricken face of Prudence Walker slowly twisted into view. "I need to call it in."

Bobby and Catherine were speaking in hushed tones in the parlor. Bobby had shut up the master bedroom. Then, after a second pass through the residence, he'd escorted Catherine and Nathan back inside; the BPD detectives were going to want to question them at the scene.

Now, Nathan sat in the living room, staring slack-jawed at the TV as his eyelids slowly began to droop. The kid would be asleep in a matter of minutes. Better for him. Better for all of them.

"I don't understand. Prudence hanged herself?"

"So it would appear."

Catherine was still bewildered.

"Why would she do that?"

He hesitated.

"There was a note," he said at last.

"She claimed she was despondent over Jimmy's death."

"Oh, please! Pru didn't give a rat's ass about Jimmy. And he certainly didn't pay attention to her. Let's just say they weren't each other's type."

"Are you saying…?"

"Pru was a lesbian," Catherine supplied impatiently.

"Why do you think I hired her? Anyone else, no matter how old, always ended up in Jimmy's bed, if only just for sport."

Bobby sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. Sighed again.

"Shit."

"There's more in the note, isn't there?"

"It says she couldn't go on living, knowing who really killed Jimmy." He looked Catherine in the eye.

"Her note very clearly targets you."

Catherine expelled her opinion of that in one simple word: "James!"

"You think your father-in-law killed your nanny?"

"Not personally, of course, don't be stupid. But he hired someone, or hired someone to hire someone. That's the way he always works."

"You're accusing a judge of murder?"

"Of course I am! You don't understand. This is perfect for him. The police come, they read the note, and they arrest me. Then James turns up just in time to take custody of Nathan."

Bobby tried to sound reasonable.