Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(97)

“What’d you do, Charlie?”

“Randi’s dead. Jackie’s dead. Nobody knows why, nobody knows how, and nobody sure as hell knows who. But they were my best friends, Tom. I loved them too much, I understand that now. But they never complained. They loved me back and I owe them for that. Tomorrow night, eight P.M. A killer’s coming for me and I’m gonna make him or her pay. It’s all I got left, Tom. Nothing worth living for. Only something worth dying for.”

Officer Mackereth stepped closer to me.

“If I ask you to hand over your bag?” he asked quietly, hand on his holster.

“Please don’t.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Probably.”

“Where’s your dog?”

“She didn’t leave a note.”

He sighed. His hand didn’t come down, but his shoulders did. “I don’t know what to do about you.”

I said nothing, left him to the weight of his own consideration.

“Look me in the eye, Charlie. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do whatever it is Boston PD thinks you did, and I’ll let it go. Turn around, pretend I never saw you.”

I looked him in the eye. I didn’t say a word.

He sighed, heavier this time. His gaze appeared genuinely sorrowful. “Kinda liked you, Charlie.”

“Kinda liked you, too.”

“Guess I shoulda known. I have a habit of being attracted to train wrecks. Hero complex, my sister tells me.”

I had to smile. “I have a habit of wanting more than I can have. Guess we’re both consistent.”

“Doesn’t have to be like this.”

“I don’t know any other way.”

He took another step forward. Eight feet between us. Then six, five, four. Strike distance. One step forward and I could punch him, overhand right to the head. Or simply pop open the messenger bag and start firing.

I thought of Randi. I thought of Jackie. I wondered if their last moments had been like this. Willing themselves to fight back, or simply waiting for it to be over.

Officer Mackereth finally paused, close enough he could touch his nose to mine, the frost of our mutual breaths mingling in the frigid night air. His hand remained on the butt of his weapon, not drawing it, but protecting it.

“Five P.M., Charlie.”

“Five P.M.?”

“That’s when I’ll pick you up. Tomorrow night. I know about your friends. Did my own research. Someone wants to take a swing at you, he can deal with both of us.”

I didn’t say anything, just gazed up into his face. His expression was set, his blue eyes resolute.

“Sunday morning,” he continued firmly, “you’ll hand over your twenty-two, as promised.”

I nodded.

“I can’t help you after that.”

I nodded again.

“You saved my life the other night, Charlie. Guess I feel I owe you one. But as of Sunday morning, consider us even.”

His hand shifted. I thought he might touch my cheek. Maybe I even anticipated his gloved fingers on my icy cheek. Or his warm lips brushing across my mouth. Or his body, strong and solid, pressed hard against my own.

I’m cold, I thought, but realized what I really meant was that I felt too alone.

Officer Mackereth turned. Officer Mackereth walked away.

I waited another minute, standing in the darkness, resisting the urge to call him back.

His burly form disappeared inside the police station. Behind me, another car whizzed by. I waited until the street appeared clear, the parking lot empty.

Then I opened my messenger bag. I retrieved my Taurus. 22 semiauto, wrapped it in my scarf, and buried it in a snow mound beneath a prickly bush at the edge of the parking lot.

By firing my twenty-two in Stan’s apartment, I’d tied myself to his death. Meaning if Detective Warren got her hands on my Taurus, I’d be going to jail. Maybe I should just hand it over. Maybe, at this stage of the game, prison would be safer for me.

I remembered Tulip this morning. Instead of being grateful for a warm bedroom, she’d simply been aggravated at being shut up. Some of us just weren’t meant for confinement. We’d rather take our chances out in the open.

Twenty-one hours and counting.

I re-snapped my black leather messenger bag, squared my shoulders, and headed in for my last shift.





Chapter 32


“NO DICE.”

“What do you mean no dice? Check her bag, confiscate her weapon. Done.” It was eleven thirty P.M. D.D. was at home, feeding Jack his bedtime bottle. He was snug against her chest, a warm little bundle approximately the same size and shape as a hot water bottle, and they were rocking together. A cozy domestic scene, so of course, her cell phone had rung.

“I confronted Charlene Grant the moment she walked in the door,” Grovesnor PD Lieutenant Dan Shepherd continued. “Said there’d been reports of her bringing a firearm to work and that was against department policy. She said I was mistaken; she’d brought a dog to work. It wouldn’t happen again.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake!”

“She let me inspect her bag. No sign of a twenty-two, Detective. Game over.”

“And that’s what happens when you f*ck up an interview,” D.D. murmured, more to herself than Shepherd. “Overplay your hand, spook the subject, walk away with nothing. I’m going to have ‘I Told You So’ tattooed backwards across Detective O’s forehead, so that in the future, when she’s about to question someone, she can first study herself in the mirror.”