"Robinson?" the caller asked.

"Yeah."

"Did you find him?"

"Yeah."

"Do we have a deal?" "Keep up your end of the arrangement and he'll keep up his."

"Good. I'll wire you the money."

"You understand what you're doing, don't you?" Robinson blurted out.

"I can't control him. He was a killer before he went to jail, he was a killer while he was in jail, and now-" The caller cut him off.

"Trust me: that's exactly what I'm hoping for."

Bobby woke up blearily to the sound of a phone ringing. For a moment, he lay there, blinking his eyes at the ceiling and feeling the pounding in his head. Jesus, he stank of beer.

Then the phone rang again and the next thought flashed across his mind as a small hopeful flare: Susan.

He grabbed the phone.

"Hello?"

The woman on the other end of the phone was not Susan and it amazed him how much he was disappointed.

"Robert Dodge?"

"Who's this?"

"Catherine Gagnon. I believe you shot my husband."

Jesus Christ. Bobby sat up. The shades were drawn, his room was dark, he couldn't get his bearings. His gaze scatter-shot around the room, finally finding his bedside clock and reading the glowing red numbers. Six forty-five a.m. He'd been asleep what, three, four hours? It wasn't enough for this.

"We can't talk," he said.

"I'm not calling to blame you."

"We can't talk," he said again, more emphatically. "Officer Dodge, I wouldn't be alive right now if you hadn't done what you did. Is that what you need to hear?"

"Mrs. Gagnon, there are lawsuits, there are lawyers. We can't be seen talking."

"Point taken. I believe I can make it to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum without being followed. Can you?"

"Lady-" "I'll be there after eleven. In the Veronese Room."

"Have a nice tour."

"Haven't you ever heard, Officer Dodge? The enemy of your enemy is your friend. We have the same enemy, you and I, which means now we're the only hope either of us has left."

Eleven-fifteen a.m." Bobby found her in front of a Whistler portrait awash in vivid shades of blue. The artwork featured a lounging woman, nude, voluptuously curved and swathed in bright oriental fabrics. In contrast, Catherine Gagnon stood out as a stark silhouette. Long black hair, tailored black dress, skinny black heels. Even from the back, she was a striking woman. Slender, self-contained, oozing pedigreed wealth. Bobby decided she was too skinny for his tastes, too rich-bitch, but then she turned and he felt something tighten low in his gut. Something about the way she moved, he thought. Or maybe it was the way her dark, oversized eyes dominated her pale, sculpted face.

She looked at him. He looked at her. And for a long moment, neither took a step.

First time Bobby had seen her, he'd had the impression of a dark Madonna, a slender mother wrapping herself protectively around her young son. Now, with the allegations of child abuse fresh in his mind, he saw a black widow. She was cool. Ballsy, to call him up out of the blue. And probably, most likely, he decided, dangerous.

"You can relax," she said quietly from across the way.

"It's an art museum. No cameras allowed, remember?"

"Clever," he acknowledged, and she flashed him a fleeting smile before returning her attention to the artwork.

He finally crossed to her, standing in front of the Whistler display, but leaving plenty of distance between them.

The room wasn't crowded yet; early November was off-season? Boston. Too late for leaf-peeping, too early for holiday shopping. Bobby and Catherine shared the opulent room of the mansion-museum with only four other souls, and those four didn't appear to be giving them a second glance.

"Do you like Whistler?" she asked.

"More of a Pedro Martinez fan, myself."

"Believe in the Red Sox curse?"

"Haven't seen anything to prove otherwise."

"I like this Whistler study," she said.

"The long sensuous lines of the woman's body against that opulent blue fabric. It's extremely erotic. Do you think this woman was merely a model for him, or after posing for this, did she become Whistler's lover?"

Bobby didn't say anything. She didn't seem to require an answer.

"He had a reputation for being a dandy, you know. In 1888, however, just a few years after painting this piece, he supposedly married the love of his life, Beatrice Godwin. She died eight years later from cancer. What a pity. Did you know that Whistler's a local artist? Born in Lowell, Mass-"

"I didn't come for the art."

She merely arched a brow at him.

"Shame, don't you think? It's a wonderful museum."

He gave her another look, and she finally relented.

"Let's go upstairs. Third level."

"More Whistler?"

"No, more privacy."

They mounted the wide, curving staircase to the top level of the museum. They passed by more people, then several guards standing stony-faced in designated rooms. Fourteen years ago, two thieves disguised as Boston police officers had stolen thirteen works of art from this museum. The theft gave the museum a certain level of notoriety that the security guards didn't forget. Now they scrupulously studied each person walking by, causing Bobby to avert his gaze. When they finally arrived on the third floor, he found that he was breathing harder than necessary. Catherine Gagnon wasn't as cool as she'd like to pretend either. He could see both of her hands trembling at her sides. As if sensing his gaze, she stopped the motion by curving her fingers into fists.

She walked all the way to the back and he followed, noting things he didn't want to note. Like the smell of her perfume, rich, almost cinnamony, like barely suppressed heat. Or the way she walked, lithe, graceful, like a cat. She worked out. Yoga or Pilates would be his guess. Either way, she was stronger than she looked.

In the back room of the third floor, no one was around. Bobby and Catherine positioned themselves at random, close but not too close, and Catherine started to talk.

"I loved my husband," she said softly.

"I know that must sound strange to you. When I first met Jimmy, he was… amazing, generous, sweet. He took me on whirlwind weekends to Paris and grand shopping tours. I… I had some trouble earlier in my life. Some sadness. When I first met Jimmy, for the first time, things felt right. He entered the picture and literally swept me off my feet. He was my knight in shining armor."

Bobby wondered what some sadness meant. He wondered, for that matter, why Catherine Gagnon was telling him any of this. He'd killed Jimmy Gagnon; he didn't want to hear stories about the man now.

"I was wrong about Jimmy," Catherine said abruptly.

"Jimmy wasn't a knight in shining armor. He was drunk and abusive, a manipulative, charismatic man who would smile at you when he got his way, and go after you with a knife when he didn't. He was everything I swore to myself I knew better than to marry. But I didn't see it. I didn't understand until it was much too late, and then I could only wonder-I knew better. How had I still ended up married to the likes of him?"

She stopped abruptly, a person biting off an unspoken curse. She turned away again, but her steps were hard now, agitated as she paced the tiny room.

"He beat you?" Bobby asked.

"I can show you bruises." Her hands moved immediately to the belt of her dress. He held up his palm to stop her.

"Why didn't you tell the cops?"

"They were Boston cops. Jimmy's father, Judge Gagnon, had already handed down an edict: If Jimmy was in trouble, cops were to call him and he'd personally take care of it. Jimmy liked to brag about that. Shortly before he'd knock me unconscious."

Bobby frowned. He didn't like these kinds of stories, cops turning a blind eye, yet it fit with what two BPD cops had already told him. Jimmy Gagnon was a wild one, and he used his father as his own personal get-out-of-jail-free card.