Catch Me (10 page)

I closed my eyes. That’s what I’d been picturing, what I’d just known. That Dawn’s husband was standing there, on the other side of the closet door, waiting for his wife with a loaded gun. And the moment a third party arrived, sirens at the scene, a uniformed officer, ringing the doorbell…

That’s what he’d been waiting for, good old Vincent. The final provocation to justify pulling the trigger.

Officer Mackereth came in over the radio. He’d pulled it together now, returning to script. I did my best to follow suit. “Nine twenty-six to four sixty-one, is it safe to enter the home?”

I got back on my headphones. “Dawn, it’s Charlie. A uniformed officer is at your front door. He has your husband detained and disarmed. You can come out now, Dawn.”

Then, for the first time since the call began, the sound of her voice. “Is he…is he okay?”

“The police officer or your husband?” Though sadly, I already knew the answer to that.

“My husband,” she said shakily.

“You know, Dawn, why don’t you go downstairs and see for yourself.”

“Okay. Okay. I think I can do that. Charlie…”

I waited. But she didn’t say thank you. Few of them ever did.

Dawn hung up the phone. She went to check on her drunken husband, who five minutes earlier had been prepared to kill her.

And I resumed my seat, my hand now on Tulip’s head, stroking her silky ears.

“Glad to have you here, girl,” I whispered. “Glad to have you here.”

She placed her graying muzzle on my lap, and I kept petting her head, until eventually my hands stopped shaking and both of us sat silently in the dark.

Y
OU’D THINK THAT WOULD BE ENOUGH
for one night, but it wasn’t. Two thirty-three A.M., the other relevant call came in. I saw the info on the ANI ALI screen and was immediately agitated. Then, I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and answered.

“Hey,” I said, slightly surprised to be receiving the call through official channels and not on my prepaid cell.

Silence at first, for so long, I thought maybe the caller couldn’t answer. But then, finally, a voice. Small, quivering, scared. The girl then, not the boy. Too young to remember my cell number, so reverting back to the number of first contact: 911.

She was crying and at this stage of the game, I didn’t need her to speak to know why. Dispatch officers…we are more than backup for our men and women in uniform. We are Ma Bell’s version of social services, audio first responders to battered wives, overwhelmed new parents, drunken teens, and terrified children. We hear it all.

Then we transfer the call and walk away. Not our problem. We’re simply the messengers that yeah, life really sucks out there.

Now, here’s a question for you: If you only had four days left to live, what would you do?

Remain on the sidelines? Or get in the game?

And if, say, you’d spent the past year learning how to run, fight, shoot, how to stop being and start doing, would that change the answer? And if, say, you had insider’s knowledge of the kind of crimes the system can’t handle, where the perpetrator wins and the victim loses, would that change the answer?

I’d spent months contemplating this question. Then I’d arrived at a decision.

It helped me now, as I reached out and tapped my keyboard. As I deliberately and consciously broke the law, disconnecting my caller from the recorded dispatch system and picking her up on my prepaid Wal-Mart phone instead.

“Hey,” I said again. “It’s okay. It’s me, Charlie. I’m going to help. One more day, sweetheart, and you will never be hurt again.”

“B
AD NEWS
,” D.D. informed Alex over dinner. “In the war over sanity in the city, the lunatics are winning.”

She’d done the honors of picking up Jack from day care at five forty-five. By six thirty Alex had made it home, where, being an enthusiastic cook, he’d put the finishing touches on a Crock-Pot version of chicken cacciatore he’d started that morning.

Now they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table. Alex had a glass of red wine; she had a glass of water. Alex had two hands for eating and drinking. She had one hand cradling Jack against her shoulder, the other wielding a fork.

Jack was currently asleep, half of his chubby face smashed into the curve of her neck, where he was making the most ridiculously adorable snoring sounds. This was probably as close to domestic bliss as she was ever gonna get, D.D. figured. Her baby snuggled against her chest, while she and Alex enjoyed a leisurely Italian dinner and talked shop.

“First I was wrapping up a shooting that may or may not be part of a broader vigilante crime spree,” she was telling Alex now. “Then I end up chasing down a suspicious woman, who claims she wants me to investigate her own murder, four days from today.”

Alex paused with a forkful of chicken in a midair. “She’s planning ahead? I don’t remember ever seeing a spot for appointing your own homicide detective on the estate planning forms.”

“Oh, they’re there. The beautiful young trophy wives just white ’em out before having their husbands sign on the bottom line.”

He thought about it. “Makes sense.” He resumed eating, then paused again. “Seriously, this woman is planning on being murdered?”

“Her two best friends were each murdered on January twenty-first. First one died two years ago, second one last year, meaning this year…”

Alex stared at her, clearly perplexed.

D.D. sighed. She set down her own fork and stroked Jack’s plump cheek. “This is the crazy part—I looked it up on the computer when Jack and I came home and she’s right. Randi Menke was murdered in Providence two years ago on the twenty-first, Jacqueline Knowles in Atlanta same date last year. How creepy is that?”

“Creepy,” Alex agreed, and set down his fork. Alex taught crime scene analysis at the police academy and had a tendency to take a cerebral approach to homicide. D.D. appreciated that. Figured it was a good balance for her own shoot-first-question-later style.

“No jurisdiction,” he said now, opening salvo of an ongoing analysis.

“Yep. I asked about threatening letters, phone calls, contact. Nada. Sounds like her life is very quiet, if you exclude the annual funerals. Two murders in two different states complicates matters, as well. She said the FBI gave the homicides a cursory glance, but couldn’t find any obvious connections between the two. Ironically enough, third time has a tendency to be the charm, meaning this year, after the twenty-first…”

Alex nodded. As a former investigator, he understood crime was really a numbers game. Twice was a coincidence, and no one blew their budgets on coincidences. Third murder, however, established a pattern. That got investigators more excited.

“Girl paid for a report from a retired FBI profiler,” D.D. continued now, readjusting Jack’s snuffling form. “I’m thinking of maybe contacting him, or perhaps the Rhode Island detective involved in the first murder. Asking a few questions.”

Alex nodded abruptly, conclusion reached. “I would.”

“You think she’s in danger?”

“Unknown,” he said crisply. “But here’s the second angle to
consider—there is a link between the first two murders. The girl herself. Knew both victims.”

“I would assume investigators looked into that…” D.D. began.

Alex shook his head. “Never assume. Also, you found her loitering outside a shooting, which is…odd. Either she’s scared enough to want protection, in which case she’d most logically plead her case at headquarters. Or, she realizes, as she claims, there’s nothing the police can do, and she continues to go at it alone. But stalking a homicide detective outside a crime scene…From a rational point of view, how does that gain her anything?”

“Personal connection,” D.D. informed him. “Now that I’ve met her, I’m supposed to try harder to find her killer.”

Alex arched a brow. “She’s networking?”

“I’m telling you, it was a day defined by fruitcakes.”

“Tell me more about the note on your windshield,” he asked now.

D.D.’s eyes widened. “The note! Crap. It’s still sitting in my car. I totally forgot to deliver it to the crime lab. Oh my God! How do you forget something like that? How could I…How could I…Oh. My. God…!”

D.D.’s voice trailed off. The enormity of her mistake was too large, nearly incomprehensible. She stared at Alex wildly. “That’s homicide one-oh-one. First-year-out-of-the-academy, don’t-get-yourself-fired basics. I’m an idiot. I went on maternity leave, and I came back stupid!”

“You’re not stupid,” Alex stated calmly. “You’re sleep deprived.”

“I
failed
to deliver evidence. How could I have done such a thing?” Her voice broke. She was less hysterical, more genuinely panicked. Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren didn’t make mistakes. Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren certainly didn’t forget things like evidence handling 101.

Having children did change you; apparently it had made her worse.

“D.D.,” Alex said evenly.

“I’m going to have to quit my job.”

“D.D.”

“Maybe I could resign from being sergeant. Put Phil in charge in of the squad. He has four kids, and still, brighter than me.”

“D.D.”

“Will the brain cells come back?” she asked Alex plaintively. “I mean, all the baby books mention sleep cycles, so I’m assuming someday Jack will have one. He’ll sleep through the night, and I’ll stop making major mistakes that may or may not allow a murderer to go free.”

“Gee,” Alex interjected more forcefully, “if only the father of your child was an expert on crime scene analysis, who could assist with evidence handling. And, say, even call an expert on forensic handwriting analysis who happens to be a fellow teacher at the academy.”

D.D. stared at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her plate, realized belatedly that she hadn’t eaten much, and picked back up her fork. “Huh, all that and you can cook, too.”

Alex smiled faintly. Done with his dinner, he pushed away from the table, stood, and cleared his plate. “Careful,” he said, his back to her as he crossed to the kitchen sink. “Some girls might be impressed enough to marry me.”

D.D. regarded his retreating form. She said, equally soft, “Yeah, but I think we just established those girls are smarter than me.”

Alex didn’t say anything more. He went to fetch the note from her car.

D.D. remained seated at the table, holding Jack. She kissed the top of his head. “Sorry,” she murmured, though she couldn’t have told either one of them what she was apologizing for.

A
LEX RETURNED WITH THE NOTE,
encased in clear plastic. With gloved hands, he carefully removed the plain white paper and shot several digital photos. Then he called his fellow academic. They exchanged pleasantries, after which Alex secured permission to e-mail a photo of the note for preliminary analysis.

“He’ll call us back in twenty to thirty minutes,” Alex explained to D.D., sliding the piece of paper back into its plastic cover. “Of
course, for a more thorough analysis you’ll want to submit the note to the crime lab in order to fingerprint the paper and run tests on paper and ink type.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Jack was awake now. She sat with him on the sofa, where she had him sprawled on her lap. He peered up at her with wide blue eyes. When Alex came over to join them, Jack turned to his father and waved a pudgy fist.

“Look at that,” D.D. declared triumphantly. “He can already wave hello. Knew he’d be smart.”

“He gets that from me,” Alex said, settling onto the sofa, his right arm around her shoulders. “I’ve always had dynamite greeting skills. Wipe the globe, wipe the globe.” He used his left hand to demonstrate his best Miss America wave. Jack responded by kicking his feet.

“Soccer star,” D.D. said immediately. “Check out the muscle on him!”

“Soccer? Hmm, that must be from you. Given my own coordination skills, I make it a point never to walk and chew gum.”

“My parents were teachers,” D.D. said absently. “College profs before they retired.”

“Then Jack definitely better watch that whole walking and chewing gum thing.” Alex touched her cheek. “They still coming this weekend?”

She finally looked up at him. “It’s not too late to run away,” she said seriously. “Or I could just tell them I buried your body in the backyard. They’ll believe me.”

He grinned, but she could see the gentleness in his eyes. It bothered her that he seemed to think she needed such a look. It bothered her even more that he was probably right, that she had become a woman who required patient smiles and tender glances. Sleep deprivation, she tried to tell herself, but wondered if it wasn’t one of those children-change-you changes, meaning she was doomed to forever be a frazzled, domesticated, slightly more inept version of herself.

“I don’t hate them,” she heard herself say. “I know I don’t have the same relationship with my parents that you have with yours. But I don’t hate them.”

Alex fingered a curly lock of her short blond hair. “How do you feel about them?”

She shrugged, fidgeting with Jack’s tiny fingers in much the same way Alex played with her hair. “I respect them. They’re two intelligent, well-meaning adults leading their own busy lives. They do their thing. I do mine. We’re happy.”

“You didn’t want your mom in the delivery room,” he said quietly.

D.D. shook her head vehemently. “God no. That would’ve been terrible!”

“How come?”

“Because.” She shrugged again, looked down at her plump little baby who smiled back up at her with a big, toothless grin. He had her blue eyes, she thought, but would most likely end up with his father’s dark hair.

“I love him,” she said suddenly. “I love…everything about him. The way he smells, the way he feels, the way he smiles. He is the most perfect baby in the whole entire world. And I can tell you for a fact, my mother never felt that way about me.

“I was an afterthought. A late-in-life oops that happened to two very cerebral people who’d never planned on having kids. And after all that, I wasn’t even a quiet, well-behaved bookish kid. I was a total hellion who climbed trees and crashed bikes and once hit Mikey Davis so hard he lost a tooth.”