Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(14)

D.D. poured a cup of coffee for Charlie, grabbed a bottle of water for herself.

Ninety-three minutes before she went home.

She reentered the interview room, took a seat across from her person of interest, and got down to business.


“WHERE YOU FROM, CHARLIE?”

“J-Town, New Hampshire.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Three hours north, near Mount Washington. Small town. One of those places where everybody knows your name.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“Because I believe the person who will try to kill me on January twenty-first will be someone I know. So, first line of defense is to run away from everyone I know.”

The girl grimaced. She’d taken the coffee from D.D. but wasn’t drinking it. Just holding it between her hands as if for warmth.

According to the preliminary background report, Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant was twenty-eight years old. In person, with her long brown hair scraped tightly into a ponytail, she appeared even younger. She had a slight frame, D.D. decided, further hollowed out by nerves or stress or something. The girl’s pale cheeks were gaunt, her blue eyes bruised from sleepless nights. She wore an oversized shapeless black sweatshirt, the kind favored by street thugs and vandals, paired with broken-down jeans and cheap snow boots. An outfit guaranteed to blend into almost any urban landscape.

A good ensemble, D.D. figured, to be either predator or prey.

“Why January twenty-one? And why do you think you’ll know your killer?”

The girl started talking then. It was impressive really. About her first childhood friend murdered two years ago on the twenty-first, then her second friend murdered one year later on the exact same date, leaving Charlie as the last man standing. Charlie had names of lead detectives, even volunteered a report written up by a retired FBI profiler, Pierce Quincy, analyzing the crime scenes.

“Findings?” D.D. had to ask, not that she trusted some Feebie’s report, but, then again…She took some notes. One of the investigators, Rhode Island State Detective Roan Griffin, she knew from training exercises. Maybe she’d give him a call.

“Given the lack of physical evidence,” the girl said, “no forced entry, no sign of struggle, Quincy theorizes the killer is of above-average intelligence, methodical in thought and appearance. Perhaps someone known to the victims, but at least someone who would initially appear nonthreatening. Probably above-average verbal skills, hence the killer’s ability to talk his way into the home and control his victim’s responses until the last possible moment.”

The girl recited the sentences flatly. Someone who’d read the crime scene analysis so many times, the words had ceased to refer to people she once knew and loved, and instead had become stock phrases repeated to trained professionals over and over again. D.D. had worked with family members from other cold cases. She knew how this drill went. The slow migration from wounded loved one to staunch advocate. How some family members ended up knowing more about forensics than the experts involved.

“Sexual assault?” D.D. asked.

“Negative.”

D.D. frowned. That surprised her. Most murderers were sexual predators at heart. Particularly given these dynamics, a crime that involved intimate stalking, then occurred up close and personal. Now, in cases of murder-for-hire, or a homicide for personal gain, lack of sexual assault was more typical. Motivation then was materialistic in nature, not sexually driven.

“Signs of robbery?” she asked now.

“Negative.”

“Anything missing at all? Even a special artifact, something meaningful to each victim?”

Charlie shook her head. “But hard to be definitive,” she supplied. “My friends lived alone, meaning it’s hard to confirm every item in each household. If something small were taken, it could be easily overlooked.”

“What about inheritance?” D.D. asked. “Anyone obviously better off from your friends’ deaths?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think Randi had much, being recently divorced. I guess it went to her parents, maybe? Probably the same for Jackie. She was doing very well for Coca-Cola, but even then, I wouldn’t call her rich. She probably had some equity in her house, her car, a retirement account. But tens of thousands, I’d guess, not hundreds of thousands.”

“You get anything?” D.D. asked her bluntly.

The girl shook her head.

“Life insurance?”

“I never heard of anything. Though,” Charlie caught herself, “it wouldn’t surprise me if Jackie had a policy. She liked to plan ahead. I would guess, however, that her parents or her brother were the beneficiaries.”

“No husband?”

“No partner,” Charlie corrected.

“Lesbian?”

“Yes.”

D.D. stared at her. “You ever get involved with her?”

“We were best friends,” Charlie said evenly. “Lesbians can have female friends you know, just like guys can have female friends.”

“Gotta ask the question,” D.D. said mildly. “It’s what I do.” D.D. pursed her lips, continuing to mull the matter. Two homicides, a thousand miles apart. Link between the victims, the methodology, and the date, but not enough evidence to provide traction. Hell of a story, she had to admit. Interesting. Intriguing. The kind of thing to tickle a workaholic detective’s crime bone.