Catch Me

Chapter 14

BABY JACK WAS CRYING AGAIN. He was not a happy camper and he wanted everyone to feel his pain.

“He gets that from me,” D.D. said. It was 9 P.M. Jack had been crying off and on ever since she picked him up from day care, where apparently he’d spent a very fussy day. No temperature. No spitting up. But he scrunched his face and fisted his hands and churned his legs as if he were jogging a marathon.

So far, they’d given him droplets specially designed to relieve baby gas. Not particularly effective droplets, D.D. thought.

“We could call the pediatrician,” Alex said. He was sitting on the couch, while she attempted to soothe Jack in the rocking chair.

“And admit we don’t know what we’re doing?” D.D. said.

Alex regarded her strangely. “We don’t know what we’re doing. And we’re not the first new parents who harassed their doctors with middle-of-the-night questions. For heaven’s sake, that’s what they’re there for!”

Alex’s unexpected display of emotion finally caught D.D.’s attention. She took in his salt-and-pepper hair, currently standing on end. The dark shadows beneath his eyes. The gaunt lines of his face.

He looked like hell, a man who hadn’t slept in years. Did she look that bad? Come to think of it, Phil had clapped her on the shoulder four times today with clear sympathy. Suddenly, she got it.

“The baby’s winning!” D.D. burst out.

“That would seem a fair assessment of the situation,” Alex agreed tiredly.

“He’s only ten weeks old. How can he be beating us already?”

Alex eyed their squalling son. “Same way youth always conquers age-better stamina, faster recovery.”

“We’re two strong, intelligent, resourceful people. We can’t be defeated by an infant. I was sure we’d make it until he was at least seventeen and demanding his own car. Which reminds me. When he’s three and wants his own cell phone, the answer is no. And when he’s five and wants his own Facebook page, the answer’s also no.”

Alex stared at her, eyes sunken, cheeks unshaved. “Got it.”

“Did you know the target age for Internet predators is five- to nine-year-old boys?”

Alex’s eyes widened. “No!”

“Yep. Big bad world out there. And more of it than you think is sitting in that sleek little laptop on the table.”

Alex ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Well, wasn’t like I was going to sleep tonight anyway. This from your new case?”

“Yeah, got a sex crimes detective, Ellen O, assisting now. She’s an expert on Internet predators, so she and Phil spent the day poring over reports from the computers of the two vics and talking nerd.”

“Find a connection between the two pervs?” Alex asked.

“Many and varied,” D.D. assured him. “Ironically enough, vics’ computers share so many favorite sites, it’s almost impossible to get traction. It’s not a matter of did they run across each other online, but on how many different websites, user groups, and chat rooms. It’s gonna take a bit.”

“Is Neil still going through the photos?”

“Sadly for him, yes. He made it through the first of six boxes and already looks like the walking dead. Gonna need some stress time for sure. I tried talking to him once today, but he’s not ready yet. Just gotta get through it, he told me.” D.D. sighed, thought of her young squadmate with genuine concern, and sighed again. “I almost admire his naïveté.”

She shifted baby Jack to her other shoulder, resumed rocking. Judging by the whimpering in her ear, Jack didn’t like her left shoulder any more than the right.

Alex stood up. “Want me to take a turn?” He gestured to Jack, who churned his feet fussily.

D.D. rubbed her son’s back, hating not being able to soothe him. It felt both wrong and inevitable. Proof that she wasn’t maternal enough, just as distant as her own parents. Except she didn’t feel cold and dismissive. She hated that her baby was upset. Wanted desperately to do the right thing, say the right thing that would comfort him. So far they’d tried burping, swaddling, rocking, singing, pacing, and driving. Nada.

The baby was winning. And they were old.

“Okay,” she said reluctantly.

Alex crossed to her. “What about the ballistics report?” he asked as he transferred Jack from her shoulder to his chest. “Got anything to conclusively tie the shooting of victim one to the shooting of victim two?”

“Got a note,” D.D. said triumphantly. “Left in first victim’s pocket. Exact same phrase: Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave. Written in the exact same tightly wound script.”

Alex was impressed. Jack was not.

“Maybe we should try going for a drive again,” D.D. suggested.

“Not sure either of us is safe behind the wheel.”

D.D. nodded tiredly. Alex was right about that. They were stupid tired. Which was why they were talking shop. It was the only topic of conversation that came to them naturally.

“Ballistics report should arrive tomorrow,” she murmured.

“Before or after your parents’ plane lands?”

“Crap!”

Alex stopped pacing with the baby. “Was I not supposed to remind you of that?”

“We should just run away,” D.D. said. She couldn’t deal with this. She was too tired and her baby hated her. There was no way she could handle her mother, too.

“I could meet them,” Alex offered bravely. “Pick up Jack from day care, do the honors. Then, if you get stuck at work, it’s not so terrible. You could always meet us later for dinner, something like that.”

“They’ll never forgive me.”

“Yes they will. You’re the mother of their grandson. And when he’s not squalling like a howler monkey, he is the cutest, most adorable, most brilliant baby boy ever. Aren’t you?” Alex hefted baby Jack into the air, gave him a little toss, then caught him again.

Jack stopped crying. He gazed down at his father. He hiccupped, twice.

Heartened, Alex gave him another little toss.

Jack landed in his father’s arms, hiccupped again, then, with a giant belch, finally relieved the gas cramping his tiny tummy, by spewing his entire liquid dinner down his father’s chest.

Alex stopped moving, held perfectly still.

“Well, at least he’s not crying,” Alex said at last.

D.D. scrambled for towels, wet wipes.

“You are the best father in the entire world,” she assured her sleep-deprived partner. “Come Father’s Day, Jack is gonna get you not one, but two ties. I swear it!”

D.D. HAD JUST FINISHED getting Jack cleaned up and settled into his carrier, when her cell phone rang. She checked the screen. Blocked number, which could mean any number of things this late at night. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, D.D. took the call.

“Detective D. D. Warren? FBI Special Agent Kimberly Quincy from Atlanta. Sorry to call so late.”

“Oh,” D.D. said. “Oh, oh, oh. Not a problem.”

“Been out all day,” Special Agent Quincy continued in a clipped voice. “Just got your message and was going to call you back tomorrow, then I realized the date.”

“Only two and a half days till the twenty-first,” D.D. filled in.

“Exactly. Figured if you were calling me, you had some kind of development, and you’d appreciate a call back sooner versus later.”

“I have the third friend,” D.D. said. “Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. I believe you know her.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, now I know her, too. Like you said, it’s nearly the twenty-first. Charlie’s preparing for war. As a backup plan, she’d like me to handle her murder investigation.”

“Huh.”

“With all due respect, Special Agent, I haven’t slept in ten weeks. I was hoping for more than ‘Huh’ from the FBI.”

“Big case?” the special agent asked.

“New baby.”

“Boy or girl?” Kimberly’s voice warmed up.

“Boy. Loud, fussy, cranky, beautiful boy.”

“Two girls,” Kimberly provided. “The seven-year-old wants a cell phone. The four-year-old wants a puppy. Sure you don’t want help on the case? I could fly right up.”

D.D. smiled. “You’re supposed to tell me it gets easier. ‘This is just a phase. Parenting gets better and better every day.’ Lie to me. I could use a good story right now.”

“Absolutely. Best days are ahead. And FYI, never leave a five-year-old alone with a jump rope and her two-year-old sister, and if your husband works as many nights as mine does, buy the king-sized bed now, because all life-forms will be in your room.”

“Hard to fit a king-sized bed in Boston real estate. Jump rope?”

“Technically, the two-year-old was only tied up for ten minutes, then figured out how to wiggle out of the knots. I blame my husband. He’s an outdoorsman, so he keeps teaching the girls ‘skills’ that inevitably result in babysitters never returning.”

“What’s your husband do?”

“Mac’s a state cop.”

“Ah,” D.D. said, connecting the dots. “So your daughters are double-Special Agent kids-FBI on the one side and Georgia Bureau of Investigation on the other.”

“That might be the other explanation,” Kimberly agreed.

“My partner is also a former detective, who now teaches courses in crime scene analysis at the police academy. I figure when Jack skins his knee for the first time, he’ll fetch placards to mark the scene of the crime first, then grab a Band-Aid.”

“Mac’s been taking our eldest, Eliza, to the shooting range with him. He swears her first time out, she clustered three to the chest. Apparently, aiming for center mass is genetic.”

“Your seven-year-old can shoot?”

“It’s the South, honey. We like our guns.”

“I like your daughter,” D.D. assured her.

“Me, too. So what can I tell you about the Jackie Knowles murder? I’m assuming you’ve read my father’s report.”

“Your father’s…” D.D.’s voice trailed off, then she got it. “The consultant, retired FBI agent Pierce Quincy, he’s your father?”

“Yep. He’s the reason I got involved. Generally speaking, a local homicide doesn’t garner FBI attention, but my dad had done the initial analysis of the Rhode Island crime scene. He identified several overlapping variables between the Providence murder and Atlanta homicide, and a predator operating in multiple jurisdictions would be our cup of tea.”

“So you definitely think the murders are related.”

“Hard to believe otherwise,” Kimberly said bluntly. “Victims knew each other. Were murdered exactly one year apart by someone using the same MO. There’s a connection, all right. I’ll be damned if I know what it is, but there’s a connection.”

“What do you think of the third friend, Charlene yada yada Grant?”

“Only met her a couple of times, and she wasn’t feeling good about the investigators handling her friends’ murders on either occasion. She’s interacted with my father many more times, and much more positively. He likes her, but remains reserved. While she seems to earnestly and passionately care about her friends and has remained a staunch advocate on their behalf…”

“She remains a prime suspect,” D.D. filled in.

“Yep.”

“She got an alibi for the Knowles murder?”

“Her aunt claims she was in New Hampshire the evening of the twenty-first. By midday on the twenty-second, when Charlene got the news of Jackie’s death from the local police, she flew straight down from Portland, Maine. We have her name on the ticket and can corroborate the Delta flight. All in all, a decent alibi.”

“There’s a but in your voice,” D.D. said.

Kimberly sighed. “Only lead we’ve ever had in the case-Jackie’s neighbor claims to have seen Jackie return home after nine P.M. on the twenty-first, and she wasn’t alone. She’d brought home a friend: a female with long brown hair and a petite frame.”

“Like Charlene Grant,” D.D. mused thoughtfully.

“Who was a thousand miles away with her aunt. Unfortunately, the neighbor only saw the woman from behind, so not the best ID, but all we got.”

“Crime scene?” D.D. prodded.

“Clean. Conspicuously clean. Switch-plates-wiped-off, floorboards-mopped, every-sofa-pillow-in-place kind of clean. Kitchen, entranceway, family room-all spotless. The killer took his or her time, felt comfortable in the home. Detail-oriented, thorough, smart.”

“Strong,” D.D. added. “Manual strangulation?”

“COD, manual asphyxiation, yes. So, strong hands. But I’m less convinced on this subject than the Rhode Island investigators. They took the manual strangulation as proof the perpetrator must be male. Maybe it’s living in the South, but I’ve watched enough little old ladies wring the heads off chickens to be more open-minded. Plenty of women have decent upper body strength. Especially if they grabbed another female from behind, I think it could be done.”

“So maybe the ‘friend’ Jackie brought home that night. You check with the local bars?”

“Sure, credit card activity told us where Jackie had spent the evening. Unfortunately, it was a new bar opening downtown. When we flashed Jackie’s picture, couple of servers remembered seeing her that night, but no one was paying much attention. Apparently, the debut was very successful and the place was cranking.”

“Her e-mail messages, cell phone log?” D.D. asked.

“No recent contact from a new friend, or calendar notation to meet so-and-so at such-and-such. I’m guessing Jackie hadn’t planned on meeting a friend that night. I think the other woman found her.”

“Found her, or stalked her?”

“Good question.”

“And the woman talked Jackie into taking her home.”

“Conjecture, but a good one.”

“Because Jackie might be suspicious of a man, given what happened to her friend, Randi. But she wouldn’t think much of a strange female.”

“According to friends and family, Jackie thought Randi’s ex-husband killed her. So it’s not clear Jackie was on guard one way or the other. Then again, it was the one-year anniversary of her best friend’s murder. Jackie’s at a downtown bar, probably feeling a little lonely, a little blue…”

“The right approach, Hey, I like your sweater, mind if I have a seat…”

“A little conversation, a couple drinks,” Kimberly filled in.

“Jackie was an easy target. Assuming our killer is a female and really good at social engineering.”

“To judge by both scenes, we’re looking for someone with advanced people skills. Which, let’s face it, you can’t say about all killers.”

D.D. nodded, mulled it over. This case that was not even a case was growing on her, sinking in. A puzzle within a puzzle.

“So now it’s basically two days until the twenty-first,” D.D. provided. “Location has moved to Boston, where we have the final member of the trio, Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. She’s definitely on guard. Carrying a. 22, running, training, boning up on forensics and true crime, not to mention outreaching to her local homicide detective. I don’t see her bringing home any ‘new’ friends, male or female, on the twenty-first.”

“Probably not,” Kimberly agreed.

“So our killer would have to come up with another ruse,” D.D. murmured, still thinking.

“What does Charlene want most?” Kimberly asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“If you’re a killer, if you want to get someone’s attention who has every reason to be on guard, you have to offer something so good, so personal, so compelling, that even paranoid Charlene would be willing to throw caution to the wind, just to learn more.”

“She wants to know who killed her friends,” D.D. said.

“Then maybe the killer has it even easier this time around. She doesn’t have to ‘pretend’ to be anything at all. She can just be herself. Because she is who Charlene wants more than anything in the world. She holds all the answers to Randi and Jackie’s last minutes. And if you’re someone who has lost people you love to crime…it’s very hard to say no to that. Even if you know better, the desire, the need to know what happened to your loved ones…That’s a very powerful tool. I wouldn’t blame Charlie for not walking away.”

“Who’d you lose?” D.D. asked softly.

“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.