Lisa Gardner - The 7th Month

A book in the D.D. Warren series, 2012

Have you ever contemplated killing someone? Perhaps your snoring spouse, or overbearing boss, or that pretentious neighbor whose children really are smarter than yours? You probably convinced yourself it couldn’t be done. Too messy, with the blood, the guts, the suddenly voiding bowels. Or too hard, what with fingerprinting, DNA, hair and fiber, and all the other types of newly developed forensic evidence. No way you’d ever get away with it.

Take it from me, murder isn’t that difficult. It’s a matter of simple logistics. You must plan ahead, plot out each step, then make the necessary preparations. For example, the first thing you must do is select your victim. Blonde, brunette. Male, female. Someone you know well, someone you’re about to know very well.

Select your target. This is step one.

At first glance, Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren pegged the man to be either a white-collar criminal or a serial killer. White-collar, because he had the rounded shoulders and nervous hands of a browbeaten clerk, desperate to one day have his revenge. Serial killer, because his small stature and weak jawline spoke of a guy who probably preferred his lovers to be passive, e.g., dead, not to mention he was the right size to fit into a home’s crawl space.

Currently, the man stood just inside the doors of Boston PD’s homicide unit. D.D. sat behind the high-countered cherrywood receptionist’s desk. He eyed her uneasily. She stared back.

“Er… I’m looking for a Boston detective,” he said.

“Witness a crime, reporting a crime, or confessing to a crime?” she asked.

“Actually, I’m in need of an expert.”

D.D. looked him up and down again. Upon closer inspection, the man’s oversized brown suit was cut from a silk-wool blend with flecks of dark green. Shoes, shiny new Italian leather. Tie, mustard yellow designer silk. Some money had been spent on the wardrobe. Too bad it didn’t do a thing for him.

“You’ve lost weight,” she observed. “Judging by your chewed fingernails and the roll of Tums in your breast pocket, it’s most likely due to stress. You’re not sleeping, and are doing your best to compensate with caffeine and/or cocaine, hence the jitters. Shoes say you can afford cocaine. Breath argues for coffee addiction.”

“Coffee,” the man supplied hastily, his gaze dashing around the nearly empty detectives’ bullpen. Lunchtime in Boston. Even cops had to eat. “So, can I speak with an investigator? Doesn’t have to be a high-ranking official or anything,” the man continued quickly. “Any detective will do. Probably. At least, I would think so. Just… a real honest-to-goodness Boston cop. Male. Well, female would work, I suppose. But with some experience. Three to five years at least. That would be perfect.”

The man stopped talking. Sitting behind the desk, D.D. arched a brow, then folded her hands over her watermelon-sized belly while she contemplated just what she thought of such a request. Seven months pregnant, Boston’s best homicide cop was reduced to holding down the fort. At least Susan, the receptionist who was currently out to lunch, kept an emergency stash of Kit Kats in her lower left-hand drawer. Normally, D.D. would be raiding that chocolate supply, but at the moment, her stomach felt off.

Today was D-day. Alex had asked the question. She owed him an answer.

This morning. This afternoon. Anytime now.

She regarded the walk-in bundle of nerves instead. He was picking at a hangnail on his left thumb. Very soft hands, she thought. Nearly effeminate.

“Informant for the mob?” she asked him.

“No.”

“Embezzling from a financial firm?”

“Of course not!”

“Then I’m thinking serial killer.” She nodded decisively. “Yep. The kind of predator who preys on prostitutes, using a garrote fashioned from panty hose, or maybe a last-minute ambush via baseball bat. But absolutely, your victims are weaker than you, and murdering them is the only time you feel powerful.”

The man blinked his eyes several times. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened. He managed at last: “Who are you?”

“Your expert. You asked. Here I am. Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren.”

The man blinked a few more times. He finally closed the five-foot gap to the receptionist desk, peering over the edge of the counter, down to where D.D. sat with her hands around her enormous belly. His turn to be skeptical now: Could a pregnant receptionist really be a homicide detective? D.D. was getting that a lot these days, so she took pity and held up her badge. While he regarded her genuine, city-issued police shield, she continued her observations.

Definitely, the man in front of her had shed pounds, and not the good kind. His skin was washed out, like he spent all his time under fluorescent lights, and there were lines furrowed so deep into his brow, Botox was already too little too late. Maybe not a serial killer then, she amended, because clearly, he was no good at compartmentalization.

But he had problems and needed a detective. All in all, that, made him the most interesting thing to happen to D.D. in weeks.

The first three months of D.D.’s pregnancy, she’d suffered morning sickness so severe her diet had consisted of Gatorade and dry Cheerios. In her third trimester now, however, she felt great. She ate like a horse, had the energy of six people, and had even achieved the mysterious maternal glow mentioned in various baby books. Certainly, her short blond hair seemed thicker, curlier, and shinier. If she were a canine at Westminster, she was pretty sure she could win Best in Show.

Which made her current work limitations all the more grating. Sure, early on she’d vomited a few times at a couple of different crime scenes. But she didn’t think the scene where the guy had blown off his own head with a shotgun should be held against her. Her squadmates Phil and Neil had brought her tapioca pudding for an entire week, just to rub it in. She’d saved each cup until her second trimester had brought an end to her nausea. Then she’d sat in front of Phil and Neil and calmly eaten every bite of brain pudding.

Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren had her mojo back.

The very next day, her boss had stuck her on desk duty. This is what motherhood did to the working detective. One moment, an invaluable member of the team. The next, a really fat paperweight.

Whose boyfriend… partner… father of her child wanted her to move in with him.

All she had to do was give Alex her answer. This morning. This afternoon. Anytime now.

Then, at forty-one years of age, D.D. would complete her transition from active, single, workaholic Boston cop, to everyone else’s idea of domestic bliss.

The nervous, frazzled, guilty-of-something guy in front her was looking better and better all the time.

“So,” D.D. stated, jarring the man’s attention off her belly and back to her face. “I’ve told you mine. Now you tell me yours.” She pointed to her credentials, which included her name, and the nervous man got the hint.

“Oh. Right. Don Bilger. Executive producer.” He fished around inside his jacket pocket, producing the previously identified roll of Tums, flushing slightly, then managing to extract a business card: “Call me Donnie.”

D.D. accepted the offered card. She read: Donnie B. Productions , followed by an address, phone number, Facebook page, and even Twitter hashmark. The modern world, she thought, where businesses occupied social media, instead of the yellow pages.