Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(105)

Chapter 36


D.D. WOKE WITH A JOLT AT 6 A.M. No baby crying, no alarm blaring, no Alex up and preparing for work. She lay there for a second, conducting a mental review, then it hit her. January 21. The anniversary of two past homicides. The day Charlene Grant had predicted for her own demise.

D.D. got out of bed.

She threw on Alex’s navy blue flannel robe and padded into the kitchen to brew coffee. While there, she checked her cell phone for messages. Nothing.

She retreated to the bathroom to brush her teeth, take fresh inventory of the purple shadows beneath her eyes, the wan color of her sleep-deprived features, and a new but distinct loosening of the skin beneath her chin. She jiggled the suspicious flap, figured this is what happened when you turned forty-one, then scowled unhappily before returning to the kitchen for her first cup of coffee. She phoned in to work and checked voice mail for messages. Nothing.

She should check in with her parents, whom she’d now managed to avoid for nearly twenty-four hours. They wouldn’t be happy about that. Probably had every right not to be happy about that.

Upon further consideration, breakfast first.

She cooked bacon, eggs, and had just started waffles when Alex stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen. He wore a gray FBI Academy sweatshirt over the white T-shirt and turquoise scrubs he favored for bed. His cheeks were shadowed with salt-and-pepper stubble. His sweatshirt bore baby spit-up on the left shoulder.

They were both old, she decided. But all in all, they still looked pretty good.

She poured him a cup of coffee.

“Don’t you have today off?” he mumbled, accepting the mug gratefully.

“Not on deck. But hopefully, a big day in our shooting case. Awaiting a call from ballistics anytime now.” She topped off her cup.

He caught her refilling, raised a brow. “Thought you’d given up the java express.”

“Yeah, but there’s something about homicide that simply demands a good cup of joe.”

Being a man who drank coffee all day long, Alex didn’t argue.

He took a seat at the table. D.D. fed him breakfast, a rare turn of events as the kitchen was generally his domain. Another cozy scene, D.D. thought in the back of her mind. Last night it had been her and Jack, mother and son. Now it was her and Alex, essentially husband and wife.

It was aggravating to think that her mother might be right.

They ate in comfortable silence. Alex read the paper, then worked on the daily crossword puzzle. D.D. puttered around the kitchen, washing dishes, drying them, putting them away. Her mind was churning. She knew herself well enough to know she was working something out. She just wasn’t sure what.

Seven thirty, Jack joined the party. Alex fed him, while she showered. Eight A.M., she decided it was still too early to bother her parents, checking her cell phone and her voice mail for work messages instead. Nothing.

Charlene Grant should be off duty now. Looking for her. 22. Not finding it. Realizing the police were onto her. Or maybe too distracted by the date, the perceived danger to herself, perhaps fresh grief over what had happened to her friends, to home in directly on the police. Maybe she’d just panic instead.

What did you do on your final day alive? Take a nap to be better prepared for the coming showdown? Pick up some hottie for last-day-on-earth sex? Indulge in a final fat-, sugar-, and calorie-laden meal?

Call the people you love and tell them good-bye?

Except Charlene didn’t really have anyone left. Just her aunt Nancy and a stray mutt.

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 BabyBj?rn, 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 f*cking 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?