Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(76)

“Apparently, the killer didn’t get that memo.”

“D. D. Warren—”

“Mom,” D.D. held up a hand, strove for a neutral tone of voice. “I appreciate you coming up from Florida. I know it’s cold and you don’t like it here. But…This is my job. I’m not just a detective, I’m the lead investigator. Buck stops here.”

Her father took her mother’s hand, as if to calm her. “Will you be back?”

His voice had a quiver she didn’t remember hearing before. And now, as she looked closer, she saw fresh lines around his eyes, skin sagging beneath his chin, age spots on the backs of his hands. Seventy-eight, it occurred to her. Her parents were seventy-eight years old. Not ancient, but definitely getting up there, and how many more of these trips would they be able to make? How many more years would they have with her and their baby grandson?

“Probably not for dinner,” she whispered.

“So we’ll see you in the morning.”

“I could do an early breakfast, if you’d like, or maybe catch up for lunch if that’s better for you.”

“I don’t understand,” her mother interjected, still sounding disapproving. “It’s seven o’clock at night. You just got off work, now you’re going back to work, and still the best you can do is an early breakfast?”

“Welcome to Boston homicide.”

“What about Jack? You have a baby now. What about him?”

D.D. hadn’t even greeted her son yet. She’d kissed her parents, spoken to Alex, but her baby…

She bent over his car seat. Jack was asleep, oblivious to the growing drama around him. His lips were pursed into a little rosebud, his hands fisted on his blue-clothed tummy. A new bib around his neck proclaimed, “Someone in Florida loves me.”

D.D. glanced up at her parents. “That’s adorable, thank you.”

Her pager chimed again. She closed her eyes, feeling the relentless pull.

“Go,” Alex said softly. “It’s okay. I’ll handle it.”

“I owe you,” she mouthed at him, over their son’s sleeping form.

He nodded, a shade grim, so apparently her parents’ charms weren’t lost on him.

D.D. placed her lips against Jack’s forehead. She inhaled the scent of baby powder, felt the silky wisps of his hair. And for a second, she could actually agree with her mother. What was she doing, walking away from this?

“I’ll call you in the morning,” D.D. said to the table.

She walked back through the restaurant, bracing herself for the cold as well as the relentless weight of her mother’s disappointment.


AS THE CROW FLIES, Copley Square was only a hop, skip, and a jump from the waterfront. Given Boston traffic, further snarled by a wintry mix of light snow and icy sleet, it took D.D. nearly forty-five minutes to navigate the handful of miles. She didn’t bother with the legalities of parking, but pulled up on the curb right behind a string of police cruisers.

She stepped out of her car to find Detective O already waiting for her.

Whatever plans D.D. had had for the evening, O’s had obviously been better. The young detective had her dark hair piled on top of her head in a loose knot of curls. Mascara touched up her exotic eyes and deep red lipstick enhanced her lips, while beneath her long, black wool coat, she wore a knee-length dress paired with black leather stiletto boots. She looked softer, rounder, more feminine. A look D.D. herself had never been able to pull off, but that some guy somewhere had probably really appreciated.

O caught her stare. “Police pager: best birth control invented by man,” she drawled.

“Funny, I used to say the same thing.”

O arched a brow, given D.D.’s new mom status.

“Condoms aren’t a hundred percent effective either,” D.D. said defensively.

“I’ll remember that.”

D.D. shut her door. Donned her fleece-lined black leather gloves, pulled down her black wool hat. “So, what do we have?”

“Dead kid, back alley. Scared kid, back of patrol car.”

“I thought this was related to our sex offender shootings.”

“Dead kid was the offender. Scared kid the victim.”

D.D. digested this, eyes widening. “Scared kid didn’t pull the trigger, did he?”

“Nope. But he saw who did. Lone female.” O broke into a grim smile. “Small build, small gun. World’s craziest blue eyes, he said, and brown hair, scraped back into a ponytail.”

“Charlene Grant,” D.D. breathed.

“Aka Abigail.”


D.D. TENDED THE CRIME SCENE FIRST. Given the high traffic around Copley, the ME’s office had already removed the body. No sign of Neil, so maybe he’d accompanied the body to the morgue. She’d given Phil the night off, which left her and O to do the honors. As O had obviously been at the scene for a bit, D.D. did her best to come up to speed.

Squatting down inside the crime scene tape, D.D. could just make out the faint impression of the already-removed corpse, which formed a literal snow angel on the white-dusted alley. Victim had been tall. Long splayed legs, one dangling arm.

She didn’t see the outline of the right arm. Maybe the victim had it over his chest. Maybe he’d been raising it in front of his face at the time of the shooting. Pedophile or not, that image disturbed her, to be shot down in cold blood.