Catch Me (41 page)

Rosalind Grant. Carter Grant. Two dead siblings.

Christine Grant. One dead mother.

Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. Aka Abigail. The woman at the epicenter of the storm.

D.D.’s brain went back to churning.

Nine
A.M.
, she, Alex, and Jack were all clean and had been fed. They were as ready as they were going to get. Last check of voice mail. Nothing. Last check of cell phone. Nothing.

D.D. finally caved, calling her parents and inviting them over. Alex agreed to pick them up at their hotel as they hadn’t rented a car, not wanting to drive in Boston traffic. They were in Waltham, D.D. had wanted to say, not Boston. Boston driving was a spectator sport, like sumo wrestling, where the largest, most aggressive vehicle won. Waltham, on the other hand, toodling around the burbs…She sighed and promised herself for the umpteenth time she would not be this annoying to Jack when she grew old. Come to think of it, she’d probably be worse.

While D.D. waited, she loaded Jack into the BabyBjörn, cradling him against her chest as she vacuumed the entryway rug, tidied up the living room.

The room could use a fresh coat of paint. While they were at it, they should probably recover Alex’s faded blue bachelor sofa, buff the hardwood floors. Maybe a braided rug to soften the space, a potted plant for a touch of green. Or better yet, window treatments.

D.D. caught herself actually contemplating wallpaper, then came to her senses, snapping off the vacuum cleaner and giving herself a firm mental shake. Forget the fucking decor. She was Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren for heaven’s sake. She didn’t slipcover. She handled homicides.

Nine forty-five
A.M.
She gave up on checking messages and called the lab directly. Jon Cassir in ballistics did not pick up, so she left him a voice mail. Then she and baby Jack paced some more.

Detective O believed Charlie was their vigilante killer. Charlie
was targeting pedophiles to make up for the powerlessness of her own abuse-filled youth, the mother who hurt her, the baby siblings she never saved. Plus, being a dead woman walking, what did she have to lose?

But Detective O also believed Charlene wasn’t a target for January 21. In fact, Charlie had probably set the whole thing up.

D.D. frowned. Those two theories were mutually exclusive. Charlene had either orchestrated the January 21 murders, meaning she wasn’t a dead woman walking, or she honestly perceived herself as doomed, hence it was okay to shoot sex offenders.

D.D. paced the length of the family room.

Charlene believed she was going to die today. Right or wrong, D.D. felt that in her bones. The girl’s gaunt appearance, her battered knuckles, the bruises around her throat. No one trained that hard without the threat of real and imminent danger hanging over her head.

Meaning D.D. had two serial crimes to analyze. The double murder of two childhood friends, making Charlene the logical next victim. Plus the serial shooting of three pedophiles, perhaps targeted by Charlene in a misguided attempt to administer justice during her last days on earth.

Except, at the scene of the third shooting, Charlene had introduced herself to the young, traumatized witness as Abigail. This, from a woman who was already carrying around the baggage of her dead siblings’ names. Assuming she felt a need to provide a name, why not Rosalind, or Carter, or, as she was prone to do, the whole enchilada, Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant? For that matter, what kind of murderer pulled the trigger, then turned around and introduced herself to the audience?

A crazy one, she could practically hear Detective O counter in her head. One that wasn’t a person at all, but a “split personality.” A woman who clearly hadn’t come to terms with her past.

Front door opened. Alex ushered in her parents.

“Where’s my grandson?” D.D.’s mom gushed, walking into the house, arms wide open. “It’s time to make some memories!”

Memories, D.D. thought dryly. All in the eye of the beholder.

In that instant, she had a very interesting idea.

*  *  *

E
LEVEN A.M.
J
ACK WAS BACK ASLEEP IN HIS CARRIER
. D.D.’s parents were sitting on the sofa. Her mother was discussing the cold winter, the terrible Boston weather, the bad traffic, how gray it always was (for the record, the sun was shining outside, the sky brilliant blue), and the doughnut hole in the Medicare system which no one in government talked about, but which essentially meant no senior citizen had decent health coverage anymore.

“Don’t grow old,” her mother offered up in conclusion. “It’s just terrible. Why all we do is paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. And the minute you get all your doctors and medications right, they go and change it and you have to start all over again.”

Alex sat in the rocking chair, a slightly glazed look in his eyes. He was holding his fourth cup of coffee, but judging by the way he kept peering down at his mug, it wasn’t getting the job done.

D.D. couldn’t sit anymore. She was picking up baby Jack’s toys. Both of them. Then she straightened his blanket. Then she moved his carrier. Then she brought her sleeping baby two more toys and set them beside him in the car seat. Just in case.

“So when are you coming to Florida?” her mother said.

“What?”

“We were thinking March,” her mother continued, with a look at her father. “The weather’s warm, the sun shines every day, so much better than March in New England, dear. I mean, if you’re lucky the temperatures will what? Finally break into the twenties? You can bring Jack to the beach, let him dip his toes into the ocean. And we’d like to have a party, of course. Nothing too big. Just enough for our friends to meet you and Jack. Oh, and, of course, Alex.”

Alex started at the sound of his own name. He looked up, expression faintly panic stricken at what he might have missed.

“We’ll handle the tickets,” D.D.’s mother continued. “It’ll be our gift to you and Alex. A baby gift.” She beamed.

D.D. stood in the middle of the family room, holding on to Jack’s binky for dear life. She glanced at Alex.

“Florida?” he asked blankly.

“Yes,” D.D. filled in. “They would like us to visit. In March.”

“The weather in Florida is nice in March,” he said.

“True.”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“We can go. In March. It will be nice to see where your parents live.” Then Alex got up and walked to the kitchen.

D.D.’s cell phone rang. Probably the only thing that saved her from triple homicide. Detective O’s name lit up the screen.

“Gotta take this,” she muttered and made a beeline for the rear bedroom.

“Cassir just called,” O announced without preamble. “Ballistics is a match for the second shooting and third shooting. First shooting, slug’s too damaged, as he’d predicted. But come on, two out of three…”

“Yeah,” D.D. agreed, wheels churning again. “Two out of three works for me. Request the arrest warrant for Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.”

“On it.”

“O, have you checked Facebook this morning? The page you set up?”

“Yeah. Eleven hundred friends and climbing. No obvious threats and crazies. Ex-husband hasn’t posted again. Half a dozen people who appear to have gone to high school with both victims, but hell if I can tell if they’re psycho. We’d need more time.”

“Can you check birthdays?”

“If people include that information in their profiles. Some do, some don’t.”

“Search for Jan twenty-one.”

“Today? You think…you think this is someone’s idea of celebrating their birthday?”

“There’s gotta be a reason it’s Jan twenty-one, right? Date didn’t mean anything in Randi’s world, didn’t mean anything in Jackie’s world, and doesn’t mean anything in Charlie’s world. Hence, it means something to the killer.”

“Happy birthday?”

“Yes,” D.D. said, and as she said it, she felt the last pieces of the puzzle click. Her mental churning ending. The answer arrived. “Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant,” she stated. “That’s our problem. We keep thinking this is about Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s not. Maybe this has nothing to do with Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. Maybe, it has everything to do with Abigail.”

“Charlie is Abigail. Ballistics report confirms it.”

“Maybe. But that still doesn’t answer the question: Our shooter made a point of introducing herself as Abigail. Why?”

“She was comforting the boy. She hates the perverts, not the victims.”

“She could comfort the boy without providing a name. But she was specific. ‘My name is Abigail.’”

“In honor of her sister. The baby whose body we haven’t found yet.”

“So dead baby Rosalind becomes a middle name, and dead baby Carter becomes another middle name, whereas Abigail…?”

“Becomes a splintered personality.”

“Why?”

“How the hell do I know? I believe that’s why they call it insanity.”

“What about the twenty-first?” D.D. continued. “Charlene’s BFFs were each murdered on January twenty-first. Why that day?”

“That question’s been asked. Unfortunately, no one knows the answer. On the other hand, maybe we’ll finally get some new data today.”

“I think the two things go together,” D.D. said.

“What two things?”

“Abigail and January twenty-first. See, we only know Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. We’ve only dug into her past, asked her questions. But what about Abigail? Why that name, why that date?”

“You’re implying
Abigail
is the connection between the BFF murders and the sex offender shootings?”

“I think so.”

“But…” O’s voice hesitated. “Abigail is Charlie.”

“Actually, if this is a case of multiple personalities, that’s not true. Abigail is a piece of Charlie. But technically speaking, the two have never met.”

“Do I get to arrest Charlie?” O asked.

“Sure. We have ballistics. Use the report to obtain the warrant. Getting Charlene behind bars isn’t a bad thing, but I’m telling you now, who we really want to meet is Abigail. Whatever’s going on, she holds the key.”

“I’m off to arrest Charlene Grant,” O said, her tone implying D.D. was the one who’d now gone crazy.

“Fine,” D.D. agreed. “I’m off to learn about Abigail. We’ll see which one of us finds the killer first.”

W
HEN THE FIRST
Grovesnor PD cruiser came wailing into sight, I froze. It was coming for me. No logical reason to assume such a thing, but I did. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

I planted myself next to a telephone pole near the entrance to the underground T station, shoulders hunched, head ducked down as if I could magically disappear into the bulk of my winter coat.

Didn’t work. Brakes screeched. The cruiser careened to a halt beside me. I eyeballed the distance to the subway stairs, descending beneath the earth. Forty, fifty steps. I was small, fast. Had a fighting chance at it if I took off right—

“Get in,” Officer Mackereth growled through the open passenger side window. “For fuck’s sake, Charlie. Get in. Get down. Now!”

I popped the door, tucked myself into the front passenger’s seat, then shut the door and curled myself into the foot well beneath the dash. Head down again, trusting my dark brown hair to blend with the black leather seat as further camouflage, while Tom hit the gas and the cruiser shot off, sirens still wailing, looking for all intents and purposes as if the officer were in hot pursuit.

“Describe your gun,” Tom said, both hands on the wheel, gaze straight ahead, expression grim.

“What?”

“Describe your firearm!”

“Taurus twenty-two semiauto. Nickel-plated…rosewood grip…”

“What kind of grip?”

“Rosewood.”

He grunted, threw the car around a corner, accelerated slightly.

“Tom, what’s going on?”

“Call came in from the sergeant two minutes ago. You’re wanted on an outstanding warrant.” He finally spared a glance at me. “Murder one.”

My eyes widened. I didn’t say anything.

“Gonna argue with me, Charlie? Say you didn’t do it? You’re innocent.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Neither do I,” he stated flatly, and he sounded angry. At himself, me, the situation—I couldn’t tell. “This is what I don’t get: Been chatter over the radio for the past thirty minutes about a break in a major case—string of shootings of child molesters. Finally got a match on the gun, something like that. Bunch of Boston cops been joking that maybe instead of arresting the shooter we should give
her
a badge.”

Tom took his eyes off the road just long enough to stare at me. “Knew it was you, Charlie. Knew it had to be. The request last night to seize your weapon, the LT pulling your time cards, spending half the night on the phone with a Boston detective—”

“Wait.” I straightened, promptly whacked my head on the underside of the dash. “A
string
of shootings? Child molesters? What?”

“Yeah, exactly. Because I know for a fact we didn’t seize your weapon last night. Shepherd checked your bag—you were clear.”

I didn’t speak anymore, just listened.

“Which made me wonder,” Tom continued, “how the Boston PD managed to have matched slugs to your handgun. So I called the lab—”

“You called the lab?”

“Sure. I shoot with the head ballistics tech, Jon Cassir, a couple of times a month. So I asked him about it, you know, cop to cop, talking shop. And he said yeah, he’d spent all night shooting into the drum in order to run a ballistics test in a high profile case. Couldn’t pull any prints, though, given the checked rubber grip.”

“Rubber grip?” I was more confused than ever.

Tom slowed the cruiser slightly, blinker on. He tapped the brakes, paused at an intersection. I ducked down again, prayed for invisibility. Then he turned right, accelerating steadily, but killing his light bar, slowing his pace. He seemed to have a specific destination in mind, but I didn’t know where.

“I checked your bag one night,” he said now.