Lisa Gardner: Alone

Finally, they got to the heart of the matter. Did he know the victim was James Gagnon?

And for the first time, Bobby paused.

Victim. Interesting choice of words. The man was no longer a suspect, someone who had pointed his gun at his own wife and tightened his finger on the trigger; he was a victim. Bobby thought now might be a good time to ask for that lawyer. But he didn't.

He answered as truthfully as he could. Lieutenant Jachrimo had identified the family as possibly being the Gagnons, but at the time or the incident, Bobby had received no verification of those names.

The investigators sat back again. Mollified? Suspicious? Hard to tell. They wanted to know if he'd met the wife, personally, socially. Had he spoken to her during the incident?

No, Bobby said.

Now it was time for the nitty-gritty. What made him decide fire his weapon? Had he been okayed for use of deadly force by the CO?

No.

Had the victim made any verbal threats toward Bobby or another officer? No.

Had the victim made any verbal threats toward his wife? Not that Bobby had heard. But the victim had a gun. Yes.

Did he fire it?

There were reports of gunfire.

Before Bobby arrived. But what about afterwards? Did Bobby actually see the victim fire his weapon? His finger was pulling the trigger. So he fired his weapon?

Yes. No. Not sure. He was firing, I was firing; it all happened so fast.

So the victim didn't fire his weapon? Not sure.

So possibly, the victim was just pointing his gun? Hadn't he been pointing the weapon for a while?

The man's finger was on the trigger.

But did he squeeze it? Did he try to shoot his wife?

I believed there was an immediate threat.

Why, Trooper Dodge, why?

Because of the way the man smiled. Bobby couldn't say that. He said instead, "The subject stood two feet away from the woman with a nine-millimeter pointed at her head and his finger moving on the trigger. I perceived that to be an immediate and compelling threat."

Do you really think a man would kill his wife with his kid still in the room?

Yes, sir, I believed he would.

Why, Trooper Dodge, why?

Because sometimes, sir, shit like that happens.

The investigators finally nodded, then repeated the same questions all over again. Bobby knew how it worked. More times you made a man tell his story, the more he might trip up. Lies growing more embellished, truth more strained. They were giving Bobby rope and waiting to see if he'd hang himself with it.

At six-thirty they finally gave up. A new day was dawning outside the stifling conference room, and the collegial air returned.

They were sorry they had to ask all these questions, you know. It was just a matter of procedure. Unfortunate night. Bad for everyone. But it looked good for Bobby that he was cooperating. They appreciated that very much. Everyone just wanted to get to the bottom of this, you understand. The sooner they got to the truth, the sooner everyone could put it behind them.

They'd have more questions. You know, don't go too far.

Bobby nodded wearily. He pushed back his chair and, when he went to rise, swayed on his feet. He saw one guy notice, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

And Bobby had the sudden, disconcerting urge to sock the man in the gut. He left the room and found his lieutenant waiting for him in the hall.

"How did it go?" Lieutenant Bruni asked.

Bobby said honestly, "Not that good."

The sun was out, the sky bright, by the time Bobby turned into the building where Susan lived. The morning commute was already on. He heard squawks over his radio, describing congested traffic, motor vehicle accidents, and disabled cars parked in breakdown lanes. Day was happening. City dwellers emerging from their bolt-locked cages to crowd sidewalks and jam coffee houses.

He stepped out of his cruiser, inhaled a deep gulp of city air-cold, diesel-filled, cement-laced-and for one surreal moment, it felt to him as if the night had never happened. This moment was real, the building, the parking garage, the city, but the shooting had been fake, just a particularly powerful dream. He should change back into his uniform now, climb into his cruiser and get to work.

A guy walked by. Took one look at Bobby, standing dazed in his sweat-stained urban camos, and hastily picked up his step. That shook Bobby out of his funk.

He grabbed his trusty rucksack and headed for Susan's unit.

She answered on his second knock, wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and looking flushed from the warm comfort of her bed. Practices had a tendency to run deep into the night, and she often slept late the next morning.

She gazed at Bobby, all sleep-tousled blonde hair, rosy skin, and heavy-lidded gray eyes, and her face immediately softened into a smile.

"Hey, sweetheart," she began, before the last of the sleep left her, and her instant pleasure gave way to immediate concern.

"Shouldn't you be at work? Bobby, what's wrong?"

He walked into her apartment. There were so many things he should say. He could feel the words building in the unbearable tightness of his chest. Susan was a concert cellist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. They had met, of all places, in a local pub.

Bobby knew nothing about classical music. He was all sports bars, pickup games of basketball, and ice-cold beer. In contrast Susan was billowy skirts, long walks in the park, and tea at the Ritz.

He'd asked her out anyway. She'd surprised them both by saying yes. Days had turned into weeks, weeks into months, and now they'd been seeing each other for over a year. Sometimes he thought it was only a matter of time until she moved into his little three-story row house in South Boston. He allowed himself to think of weddings and babies and twin rockers at the retirement home.

He'd never quite brought himself to ask the question yet.

Maybe because he still had too many moments like this one, when he stood before her sweaty, grimy, and covered with a night's work, and instead of feeling grateful to see her, he was shocked she let him through the door.

Her world was such a beautiful place. What the hell was she doing with a guy like him?

"Bobby?" she asked quietly.

He couldn't find the words. None would move his lips. None would come close to releasing the pent-up emotions tightening his chest.

Oh God, that poor kid. To watch his father die.

Why had the bastard made him do it? Why had Jimmy Gagnon just ruined Bobby's life?

He moved without ever knowing he was moving. His hands were sliding under Susan's robe, trying desperately to find bare skin. She murmured something. Yes, no, he never really heard. He had her robe off, and was skimming his fingers across the thin lace that covered her breasts, while burying his face in the curve of her neck.

She had beautiful fingers. Long, delicate, but shockingly strong.

fingers that could coax a fine wooden instrument into the sweetest sounds. Now those fingers were on his back, finding the knots that corded his muscles. She had his shirt off, was working on his pants.

She was too slow. He was hungry, desperate. He needed things he couldn't name but knew instinctively she could give to him. Funny how he'd always been delicate with her before. Her skin was fine china, her beauty too pure to tarnish. Now he ripped the gauzy nightgown from her body. His teeth sank into her rounded shoulder. His hands gripped her buttocks, pushed her up, lifting her against him.

They went down in a tangle on the hardwood floor. He got the bottom, she claimed the top. Her mouth was devouring his chest, her small, pale body writhing against his broad, dark frame. Light and shadow, good and bad.

She was poised above him, she was pushing down onto him. Her shoulders were thrown back, her breasts thrust out. She needed him. He needed her. Light and shadow, good and bad.