Catch Me (19 page)

“Hard to fit a king-sized bed in Boston real estate. Jump rope?”

“Technically, the two-year-old was only tied up for ten minutes, then figured out how to wiggle out of the knots. I blame my husband. He’s an outdoorsman, so he keeps teaching the girls ‘skills’ that inevitably result in babysitters never returning.”

“What’s your husband do?”

“Mac’s a state cop.”

“Ah,” D.D. said, connecting the dots. “So your daughters are double–Special Agent kids—FBI on the one side and Georgia Bureau of Investigation on the other.”

“That might be the other explanation,” Kimberly agreed.

“My partner is also a former detective, who now teaches courses in crime scene analysis at the police academy. I figure when Jack skins his knee for the first time, he’ll fetch placards to mark the scene of the crime first, then grab a Band-Aid.”

“Mac’s been taking our eldest, Eliza, to the shooting range with
him. He swears her first time out, she clustered three to the chest. Apparently, aiming for center mass is genetic.”

“Your seven-year-old can shoot?”

“It’s the South, honey. We like our guns.”

“I like your daughter,” D.D. assured her.

“Me, too. So what can I tell you about the Jackie Knowles murder? I’m assuming you’ve read my father’s report.”

“Your father’s…” D.D.’s voice trailed off, then she got it. “The consultant, retired FBI agent Pierce Quincy, he’s your father?”

“Yep. He’s the reason I got involved. Generally speaking, a local homicide doesn’t garner FBI attention, but my dad had done the initial analysis of the Rhode Island crime scene. He identified several overlapping variables between the Providence murder and Atlanta homicide, and a predator operating in multiple jurisdictions would be our cup of tea.”

“So you definitely think the murders are related.”

“Hard to believe otherwise,” Kimberly said bluntly. “Victims knew each other. Were murdered exactly one year apart by someone using the same MO. There’s a connection, all right. I’ll be damned if I know what it is, but there’s a connection.”

“What do you think of the third friend, Charlene yada yada Grant?”

“Only met her a couple of times, and she wasn’t feeling good about the investigators handling her friends’ murders on either occasion. She’s interacted with my father many more times, and much more positively. He likes her, but remains reserved. While she seems to earnestly and passionately care about her friends and has remained a staunch advocate on their behalf…”

“She remains a prime suspect,” D.D. filled in.

“Yep.”

“She got an alibi for the Knowles murder?”

“Her aunt claims she was in New Hampshire the evening of the twenty-first. By midday on the twenty-second, when Charlene got the news of Jackie’s death from the local police, she flew straight down from Portland, Maine. We have her name on the ticket and can corroborate the Delta flight. All in all, a decent alibi.”

“There’s a but in your voice,” D.D. said.

Kimberly sighed. “Only lead we’ve ever had in the case—Jackie’s neighbor claims to have seen Jackie return home after nine
P.M.
on the twenty-first, and she wasn’t alone. She’d brought home a friend: a female with long brown hair and a petite frame.”

“Like Charlene Grant,” D.D. mused thoughtfully.

“Who was a thousand miles away with her aunt. Unfortunately, the neighbor only saw the woman from behind, so not the best ID, but all we got.”

“Crime scene?” D.D. prodded.

“Clean. Conspicuously clean. Switch-plates-wiped-off, floorboards-mopped, every-sofa-pillow-in-place kind of clean. Kitchen, entranceway, family room—all spotless. The killer took his or her time, felt comfortable in the home. Detail-oriented, thorough, smart.”

“Strong,” D.D. added. “Manual strangulation?”

“COD, manual asphyxiation, yes. So, strong hands. But I’m less convinced on this subject than the Rhode Island investigators. They took the manual strangulation as proof the perpetrator must be male. Maybe it’s living in the South, but I’ve watched enough little old ladies wring the heads off chickens to be more open-minded. Plenty of women have decent upper body strength. Especially if they grabbed another female from behind, I think it could be done.”

“So maybe the ‘friend’ Jackie brought home that night. You check with the local bars?”

“Sure, credit card activity told us where Jackie had spent the evening. Unfortunately, it was a new bar opening downtown. When we flashed Jackie’s picture, couple of servers remembered seeing her that night, but no one was paying much attention. Apparently, the debut was very successful and the place was cranking.”

“Her e-mail messages, cell phone log?” D.D. asked.

“No recent contact from a new friend, or calendar notation to meet so-and-so at such-and-such. I’m guessing Jackie hadn’t planned on meeting a friend that night. I think the other woman found her.”

“Found her, or stalked her?”

“Good question.”

“And the woman talked Jackie into taking her home.”

“Conjecture, but a good one.”

“Because Jackie might be suspicious of a man, given what happened to her friend, Randi. But she wouldn’t think much of a strange female.”

“According to friends and family, Jackie thought Randi’s ex-husband killed her. So it’s not clear Jackie was on guard one way or the other. Then again, it was the one-year anniversary of her best friend’s murder. Jackie’s at a downtown bar, probably feeling a little lonely, a little blue…”

“The right approach,
Hey, I like your sweater, mind if I have a seat…
”

“A little conversation, a couple drinks,” Kimberly filled in.

“Jackie was an easy target. Assuming our killer is a female and really good at social engineering.”

“To judge by both scenes, we’re looking for someone with advanced people skills. Which, let’s face it, you can’t say about all killers.”

D.D. nodded, mulled it over. This case that was not even a case was growing on her, sinking in. A puzzle within a puzzle.

“So now it’s basically two days until the twenty-first,” D.D. provided. “Location has moved to Boston, where we have the final member of the trio, Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. She’s definitely on guard. Carrying a. 22, running, training, boning up on forensics and true crime, not to mention outreaching to her local homicide detective. I don’t see her bringing home any ‘new’ friends, male or female, on the twenty-first.”

“Probably not,” Kimberly agreed.

“So our killer would have to come up with another ruse,” D.D. murmured, still thinking.

“What does Charlene want most?” Kimberly asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“If you’re a killer, if you want to get someone’s attention who has every reason to be on guard, you have to offer something so good, so personal, so compelling, that even paranoid Charlene would be willing to throw caution to the wind, just to learn more.”

“She wants to know who killed her friends,” D.D. said.

“Then maybe the killer has it even easier this time around. She doesn’t have to ‘pretend’ to be anything at all. She can just be herself. Because
she
is who Charlene wants more than anything in the world. She holds all the answers to Randi and Jackie’s last minutes. And if you’re someone who has lost people you love to crime…it’s very hard to say no to that. Even if you know better, the desire, the
need
to know what happened to your loved ones…That’s a very powerful tool. I wouldn’t blame Charlie for not walking away.”

“Who’d you lose?” D.D. asked softly.

“My mother and sister.”

“And if the murderer called you up tomorrow?”

“He’d have to be dialing from one eight hundred rent a psychic,” Kimberly said flatly.

“And now your seven-year-old can plug three to center mass.”

“Yep.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Charlene’s preparations are physical,” Kimberly stated curtly. “Her killer’s MO, however, is psychological. Intimate. Up close. Personal. What good is running a six-minute mile going to do her, when she’s the one willingly opening the door? Charlene doesn’t need to be tough. She needs to think tough. That’ll get her through the twenty-first.”

“I want to stir the pot,” D.D. announced.

“How so?”

“Facebook, social media. I’m working with another detective who’s something of an expert. We’re thinking of putting together a fake Facebook page, with posts commemorating the deaths of both Randi and Jackie. See who responds.”

Kimberly seemed to consider the matter. “What about leaking info?”

“You mean crime scene details?”

“I mean fake crime scene details, maybe a criminology report. Something unflattering. No, I take that back. Something…messy. Our killer likes to be in control, yes? Neat, tidy, thorough. What if you reveal something about the Knowles scene the killer missed. Something that’s now a possible lead in the investigation. Get the killer feeling defensive, second-guessing him- or herself.”

“Get inside his or her head,” D.D. murmured.

“Turnabout is fair play.”

“Got an idea for a detail?”

Kimberly hesitated. “I’d ask my father. He knows both scenes, he was a profiler. Messing with criminal minds. Hell, he’ll love this. Give him a call.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Keep me posted. Especially on the twenty-first.”

“Will do. Good luck with your growing girls.”

“Good luck with your baby boy.”

Both women sighed, hung up their phones.

I
WAS LATE FOR MY GRAVEYARD SHIFT.
First time ever. Couldn’t help myself.

I’d had to race all the way to the T stop. Then wait for the train to return me to Cambridge. Then run another seven minutes, snotty-nosed and watery-eyed, all the way back to my one-bedroom rental. Mrs. Beals wasn’t home, but Tulip was sitting on the front porch.

I didn’t even stop to think about it. I scooped up the warm, solidly packed body of the dog that was not my dog and buried my face into the sleek folds of her neck. Tulip leaned her head against my shoulder. I could feel her sigh, as if releasing a great strain herself. So we stood like that, my arms cradling her body, her head on my shoulder.

Maybe I cried a little more. Maybe she licked the tears from my cheeks. Maybe I told her I loved her. And maybe she thumped her tail to let me know that she loved me, too.

I carried Tulip to my bedroom. Didn’t care anymore if Frances discovered and kicked me out. So little time left. What did it matter anymore? So little time left.

Stan Miller. Metal rods, protruding through his massive frame. The blood, dripping down the corners of his mouth. Sightless eyes, forever staring at me.

I tucked Tulip in my room with a bowl of food, then retreated down the hall for a long hot shower. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Shampooed, rinsed, conditioned. Did it all over again.

Was it just my imagination, or could I still smell the gunpowder
on my fingertips? I searched my naked body for other signs of the evening’s activities. Blood, bruising, something. I felt altered on the inside, ergo it made sense the outside should change as well.

But…nothing. My leather shooting gloves had done their job and protected my boxing-battered hands as I’d careened down the fire escape. My heavy winter wardrobe had done its job and guarded my already battle-scarred skin as I’d dropped and rolled. Even my ankle felt almost fine, a minor twist that had quickly recovered.

When I got out of the shower, I cleared the steam from the mirror to confirm what I already knew.

I had just killed a man, and I looked absolutely, positively the same as I had before.

Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant meet Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.

Loving niece, loyal friend, respected dispatch officer, and stone cold murderer.

I started shaking again, so I returned to the shower, cranking up the water as hot as it would go, but still not beating the chill.

E
LEVEN FOURTEEN P.M.
Tulip and I caught a taxi to work.

Second-to-last shift.

Sixty-eight hours, forty-five minutes.

I kept my arms around the dog that wasn’t my dog and didn’t let go.

“B
ABY’S CRYING.
”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“Baby’s crying. Down the hall. Crying and crying and crying. Nothing helps. Dunno…” A shaky sigh. “Dunno, dunno, dunno. Please, ma’am, tell me how to make it stop.”

Sitting alone in the glow of multiple monitors and a muted TV screen, I rubbed my face and forced myself to focus. Crying baby. Overwhelmed new parent. One of dispatch’s top ten calls. Protocol was to establish basic physical health of newborn and basic mental
health of new parent. If both seemed okay, then remind caller that 911 was for emergencies, not for parenting tips, before disconnecting.

I didn’t disconnect my caller. It had been a relatively quiet shift, the police scanner filled with chatter about one major crime, already being handled, with no other emergencies coming down the pike. And I understood, like a lot of dispatch operators who sat alone in darkened comm centers at 2 A.M., that sometimes people just needed to talk.

So I let my caller talk. I learned the name of her nine-month-old baby girl, Moesha. I learned that the baby’s father worked graveyard for a janitorial service company. I learned that my caller, nineteen-year-old Simone, was still hoping to get her GED and wanted to be a vet tech someday. She’d been excited to get pregnant, still held out dreams of getting married. But her baby daughter cried most nights and it was getting tough, and now the baby’s dad was being a jerk and Simone just wanted to go shopping with her friends, but she didn’t have any money and her boyfriend said she was too fat to buy new clothes and why didn’t she wait till she lost all the baby weight, and yo, when might that be?

Simone talked. Simone cried. Simone talked some more.

I sat and listened and stroked Tulip’s head.

Simone talked herself down. Call ended. Screen went blank.

I sat in the dark, smoothing Tulip’s floppy ears.

“Baby’s crying,” I whispered to Tulip.