Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(106)

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.





*


ELEVEN A.M. JACK 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.”