Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(48)

“My mother and sister.”

“And if the murderer called you up tomorrow?”

“He’d have to be dialing from one eight hundred rent a psychic,” Kimberly said flatly.

“And now your seven-year-old can plug three to center mass.”

“Yep.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Charlene’s preparations are physical,” Kimberly stated curtly. “Her killer’s MO, however, is psychological. Intimate. Up close. Personal. What good is running a six-minute mile going to do her, when she’s the one willingly opening the door? Charlene doesn’t need to be tough. She needs to think tough. That’ll get her through the twenty-first.”

“I want to stir the pot,” D.D. announced.

“How so?”

“Facebook, social media. I’m working with another detective who’s something of an expert. We’re thinking of putting together a fake Facebook page, with posts commemorating the deaths of both Randi and Jackie. See who responds.”

Kimberly seemed to consider the matter. “What about leaking info?”

“You mean crime scene details?”

“I mean fake crime scene details, maybe a criminology report. Something unflattering. No, I take that back. Something…messy. Our killer likes to be in control, yes? Neat, tidy, thorough. What if you reveal something about the Knowles scene the killer missed. Something that’s now a possible lead in the investigation. Get the killer feeling defensive, second-guessing him-or herself.”

“Get inside his or her head,” D.D. murmured.

“Turnabout is fair play.”

“Got an idea for a detail?”

Kimberly hesitated. “I’d ask my father. He knows both scenes, he was a profiler. Messing with criminal minds. Hell, he’ll love this. Give him a call.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Keep me posted. Especially on the twenty-first.”

“Will do. Good luck with your growing girls.”

“Good luck with your baby boy.”

Both women sighed, hung up their phones.





Chapter 15


I WAS LATE FOR MY GRAVEYARD SHIFT. First time ever. Couldn’t help myself.

I’d had to race all the way to the T stop. Then wait for the train to return me to Cambridge. Then run another seven minutes, snotty-nosed and watery-eyed, all the way back to my one-bedroom rental. Mrs. Beals wasn’t home, but Tulip was sitting on the front porch.

I didn’t even stop to think about it. I scooped up the warm, solidly packed body of the dog that was not my dog and buried my face into the sleek folds of her neck. Tulip leaned her head against my shoulder. I could feel her sigh, as if releasing a great strain herself. So we stood like that, my arms cradling her body, her head on my shoulder.

Maybe I cried a little more. Maybe she licked the tears from my cheeks. Maybe I told her I loved her. And maybe she thumped her tail to let me know that she loved me, too.

I carried Tulip to my bedroom. Didn’t care anymore if Frances discovered and kicked me out. So little time left. What did it matter anymore? So little time left.

Stan Miller. Metal rods, protruding through his massive frame. The blood, dripping down the corners of his mouth. Sightless eyes, forever staring at me.

I tucked Tulip in my room with a bowl of food, then retreated down the hall for a long hot shower. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Shampooed, rinsed, conditioned. Did it all over again.

Was it just my imagination, or could I still smell the gunpowder on my fingertips? I searched my naked body for other signs of the evening’s activities. Blood, bruising, something. I felt altered on the inside, ergo it made sense the outside should change as well.

But…nothing. My leather shooting gloves had done their job and protected my boxing-battered hands as I’d careened down the fire escape. My heavy winter wardrobe had done its job and guarded my already battle-scarred skin as I’d dropped and rolled. Even my ankle felt almost fine, a minor twist that had quickly recovered.

When I got out of the shower, I cleared the steam from the mirror to confirm what I already knew.

I had just killed a man, and I looked absolutely, positively the same as I had before.

Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant meet Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.

Loving niece, loyal friend, respected dispatch officer, and stone cold murderer.

I started shaking again, so I returned to the shower, cranking up the water as hot as it would go, but still not beating the chill.


ELEVEN FOURTEEN P.M. Tulip and I caught a taxi to work.

Second-to-last shift.

Sixty-eight hours, forty-five minutes.

I kept my arms around the dog that wasn’t my dog and didn’t let go.


“BABY’S CRYING.”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“Baby’s crying. Down the hall. Crying and crying and crying. Nothing helps. Dunno…” A shaky sigh. “Dunno, dunno, dunno. Please, ma’am, tell me how to make it stop.”

Sitting alone in the glow of multiple monitors and a muted TV screen, I rubbed my face and forced myself to focus. Crying baby. Overwhelmed new parent. One of dispatch’s top ten calls. Protocol was to establish basic physical health of newborn and basic mental health of new parent. If both seemed okay, then remind caller that 911 was for emergencies, not for parenting tips, before disconnecting.