Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(39)

He sprinted for the table, hitting the power button above the keyboard of the computer as his mother yelled down the hall: “Jesse, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just gonna play a game.”

“Jesse?”

“AthleteAnimalz. Geez, Mom, everything’s all right!” Second the words left his mouth, Jesse bit his lower lip, realizing too late, he should’ve watched his tone. Sometimes, if he was “fresh,” his mother would take his computer privileges away. He paused, hand still on the computer, eyes on the screen as the old laptop slowly churned to life.

But his mother didn’t appear in the hallway, didn’t say anything more. Probably on a call, couldn’t tear herself away. Jesse felt guilty, but grateful. He darted away from the loading computer long enough to grab Zombie Bear and a glass of milk. The stove clock told him it was 3:42 P.M.

Yep, he was late. Very late.

He flew back to the table, sloshing some of the milk over the rim of the glass, then had to run back to the kitchen for a napkin, and by the time he returned and cleaned up the mess, his heart was really going thump, thump, thump and he didn’t feel well again. He was hot, like shaky and trembly and he wanted to cry, but he didn’t know why.

He was late and Helmet Hippo would be mad and he’d been fresh and now probably his mom was all mad and he just wanted a friend; he just wanted everything to be okay and for someone to like him, and for his mom to not have to work so hard and for their downstairs neighbor Mrs. Flowers not to bang on the floor all the time when he was trying to use quiet feet but still wasn’t so quiet.

Jesse plopped down in front of the computer, entered the AthleteAnimalz website, and did his best not to weep. He knew he was late. He still didn’t want to blubber like a big baby.

Homerun Bear had mail. Jesse’s arm was trembling so badly, it took him three tries with the mouse to click on the mailbox icon. The letter was from Helmet Hippo. It included a smiley face and a picture of a baseball mitt.

“Hey Bud. I’m here and ready to play. Find me when you’re ready. Your friend, Helmet Hippo.”

Then Jesse did cry. Giant tears of relief. Helmet Hippo wasn’t mad at him. Helmet Hippo still wanted to play.

Helmet Hippo was still his friend.

Jesse sobbed gratefully.





Chapter 13


AT 4:31 P.M., I began phase one of operations. First up, dress code. I went with black jeans, black turtleneck, thick-tread running shoes, and a black wool coat, all courtesy of the local Salvation Army store.

I looked like a cat burglar, or a New Yorker, depending on your frame of reference.

I loved the shoes and tried to get over it. Phase four of operations involved pitching the entire ensemble into a public Dumpster. Not that the police couldn’t find or wouldn’t find the items, but there was nothing to prove these particular secondhand clothing articles were mine. A precaution built into a precaution built into a precaution.

So far, it had worked for me.

Exiting the house, I wore a bright turquoise scarf and matching hat and oversized mittens. I’d read somewhere that one of the keys to any disguise was distinguishing accessories—later, witnesses would associate me with the aqua scarf or shocking gloves, meaning I couldn’t be the black-clad perpetrator. Obviously, I was wearing turquoise at the time!

I had my messenger bag slung over my shoulder, stuffed with wadded newspaper to give it the appearance of bulk. Later, the newspaper would be tossed and replaced with my overbright scarf, hat, and mittens. For now, the bulk of the leather bag disguised another telltale bulge—my Taurus. 22 holstered at my waist on a belt specially designed by my firearms coach, J. T. Dillon, to hold twenty-seven extra rounds of ammo.

I would see him for the last time tomorrow. I had a feeling he knew a little bit about tonight, too. But he didn’t pry and I didn’t inform. Instead, our conversation two weeks ago had gone something like this:

“If I needed to, say, establish a new identity…for example, get my hands on a complete set of top-of-the-line papers, would you know who I might contact to make such arrangements?”

J.T., loading his. 45. “Seems like I get asked that question a lot.”

“Beats girls asking what’s your sign.”

J.T., finally looking up at me. Me, doing my best not to squirm beneath that gaze. Before J.T. took on a serial killer, shot up half of Massachusetts, and eventually found a wife, he was a marine, Force Recon. Mostly, he reminded me of an old gunslinger, possessing the salt-and-pepper hair, leathery brown face, and deeply lined eyes of a man who’d spent most of his life peering into the horizon and was never surprised by what he saw there.

“Nothing’s cheap,” he said.

“I got a rainy day fund. Hey, it’s raining.”

“My wife likes you,” he said, as if that settled the matter for him. Maybe it did. I’d met his wife only once before. She’d studied me for half a second, then walked over and wrapped me into a tight embrace. I got the feeling Tess was as tough as her husband, and that if I ever took them up on their offer of dinner, we’d have a lot to say.

J.T. provided a name. Told me to wait twenty-four hours, so he could vouch for me. He must’ve, because when I made the call two days later, the crisp-voiced woman on the other end seemed to be expecting me. She asked questions. I provided answers. And three days ago, for the bargain basement price of one thousand dollars, I picked up three sets of brand-new, top-of-the-line fake papers: three birth certificates, three Social Security cards, one driver’s license.