Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(107)

“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.”





Chapter 37


WHEN 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 f*ck’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.”