Authors: Lisa Gardner
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
C
HARLIE 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.
She parked, got out, opened the back door, and contemplated the girl again.
Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant simply climbed out and stood up.
“You don’t talk much,” D.D. said.
“You don’t believe me. What’s there to say?”
D.D. nodded. “Fair enough. Want coffee?” She strode across the street, keeping the girl beside her.
“Yes please. Are you charging me with something?”
“Should I be charging you with something?”
The girl sighed. “Have you spoken to the Grovesnor PD?”
“Yep.”
“Then you know I’m not a total fruitcake.”
“Why’d you leave a note on my windshield?” D.D. asked.
“What note? I didn’t leave a note.”
“Note you watched me bag and tag.”
“Not my note,” the girl said. “Didn’t even see it, let alone know that car was your vehicle. Trust me, to us non-law-enforcement types, all Crown Vics look alike.”
D.D. didn’t comment, but thought it was a fair observation. In a street chock-full of police cruisers and Crown Vics, had the author of the note known enough to target D.D.’s car specifically, or a detective’s vehicle generally? Something to consider for later.
D.D. escorted Charlie inside HQ, then upstairs to homicide. The homicide department was a nice space, D.D. always thought. More business suite than gritty cop show set. As a squad leader, D.D. had her own tiny office, complete with a laminated wood desk, laptop, and plush black leather desk chair. Very civilized.
D.D. didn’t take her charge there, but instead led Charlie to a small interview room, where she took the girl’s coat, then plunked her down at the table. D.D. went off in pursuit of beverages. Coffee for the girl, which made D.D. waver, eye the pot. But no, she’d been decaffeinated this long, she could make it another hour.
She’d initially given up coffee during her pregnancy, or rather, Jack had rebelled so insistently she couldn’t stomach the dark brew. Then, she’d stayed off the caffeine as she’d breast-fed for the first six weeks, surprising herself by desperately wanting to nurse, and had only weaned Jack at the six-week mark because she had to return to work and no way her schedule allowed for all that pumping and stuff other working moms heroically endured.
She missed it. Didn’t talk about it, not even to Alex, because what could she say? She had to return to work. So her baby took a bottle and was now being watched eight hours a day by a nice lady down the street. That was life. If D.D. could walk a homicide scene, surely she could handle parenthood.
D.D. poured a cup of coffee for Charlie, grabbed a bottle of water for herself.
Ninety-three minutes before she went home.
She reentered the interview room, took a seat across from her person of interest, and got down to business.
“W
HERE YOU FROM, CHARLIE?
”
“J-Town, New Hampshire.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Three hours north, near Mount Washington. Small town. One of those places where everybody knows your name.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Because I believe the person who will try to kill me on January twenty-first will be someone I know. So, first line of defense is to run away from everyone I know.”
The girl grimaced. She’d taken the coffee from D.D. but wasn’t drinking it. Just holding it between her hands as if for warmth.
According to the preliminary background report, Charlene
Rosalind Carter Grant was twenty-eight years old. In person, with her long brown hair scraped tightly into a ponytail, she appeared even younger. She had a slight frame, D.D. decided, further hollowed out by nerves or stress or something. The girl’s pale cheeks were gaunt, her blue eyes bruised from sleepless nights. She wore an oversized shapeless black sweatshirt, the kind favored by street thugs and vandals, paired with broken-down jeans and cheap snow boots. An outfit guaranteed to blend into almost any urban landscape.
A good ensemble, D.D. figured, to be either predator or prey.
“Why January twenty-one? And why do you think you’ll know your killer?”
The girl started talking then. It was impressive really. About her first childhood friend murdered two years ago on the twenty-first, then her second friend murdered one year later on the exact same date, leaving Charlie as the last man standing. Charlie had names of lead detectives, even volunteered a report written up by a retired FBI profiler, Pierce Quincy, analyzing the crime scenes.
“Findings?” D.D. had to ask, not that she trusted some Feebie’s report, but, then again…She took some notes. One of the investigators, Rhode Island State Detective Roan Griffin, she knew from training exercises. Maybe she’d give him a call.
“Given the lack of physical evidence,” the girl said, “no forced entry, no sign of struggle, Quincy theorizes the killer is of above-average intelligence, methodical in thought and appearance. Perhaps someone known to the victims, but at least someone who would initially appear nonthreatening. Probably above-average verbal skills, hence the killer’s ability to talk his way into the home and control his victim’s responses until the last possible moment.”
The girl recited the sentences flatly. Someone who’d read the crime scene analysis so many times, the words had ceased to refer to people she once knew and loved, and instead had become stock phrases repeated to trained professionals over and over again. D.D. had worked with family members from other cold cases. She knew how this drill went. The slow migration from wounded loved one to staunch advocate. How some family members ended up knowing more about forensics than the experts involved.
“Sexual assault?” D.D. asked.
“Negative.”
D.D. frowned. That surprised her. Most murderers were sexual predators at heart. Particularly given these dynamics, a crime that involved intimate stalking, then occurred up close and personal. Now, in cases of murder-for-hire, or a homicide for personal gain, lack of sexual assault was more typical. Motivation then was materialistic in nature, not sexually driven.
“Signs of robbery?” she asked now.
“Negative.”
“Anything missing at all? Even a special artifact, something meaningful to each victim?”
Charlie shook her head. “But hard to be definitive,” she supplied. “My friends lived alone, meaning it’s hard to confirm every item in each household. If something small were taken, it could be easily overlooked.”
“What about inheritance?” D.D. asked. “Anyone obviously better off from your friends’ deaths?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think Randi had much, being recently divorced. I guess it went to her parents, maybe? Probably the same for Jackie. She was doing very well for Coca-Cola, but even then, I wouldn’t call her rich. She probably had some equity in her house, her car, a retirement account. But tens of thousands, I’d guess, not hundreds of thousands.”
“You get anything?” D.D. asked her bluntly.
The girl shook her head.
“Life insurance?”
“I never heard of anything. Though,” Charlie caught herself, “it wouldn’t surprise me if Jackie had a policy. She liked to plan ahead. I would guess, however, that her parents or her brother were the beneficiaries.”
“No husband?”
“No partner,” Charlie corrected.
“Lesbian?”
“Yes.”
D.D. stared at her. “You ever get involved with her?”
“We were best friends,” Charlie said evenly. “Lesbians can have female friends you know, just like guys can have female friends.”
“Gotta ask the question,” D.D. said mildly. “It’s what I do.” D.D. pursed her lips, continuing to mull the matter. Two homicides, a thousand miles apart. Link between the victims, the methodology, and the date, but not enough evidence to provide traction. Hell of a story, she had to admit. Interesting. Intriguing. The kind of thing to tickle a workaholic detective’s crime bone.
“So what do you want?” D.D. asked finally.
Charlie blinked. Stared at D.D., held her coffee cup again. “What do you mean?”
“You came to me, remember? Lurked outside an active crime scene. Why?”
The girl hesitated. Her gaze flickered away.
D.D. took a swig of water. She enjoyed obvious liars. Made her job easier.
“I wanted to see you,” Charlie said at last.
“How’d you know where I’d be?”
“Police scanner. I’m a dispatch officer, right? I hear all the calls come in. Heard about the shooting, gambled you’d be there.”
“Why?”
“Because I Googled you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I Googled you. I searched for homicide detectives in Boston and your name was the one that kept coming up. You helped rescue the state trooper’s little girl, solve the string of family annihilations, find the missing wife in South Boston. I did some research, and…” The girl pushed away her coffee mug, looked up at D.D., and shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going to happen in four days. I guess, I just want to meet the person who might handle my murder. And I want you to meet me because maybe that will help. Maybe, having met me, you’ll try harder. And that will finally catch him. Someone has to.”