Catch Me

Chapter 25

D.D. MADE IT TO THE RESTAURANT ON TIME. Alex had selected the Legal Seafood on the water, next to the Boston aquarium. It was close to the airport, offered good food and great views. D.D. knew the restaurant well, had used to walk there from her North End condo. Walking, however, was much easier than navigating the crush of rush hour traffic.

She plodded up 93, then looped through an elaborate off-ramp pattern that mostly involved sitting at red lights for three to four turns at a time.

By the time she arrived at the waterfront location, she was tense, frazzled, and pretty sure she had sweat through the blue silk blouse she’d bought the week before, in anticipation of meeting her mother.

Across from the restaurant was a public parking garage. D.D. wound her way up the levels until she was lucky enough to discover an empty space, way in the back, as far away from the stairwell as one could get. The space was marked COMPACT ONLY. She wedged her Crown Vic carefully into the narrow confines, then eased open her door.

As she stepped out of her car, the icy cold sliced through her like a knife. She went from overheated to shivering in a matter of seconds.

She should start walking, warm herself up.

She stood there instead, feeling like a little girl again, dragging her feet as she got home from school, because she had another note from her teacher in her backpack and her mother would be angry again. Worse, her mother would never say a word. She’d just thin her lips and look at her in a way D.D. knew too well.

I am a grown adult, D.D. reminded herself. A top detective, respected by cops, feared by felons.

It wasn’t working for her yet. She wanted it to, but it wasn’t working.

She thought of Alex and baby Jack instead. The way Alex was no doubt sitting patiently with her parents, easing them into their visit, encouraging them to fuss over their grandchild. The way Alex would look up when she finally walked into the restaurant. The way he would smile, instantly, genuinely, as she appeared table-side.

D.D. started walking, one black booted step in front of another as she made her way across the garage, down the stairwell, then across the snowy street until she arrived in front of the bustling restaurant.

Final deep breath. Reminding herself that a woman who worked death investigations could surely handle one dinner with her own parents.

Her hands trembled.

She went in.

ALEX AND HER PARENTS WERE SEATED in the very back, in a corner booth. It was slightly quieter back there, but still busy enough given a Thursday night at a major Boston restaurant. A waiter had performed the high chair trick-turning it over so that Jack’s car seat fit snuggly between the wooden legs. Alex sat on the right side of the booth, her parents side by side on the left.

Her mom, Patsy, sported a Florida tan, beautiful silver-blond hair, and an elegantly carved face that had obviously served as the model for D.D.’s own. She was wearing linen slacks and a sea foam green sleeveless sweater over a thin white shirt-a snow bird trying to adjust for the northern climate, but forgetting just how cold and bitter January in Boston could be. D.D.’s father, Roy, equally fit and trim, also appeared as if he’d been plucked from the golf course, wearing a navy blue sports jacket over a white-and-blue striped polo shirt.

Alex, as she’d predicted, spotted her first. He wore one of her favorite dark red cashmere sweaters over a black turtleneck. When he saw her, his blue eyes lit up, and the corners crinkled with the full force of his smile.

She faltered. She went to take a step and actually stumbled a little. Because it hit her, halfway across the extremely loud and crowded restaurant, that the most handsome man in the place belonged to her. Smiled for her. Sat patiently, with their baby and her parents, for her.

And it terrified her, because for every ounce of love she felt for him, she felt simultaneously, like a bank of black clouds across the sun, that she wasn’t worthy. That a man this handsome, accomplished, and smart belonged more to the likes of her parents than to the likes of her.

Which pissed her off all over again. All these years later, she did not want to feel that small. Maybe she hadn’t been the child her parents had wanted her to be. But she was the adult she needed to be, and that ought to be enough.

D.D. thrust up her chin and strode across the restaurant.

She arrived in front of the table. Opened her mouth to declare loudly, “Welcome Mom, howdy Dad, have a good flight?”

Just as her pager chimed to life.

ALEX SPOKE FIRST. “Everything okay?”

D.D. unclipped the pager, read the brief message. Closed her eyes. “I gotta go.”

“What?” Her mother, addressing her for the first time, already sounded strident.

“I’m sorry.” D.D. did her best to gather her wits. She leaned over, kissed her mother on the cheek, then her father. When she spoke, however, she looked at Alex, as his expression was easier to take. “Another shooting,” she informed him.

“Same case?”

“Exactly. Near Copley, so at least I’m close.”

“I don’t understand.” D.D.’s mother again.

“I’m in the middle of a major case, a string of murders. Another just happened. I have to go.”

“But…but…you just got here.”

“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.

“How old?” she asked Detective O, who stood behind her, shivering in her short dress and boots.

“Victim gave his name as Barry. Said he was sixteen.”

“And he targeted another kid?”

“Seven-year-old boy. Apparently ‘met’ him on a gaming website. Arranged to meet him at the Boston Public Library. Then lured him outside.”

D.D. shook her head. Even after O’s lecture on sex predators becoming younger and younger, sixteen was hard to take. “Has the body been identified?”

“Uniformed officers are canvassing the area now. He was on foot, so maybe someone local will recognize him.”

“There’s a doorstop conversation,” D.D. muttered. “First off, we regret to inform you that your son is dead. Secondly, he was most likely killed while sexually assaulting another child. Shit.”

Detective O didn’t say anything; maybe she shared the sentiment.

“So the older boy got the younger boy outside, then led him here.” D.D. looked around. They were tucked in a back Dumpster area, servicing local establishments. It was secluded, rank-smelling. But not totally private. One end was open to the side street, not to mention they stood before a heavy metal service door used by personnel as they hauled out trash.

“Wonder if he scoped the area out before,” D.D. thought out loud. “Learned the traffic patterns of this alleyway, felt comfortable. Or maybe, as you explained before, it was a case of impulse meeting opportunity. The seven-year-old had followed, so the sixteen-year-old decided to see what he could do.”

Detective O shrugged; given that the perpetrator was now dead, there wasn’t any way of answering such questions.

“The sixteen-year-old had just exposed himself,” O said, “when the woman appeared. The victim didn’t recognize her and has no memory of her following them. But she seemed to know the sixteen-year-old, implied that she’d been watching him. She identified herself as a gamer from the same website.”

D.D. stood up, frowning. “Really? So while one user is targeting kids, another user is targeting the predator. And both were able to find their victims in real life? But how? Isn’t that supposed to be the hard part?”

“Sixteen-year-old probably targeted the younger based on his stated interest in the Red Sox. Once sixteen-year-old established that the boy lived in Boston, he sent an e-mail inviting him to the library, which, as a public place, seemed harmless enough.”

“Lured him in.”

“Exactly. As for our Femme Nikita,” O shrugged, “there are several tools available to her. Personally, I’d start by running my target’s user name through Spokeo, to find other sites he visited. Given ‘Barry’ was sixteen, one of the first sites that would probably come up is his Facebook page. So I’d visit there, study his photo, identify friends, hobbies, interests. Better yet, Facebook has a feature, called Facebook Places or Check In. Meaning that when ‘Barry’ posts while at the Boston library, that site automatically shows up as part of the post. Now, La Femme Nikita can follow all of Barry’s comings and goings, including that he was at the Boston Public Library tonight. Assuming she has a smartphone, she doesn’t even need to lug around a laptop. She simply carries her smartphone in one hand, her gun in the other, and lets Barry tell her exactly where he’s going and what he’s doing. Takes all the fun out of stalking if you ask me.”

D.D. shook her head, gazing down at the snowy shadow of a dead kid. “But you said the sixteen-year-old targeted his victim at a gaming website, not the chat room you and Phil discussed earlier?”

“Not the chat room. AthleteAnimalz.com, however, is a major corporate kiddie site. Chances are, our first two pedophiles roamed there as well.”

“Meaning that’s the connection, not the chat room.”

“Or all of the above. The pedophile community isn’t that large. It’s not unreasonable that their paths crossed in several different sites on the Web.”

D.D. could buy that. She straightened, working on getting the choreography established in her head. “Sixteen-year-old boy targets seven-year-old-boy. Lures him to dark alley. Then…this woman appears. What happened next?”

“According to our seven-year-old witness, she was already holding the twenty-two. Pretty much ignored the younger boy, homed straight in on Barry. Of course, at this point, Barry had his pants unzipped and was holding his penis, making himself the obvious target.”

“What’d she say?”

“Not much. Confirmed the older boy’s Internet identity as Pink Poodle-”

“A sixteen-year-old boy is Pink Poodle?”

“Welcome to the Internet. And for the record, that strategy helped him. The seven-year-old agreed to meet tonight in part because he assumed he’d be meeting a girl, and who’s afraid of a girl?”

“Shit,” D.D. said.

“The shooter then identified herself as Helmet Hippo, another user from the website. Teenager tried to defend himself. Argued his age, said he’d change.”

D.D. looked down at the snow angel. “Obviously, that didn’t work.” But it bothered her again. Sixteen years old. Shot down in cold blood. What if he could’ve changed? The courts probably wouldn’t have tried him as an adult, but another citizen had. Tried him and executed him in a matter of minutes.

“The woman stated he’d been a very naughty boy, ordered him to be brave, then shot him.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Granted, our witness is young and traumatized, but his best guess is that the entire altercation took about three minutes.”

“Be brave, you said. Was there a note?” D.D. asked. “Everyone has to die sometime, yada yada yada.”

“Tucked inside the victim’s coat. Most likely written in advance, as, according to the witness, she didn’t have time to write anything at the scene. He saw her bend over the body, however, probably placing the paper in the victim’s jacket.”

“So definitely the same shooter. Refining her game now. Not just picking off pedophiles, but rescuing their victims.”

“In her mind, I’m sure she had a good night.”

“What happened after she shot the sixteen-year-old?”

“The shooter introduced herself to the witness, told him not to worry, then walked away.”

D.D. arched a brow. “Which way did she exit?”

“To the left. The boy didn’t follow, though. He stood there a minute longer, then bolted back to the library, where his mother had alerted the staff she couldn’t find him. They were going to lock down, police had just been called, when he came tearing up the steps. He was hysterical, she became hysterical. It took five or ten minutes to sort things out. Then uniformed officers immediately dispatched to this location, while broadcasting the woman’s description, but no hits.”

D.D. wasn’t surprised. Anyone could disappear in Boston. Which is why Charlene Grant had originally moved here.

D.D. thought about it. “That the Internet user was sixteen should’ve startled her. Made her pause, ask more questions, something. But it didn’t. Meaning your theory stands to reason-she’d been stalking her target for a bit, visiting his Facebook page, maybe even following him in person on other occasions. She wasn’t surprised by his age or his actions. She expected both.”

“Premeditation,” O supplied. “Planning. Strategy.”

“Smart. Adept with computers. Patient.”

“Controlled,” O added to their profile of the shooter. “She shot the sixteen-year-old, then walked away. No collateral damage, no fussing with the witness. Just in, out, done.”

“Where’s the witness now?”

“Back of a squad car with his mother. We’re arranging for a forensic interviewer who specializes in children to meet them at HQ.”

“Can he talk?”

O shrugged. “Last time I saw him, he clung to his mother and didn’t say a word.”

“I’d like to try.”

O hesitated. D.D. looked at her. “What?”

“You have any experience with kids?”

“Worked a case where a four-year-old was the prime witness.”

“Look, you may be older and wiser,” O drawled, “but I’m sex crimes, and unfortunately, most of my cases involve questioning kids. So take it from me, you can’t screw this up. You lead the witness here, and that contamination will carry. Then the entire interview will be tossed, and we’ll have no grounds for arresting our prime suspect, Charlene blah blah Grant. You gotta be smart.”

“Then I’ll leave the stupid questions at home.”

O still didn’t seem happy, but she turned away from the alley, returning in the direction of the flashing cruiser lights. The little boy and his mother were huddled in the back of the first patrol car. The door was open, probably to make them feel less like prisoners. But it also let in the chill, and both the boy and his mother were shivering. The mom held a cardboard cup of steaming beverage, probably coffee, but she wasn’t drinking it. Just holding it, as if willing the warmth to make a difference.

The little boy didn’t look up when they approached. He was leaning against his mother’s side, his tiny form nearly lost in an oversized black winter coat, hat, scarf, and mittens. D.D. had an impression of dark eyes and a pale pinched face, then he turned away from her.

The mother had her left arm around her son. She had the same pale features and haunted expression as the boy. But her jaw was set, her lips thinned into a resolute line.

“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. said to introduce herself. It sounded as if they’d already met O.

“Jennifer Germaine.” The woman nodded, as she didn’t have a free hand to offer. She nudged her son, but he didn’t look up. “My son, Jesse,” she said after another moment.

“How are you doing, Jesse?” D.D. asked.

The boy didn’t answer.

“Fair enough,” she agreed. “I’m not having the best night either.”

He turned slightly, stared at her with a wary expression.

“I’m supposed to be having dinner with my mother. She came all the way from Florida to see me. But I had to leave. She’s not very happy with me. It doesn’t feel good, to have my mom not very happy with me.”

Jesse’s lower lip trembled.

“But I also know she understands,” D.D. continued. “It’s the cool thing about moms. They always love us, huh?”

Jennifer’s arm tightened around her son. He pressed himself harder against her side.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice coming out hoarse and raspy. Maybe from crying now, or screaming earlier.

“Why are you sorry?” D.D. asked, keeping her voice conversational.

“I was a bad boy.”

“Why do you say that?” Open-ended questions. That was the deal with kids-can’t imply, can’t lead, can only ask open-ended questions.

“Stranger Danger. Don’t talk to strangers online. Don’t meet strangers. Don’t go away with strangers. My mommy told me. I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The little boy started to cry. His mother stroked his hair, then leaned over his head, murmuring low words of comfort.

“Thank you for returning to the library tonight,” D.D. said.

The boy looked up slightly.

“That was quick thinking. You had to find your way back through the city streets, which I personally find very confusing at night. But you did. You found your mother, you notified the police. Very brave of you. Have you ever walked the city alone, Jesse?”

The boy shook his head.

“Then kudos. You kept a cool head. Bet your mom’s pretty proud of you for that.”

Jennifer nodded against the top of her son’s head.

“I need you to be brave for me now, Jesse. Just a little bit longer, okay? Just relax, snuggled up next to your mom, and think about a couple of things for me.”

The little boy nodded, just slightly.

“Can you tell us what happened tonight, Jesse? In your own words. Take your time.”

Jesse didn’t start talking right away. His mother bent over again. “Jenny and Jesse against the world,” D.D. heard her whisper to him. “Remember, Jenny and Jesse against the world. Hold my hand. We can do this.”

The little boy took his mother’s hand. Then, he began to speak.

It was a pretty straightforward tale. A sixteen-year-old boy named Barry spent his afternoons gaming online as a pink poodle. He racked up points, he gained attention. He sent out e-mails to other gamers, offering friendship and help.

Jesse had taken the bait.

He’d assumed he had nothing to fear from a poodle, a meeting in a public library, and a rendezvous with a presumed girl. And so it went, right up to the second Jesse found himself standing in a back alley, too scared to run, too shocked to scream.

He couldn’t tell them much about the woman. Her arrival had startled him. Her gun had terrified him. Mostly, he remembered her eyes. Bright, bright blue eyes.

“Crazy eyes,” Jesse breathed softly. “Creepy, like blue cat eyes.” He looked up at them. “I think she’s an alien or maybe a robot or a monster. She…she hurt him. And…and I was happy.”

His gaze dropped again, and he buried himself suddenly, tightly, into his mother’s embrace.

“I’m sorry,” the little boy moaned, voice muffled against his mother’s coat. “I was bad. And there was this noise, and he’s dead. And I was bad and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mommy, I won’t ever do it again. I promise, I promise, I promise.”

D.D. looked away. She didn’t know what hurt worse, the boy’s obvious pain, or his mother’s, as she put her other arm around him and rocked him against her, trying to soothe, clearly knowing it wasn’t enough.

“I would like to take him home,” the woman said. “It’s late.” She added as an afterthought, “He has school tomorrow.”

Then her face suddenly crumpled, as if understanding for the first time that school in the morning probably wasn’t going to happen. That tonight had been bigger than that. That this was one of those things that would take more than a good night’s sleep to recover from.

Detective O stepped forward to explain about the interview with the forensic specialist, which needed to happen sooner versus later, as children’s memories were highly pliable.

Jesse’s mom shook her head, clearly becoming as overwhelmed and shell-shocked as her son.

D.D. reached out and squeezed the woman’s hand. “Just another hour,” she said encouragingly to the woman. “Then you can both go home. And tomorrow will be better than today, and the next day will be better than that. It will get better.”

The woman looked at her. “I love him so much.”

“I know.”

“I would do anything for him. I would give my life for him. I was just looking up a school assignment. Fifteen minutes we’d be apart. We’d done it before and he’s at that age. He doesn’t always want his mother around anymore. And I want him to feel strong. I want him to feel safe.”

“I know.”

“I would do anything for him.”

“The interview will help,” D.D. assured her. “I know it sounds scary, but telling his story will allow Jesse to own it. It will become less and less something that happened to him, and more and more something he can narrate, take control over. We’ve seen it with other kids. Talking helps them. Holding it inside, not so good.”

Jenny sighed, rested her cheek on top of her son’s head. “Jenny and Jesse against the world,” she murmured.

“You’re a good mom.”

“I should’ve done more.”

“Story of a mother’s life.”

“Do you have a child?”

“Ten weeks old, already the love of my life.”

“What would you do?”

“I hope I never have to find out.”

“Please…”

D.D. hesitated, then answered as honestly as she could: “I would try to help him find his strength. The bad part already happened. Now it’s about helping Jesse find his way to the other side. Where he’s no longer the victim, but the one in control. Where he can feel strong. Where he can feel safe.”

The woman stared at her, seemed to be studying her face. “We’ll go to headquarters,” she said at last. “We’ll meet with the interview…expert.”

“We’ll have a victim’s advocate meet you there as well,” D.D. told her. “There are resources for you and your son. Please don’t be afraid to use them.”

D.D. handed over her card, then straightened, jamming her freezing cold gloved hands back into her coat pockets.

“Thank you for your help, Jesse,” D.D. said. “I appreciate you answering my questions.”

The boy didn’t look up, didn’t respond.

She said to his mother: “Take care of your son.”

“Oh, I will, Detective. I will.”

D.D. stepped away, heading over to O. She’d just paused beside the sex crimes detective when a startled cry went up. Both investigators turned to see a uniformed officer waving for them furiously from the first patrol car.

“Detectives,” he called. “Quick! You gotta see this!”

D.D. and O exchanged glances, then made their way precariously down the icy sidewalk. The uniformed patrol officer had the passenger-side door open and was gesturing inside excitedly.

“On the dashboard,” he said urgently. “Don’t move it. I’d just set it there, you know, to deliver to the evidence room later. Course, I got the heat running, then when I looked in…”

It appeared to be the shooter’s note, now encased in clear plastic. A full sheet, the letters scripted in the familiar precisely formed, elegantly rounded letters. Except, as D.D. looked closer, she suddenly spotted other letters so small and jumbled together, they first appeared as a blemish or blur.

She looked up abruptly, glancing at the uniformed officer. “Did you touch this, mess with it in any way?”

She stood back, allowed O to take a look.

“No, no, no,” Officer Piotrow assured her hastily. “It’s the heat. When I saw that something seemed to have happened, I picked up the note, and I’ll be damned if the letters didn’t immediately disappear. But then I set the paper back down on the hot dash…”

D.D. felt her heart quicken.

“I think it’s lemon juice,” the officer was saying. “My kid did this experiment once in grade school. You can write secret notes with lemon juice-the words will disappear when the lemon juice dries, but reappear when you hold the note over a hot lightbulb. I think my dash is the lightbulb.”

“A note within a note,” Detective O murmured, still leaning over the paper. “Different penmanship.”

“Different sentiment,” D.D. replied tersely, chewing her lower lip.

The first note, Everyone dies sometime. Be brave, was scrawled in the usual large rounded script.

In contrast, the hidden message was much smaller, jumbled letters hastily scrawled and crammed into a space smaller than a dime.

An order. A taunt. Or maybe even a plea:

Two simple words: Catch Me.