Catch Me

by Lisa Gardner

  PHIL AND NEIL HAD TO WALK HER THROUGH IT. It was four weeks back, meaning Jack had been six weeks old, a plump little form that spent his days curled up on her chest, feeling like a hot water bottle except fragile and in need of constant diligence, so she’d spent hours just sitting in the rocking chair with him, counting fingers and toes and touching the impossibly soft wisps of hair that cradled his skull—so she’d definitely not been watching the news, because she’d been being with her baby in a way she’d never been in any moment before. Totally. Completely. Without word or thought or interest in anything else. Alex would come home from work each day, glance at her and Jack in the rocking chair and smile at her in a way no man had ever smiled at her before. Then she’d get a strange feeling in her chest. Of belonging. Of being. Contentment maybe.

  For her eight weeks of maternity leave, she’d reveled in it.

  So, four weeks prior, D.D. had been nesting with her baby in Waltham, while a level 3 sex offender had been shot in his apartment near the Suffolk County hospital. Not in his kitchen, Phil was quick to add. In the entry. As if he’d answered the door, and boom. Double tap from a. 22, expertly placed.

  No witnesses, though a couple of neighbors reported having seen a young man, maybe a teenage boy, loitering about. Further search of the vic’s home had revealed pornographic videotapes as well as an extensive collection of photos on the vic’s computers, all showing boys and girl between the ages of six and twelve involved in various sex acts.

  Just owning the computer was a violation of the victim’s, Douglas Antiholde’s, parole, so investigators felt it was safe to assume the vic had gone off the straight and narrow and was back in the business of destroying young lives.

  “Leads?” D.D. asked now.

  Phil shrugged. “If you see a white male between the age of sixteen and twenty-five in a dark winter coat with a navy blue knit cap, let us know.”

  “Bet the hotline’s ringing off the phone with that one.”

  “Please, the neighbors are just doing the happy dance he’s dead. No love lost there, and that was before they heard what was on his computer.”

  D.D. pursed her lips. “Did he have a puppy?”

  Phil shook his head.

  “We’ll have to cross-reference the photos of the victims,” she mused out loud, and immediately felt something inside her recoil. To go from Jack to those images…

  She hesitated. Beside her, Phil, father of four, appeared equally queasy.

  Neil spoke up. “I’ll do it.”

  Phil and D.D. looked at him.

  “It’s not like I want to,” he said, shrugging awkwardly. “But I don’t have kids. And both of you…So, you know, it’d probably be easier for me to study them. ’Sides, I handle the bodies all the time. How much harder can this be?”

  “Way harder,” Phil said immediately. “Dead people…worst has already happened. These kids…”

  Neil shrugged again. “Somebody’s gotta do it, right? Better me than you.”

  Phil nodded slowly. “I think he’s growing up nicely,” he told D.D.

  “Obviously we’ve raised him right,” she concurred.

  Neil rolled his eyes at both of them. “Since it’s my first time through, any advice?”

  “Don’t just look at the people,” D.D. informed him. “Cross-referencing the victims is step one, but you also want to examine the backgrounds of each photo—look for patterns in curtains, carpets, bedding. Sometimes, it’s not the who that matches, it’s the where. Either one gives us a link between our dead pervs. When you’re done, we’ll send the photos to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, where they have trained experts who will do the same thing all over again, except comparing them against a national database. They also have some facial recognition software, which helps them get the job done.”

  Neil looked at her.

  “We gotta get you to the National Academy,” she informed her younger partner, as she did at least once every six months. The National Academy was a ten-week course in advanced police training offered at Quantico, considered de rigueur for any up and coming cop. When D.D. had attended, she’d spent an entire day with the folks at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, which not only helped her understand the resources they had to offer for local law enforcement agencies such as the BPD, but also made her grateful she was a city detective and not a criminologist swimming against the tide to rescue sexually abused children.

  She stared at Neil now. He looked away, as he did every time the subject of the National Academy came up.

  “Perpetrator’s right-handed,” he mumbled, changing the subject. “Given the angle of the gunshot.”

  “Doesn’t limit our suspect pool that much,” D.D. retorted with a shrug.

  “Daytime shootings,” Neil offered next.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because in both neighborhoods, nobody would open their doors after dark.”

  “But no witnesses,” D.D. pushed back.

  “Because in both neighborhoods,” Neil repeated, “people are trained not to see anything. And they certainly aren’t gonna tell us about it if they do.”

  “True.” D.D. turned to Phil. “While Neil handles the photos, I need you to oversee both victims’ computers. Pedophiles are networkers. They visit chat rooms, post blogs, seek out others like themselves. Even if our two victims never met each other in person, doesn’t mean they haven’t crossed paths online. Find that common denominator, and maybe we can get some traction.”

  “The Antiholde computer has already been processed,” Phil informed her. “Meaning we just gotta dissect this one, and I’m ready to rock and roll.”

  “We’ll pull local video,” D.D. mused out loud, referring to the various video cameras that dotted any Boston city block, whether owned by the city or an area business, or even in some cases by a concerned citizen trying to protect him- or herself against crime. “You never know, maybe we can find footage of a sixteen- to twenty-five-year-old white male in a black winter coat with a navy blue knit hat.”

  Phil and Neil smiled at that, but D.D. wagged her finger at them. “Seriously! Forget the wardrobe and age range. Think white kid. How many of them do you see outside? In this neighborhood, Caucasians stand out. Let’s use that to our advantage.”

  “Gonna get the media involved?” Phil wanted to know.

  She had to think about it. “Maybe, if we can get a better profile of the shooter. Until then, I don’t see the point.”

  Neil seemed surprised. “But there have been two shootings, second one already half a week old. Meaning, maybe even now, we got a perpetrator out there, targeting a third victim.”

  “Third pedophile, you mean,” Phil muttered.

  D.D. was more circumspect. “Two homicides performed by the same shooter? Are you sure? Do you have a witness telling you he or she absolutely saw the same person here and there? Do you have a report from ballistics stating the slugs recovered from this crime scene absolutely positively match the slugs recovered from the Antiholde crime scene?”

  Neil shook his head.

  “Well then,” D.D. declared briskly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I wouldn’t want to panic the good citizens of Boston unnecessarily. And…maybe I wouldn’t want to encourage the city’s pervert population to practice undo caution either.”

  Neil’s eyes rounded slightly. He got the implication of D.D.’s decision, glancing quickly at Phil, whose face was just as stony as D.D.’s.

  “Wow,” Neil murmured. “And I wondered if motherhood would make her soft…”

  His voice trailed off. At the last minute, the youngest member of the squad seemed to realize he probably should’ve kept that thought to himself.

  But D.D. just clapped him on the back. “Missed you, too,” she informed him, cheerfully. “Now then. Nothing personal, but I gotta be home by five, which gives us,” she glanced at her watch. “About six more hours to catch a killer. Let’s do it.”

 
Chapter 3

  HOURS LATER, D.D. finished overseeing the processing of the murder scene. She’d long stopped registering the ammonia-like scent of urine, let alone the rank odor of puppy poo. Instead, she clambered back down the stairs of the tenement building and out the front doors contemplating many thoughts at once: She should get home soon, she should contact the lead investigator from the first shooting, she should order a rush on the ballistics test from this shooting to compare with the previous shooting. What were the odds of her boss, Cal Horgan, letting her have an extra body to help view all the video footage? Or maybe she’d just have to do that herself. Phil, after all, would need days to pour through all the computer data. Neil would probably soon be in a state of depression going through all those photos, the kind of work D.D. and Phil had done before and would probably do again, but not any sooner than they had to. Didn’t matter how objective and analytic you made yourself, photos of kids hurt. So adding to her mental list, check on Neil, see how he was coping with his assignment; did he require any mental health resources, or even a therapeutic night out over beers? Sergeants managed their people as much as their cases, and D.D. prided herself on both.

  She cleared the building steps and hit fresh air, inhaling several deep breaths. No flash of media cameras awaited her; a shooting in a Boston tenement hardly rated coverage. Of course, once the media caught wind of what they’d found in the vic’s photo boxes and, not being dumb bunnies, connected this incident with another shooting four weeks prior…

  But for now, all was quiet, and D.D. was gonna enjoy it while she could.

  She pushed through the last of the gawkers, most of them looking bored, an actual murder investigation not being nearly as exciting as what they’d seen on TV. D.D. buried her hands in her pockets, ducked her head against the biting January chill, and headed down the block to her car.

  Fifty yards away, she spotted it. White, like a blot of snow, at the bottom of her windshield. Except when the wind caught it, it started flapping, and she realized it was half a piece of paper, shoved under the left wiper.

  Maybe an advertisement or flier. She didn’t pick up her pace, just kept walking, huddling inside her BPD field coat for warmth.

  As she hit the hood of her car, she could see enough to realize it wasn’t a flier—the letters were handwritten script, not block printed. She faltered, footsteps slowing. Keeping her hands in her pockets, she leaned forward, studying the half sheet of paper more closely.

  The script letters were thin, almost spidery looking but curiously flat at the bottom, as if the person had used a ruler to set an edge. The note wasn’t addressed or signed. It contained two sentences:

  Everyone has to die sometime.

  Be brave.

  Immediately, D.D. glanced up, looked around. There, across the street, a figure disappearing around the corner in a black down coat.

  D.D. started to run.

  AS SHE SPRINTED ACROSS THE STREET, D.D. had two thoughts at once: Running was not a good idea for a woman who’d given birth ten weeks ago; things bounced that had not bounced a year ago and none of it was comfortable. Second, chasing a potential suspect all alone was not a good idea for a new mom who hoped to kiss her baby boy on the cheek in approximately three hours.

  Bad news: Uniformed officers might carry radios, but detectives did not. Meaning she should’ve stopped at her car for the radio, yelled over her shoulder at another officer, something.

  Ah fuck it. D.D. rounded the corner, saw the fast-moving figure in black preparing to cross the next street, and yelled out her Hail Mary pass: “Boston Police. Stop or I’ll shoot.”

  Not even remotely close to appropriate use of force, but given that most of the public grew up on Dirty Harry, who were they to question such a threat? The figure in black obediently halted and turned around.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them!” D.D. boomed, slowing to a jog, right hand inside her coat, on the butt of her handgun, still nestled in her shoulder holster.

  The person of interest stuck his arms out, splaying black gloved fingers in a comic parody of I didn’t do it.

  D.D. settled into a walk, approaching more carefully. She homed in on the pale oval face she could just make out between the high collar of the black down coat and the low brim of the black wool hat. This close, she could see that the features were too small, too delicate to be male. In fact, once she adjusted for the bulky winter coat, she realized that the person in front of her was probably only five one, maybe a hundred, hundred and ten pounds.

  Female. Young, early to mid-twenties would be her guess. Caucasian, with dark hair and hollowed out blue eyes that currently looked simultaneously wary, fearful, and defiant. Basic response of most of the general population when being confronted by a cop. The initial I didn’t do it warring with the deeper knowledge of but I have done something.

  D.D. came to a halt three paces back from the lone female. She kept her gaze hard, right hand still resting on the butt of her gun.

  “Name,” she asked crisply.

  “Why?”

  D.D. narrowed her eyes. “You always talk back to cops?”

  “I’d like to see your badge,” the woman said firmly, but her voice wavered at the end. Tough, but not that tough.

  D.D. said nothing, did nothing. Always the best offense.

  In response, the girl sighed and seemed to settle in herself. A woman of experience.

  D.D. let an entire minute drag out. Then, slowly, deliberately, she unclipped her badge from the waistband of her jeans with her left hand and held it out. “Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren, Boston PD. I’ve told you mine, now you tell me yours.”

  “Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.”

  “Say what?” D.D. blinked a few times at the long string. “Rosalynn Carter…You’re a former First Lady?”

  “Rosalind Carter. Charlene. Rosalind. Carter. Grant. But you can call me Charlie.”

  D.D. stared at her harder. “You’re not from around here, are you, Charlie?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then what are you doing at my crime scene?”

  The young woman stared at her. Her expression seemed to waver then, all at once, harden in resolve. “I’m checking you out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Four days from now, I’m expecting to be murdered. I’ve read that you’re one of the best homicide detectives in the city, so I’d like you to handle the investigation. I figure you’re the only shot at justice I’ll have left.”

  D.D. TOOK CHARLIE DOWN TO BPD HEADQUARTERS. One, because that was the craziest damn story she’d ever heard, and that made D.D. deeply suspicious right there. Two, Charlie happened to match the very general description of the shooter from the first dead pervert scene, not to mention she’d been walking away from D.D.’s car at about the same time D.D. had spotted the windshield note. Finally, it’s not like D.D. had any better leads to pursue, so one lone female in a bulky black winter coat it was.

  D.D. patted down her suspect, then made her remove her hat before dumping her in the backseat of D.D.’s Crown Vic. Policing 101. Eye contact and facial expressions were everything, meaning D.D. never let suspects, interview subjects, or witnesses hide beneath hats and scarves.

  D.D. bagged and tagged the note on her front windshield. She placed that on the seat beside her. Then, with Charlie in the back, D.D headed to HQ while working her phone in the front. In a matter of minutes, she was able to establish that Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant worked the comm center for the Grovesnor PD and was not listed on any outstanding warrants. Two points in the girl’s favor, she supposed.

  Next up, she checked her messages. One from Alex, just seeing about her day. Second was her mother, and D.D. instinctively cringed. Her parents would be arriving in just two days, Thursday night. Her mother wanted to know if D.D. planned on meeting their plane or was going to force them to find their way to Alex’s house on their own. Her voice made her opinion on the subject clear. Also, the way she said “Alex�
��s house.”

  D.D. cleared the message, didn’t immediately call back.

  Not too late to panic, she thought idly. Maybe she, Alex, and baby Jack could all run away and join the circus. Personally, she thought Alex would look handsome in clown stripes, and Jack would be adorable in polka dots. And given the choice between confronting her clearly disapproving You had a baby out of wedlock mother and wearing a red clown nose for the rest of her life…well, D.D. thought that choice was clear.

  D.D. sighed. Her parents hated coming north. No doubt, they’d been waiting for her to be a dutiful only child and bring their first grandchild to Florida. But Jack had been born almost four weeks premature, in mid-November versus mid-December. He’d had to spend his first week of life in neonatal intensive care, finishing baking, as her obstetrician had said. D.D. hadn’t been capable of dealing with her parents at that time. She hadn’t even called them until ten days after her own son’s birth, a fairly unforgivable sin, she was informed later. But during those first few days…

  By the time the crisis had passed, and D.D. had connected with her parents, it had been Thanksgiving. Too chaotic for travel, her mother informed her, voice filled with disapproval and dismay. D.D.’s selfishness had already cost them the first two weeks of their grandson’s life, and now they’d be forced to delay even longer…

  More phone calls, more holiday season churn, more guilt. Until here D.D. was, counting down to her parents’ January 19 Boston flight.

  Then her parents, who’d never planned on having kids but late in life ended up with her, and herself, who never planned on having a family but late in life ended up with Jack, could all sit together in one room.

  If Alex had any sense at all, he’d start running now.

  D.D. neared headquarters, started the search for parking. BPD headquarters was situated in the middle of inner-city Roxbury, where parking spots and drug-free neighborhoods were equally difficult to find. She performed her usual loop. Third time was the charm.