Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(28)

I was like the walk-on part in all those old war movies. The new guy whose name nobody bothered to learn.

Except Officer Mackereth was talking to me now, paying attention to me now. Following war movie logic, he’d just doomed me to blow up in scene two.

The thought made me smile, then made me want to laugh, then made me want to cry.

Exhaustion and adrenaline. A dangerous combination in any person, but particularly in one with only eighty-four hours left.

“What do you mean phone beeps?” Officer Mackereth asked again.

I put away the Clorox wipes. Got out my messenger bag. “I asked questions. The caller responded by using one beep for yes, two beeps for no,” I supplied. “Got the job done.”

I slipped the wide flat strap crossways over my body, black leather bag, with my loaded Taurus, draped at my hip. I picked up Tulip’s leash.

And Officer Mackereth placed his hand on my arm.

I stilled. Maybe sucked in a breath. Tried to think what to feel, how to respond. For a year I’d been training to attack, retaliate, defend. I should drop into boxer’s stance, hands in front of my face. Take a picture, my coach always yelled. I should prepare to deliver jab one to be followed quickly by punch two, left hook three, uppercut four.

No one had touched me in a year. Casually, politely, kindly.

And the sheer vacuum of my isolation suddenly threatened to consume me. Isolation, exhaustion, adrenaline.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry.

I wanted to throw myself into Mackereth’s arms and remember what it felt like to be held again.

“Did you learn that in training?” he asked me evenly.

“No.”

“What about the gun? How’d you know he had a gun?”

His hand was still on my arm, his blue eyes fastened intently on my face. I kept my chin up, my expression neutral. “Just knew.”

His arm finally dropped. Beside me, Tulip whined slightly, as if sensing my discomfort.

“Good work,” he said abruptly. “I think.…Thank you, Charlie. I mean it, thanks.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I said simply. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out the situation. I’ll do better next time.”

Two more shifts. That’s all she wrote. Two more shifts.

Officer Mackereth switched his attention to Tulip, who was now pressed against my leg. I noticed his hands by his side. No wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything. Few officers wore them, not wanting to broadcast personal information in their line of work.

“I’ll take you home,” he said abruptly.

“It’s okay—” I started.

He cut me off. “Can’t take her on the T,” he said, gesturing to Tulip. “We might be open-minded,” his tone was wry, calling my bluff, “but Boston mass transit isn’t.”

He had me there. Taxi had cost me thirty bucks, nearly a third of my shift. Take another taxi home, and after taxes, why had I bothered to work at all?

I still hesitated, old instincts dying hard. Detective D. D. Warren had advised me to confide in my officers. They didn’t have ties to Randi or Jackie. They couldn’t be part of the problem, so I should make them part of the solution.

Except…In war movie logic, Officer Mackereth’s use of my name meant I’d die next. But in the story of my life, if I used Officer Mackereth’s name, he’d be the next to go. There was a reason I kept to myself; not just because I was trying to limit the pool of people who could hurt me, but because I was trying to limit the pool of people I might hurt back.

“Come on, Charlie,” Officer Mackereth said gruffly. “Cut a guy a break. You probably saved my life tonight. Least I can do is save you cab fare.”

He turned toward the door. And Tulip and I followed, Tulip with a fresh prance in her step at the unexpected attention.

I wondered what Jackie had been doing this time last year. I wondered what she’d been thinking, who she might have recently met. And I wondered, if she had known, if our trio’s erstwhile planner had foreseen her own death, what would’ve she done differently.

Said no or said yes?

That’s a central life question, don’t you think? Do you regret the things you did, or the things never done?

Eighty-four hours and counting, I followed Officer Mackereth to his vehicle.


I TOLD OFFICER MACKERETH I lived in Cambridge, by Harvard Square. Close enough, I figured. Tulip and I could walk the rest of the way from there.

Officer Mackereth, I learned, lived in Grovesnor. Meaning, given morning rush hour traffic northbound on I-93, he was now driving at least an hour out of his way. I protested again. He led me to his patrol car, which all officers drove home.

I climbed in the front, taking up position in a genuine black leather passenger seat that was quite comfortable. Tulip got the hard vinyl-covered bench in the back. Perfect for hosing down. Not so good for smooth-haired dogs. Tulip slid off twice, then gave up and lay on the floor.

“Where you from?” Officer Mackereth asked me as we hit the on-ramp for 93.

“New Hampshire.”

“Concord?”

“North, the mountains.”

“You ski?”

“A little. Cross-county.”

“Used to downhill in college,” he offered. “Tore my ACL. Cross-country might be better for me. Family?”