Lisa Gardner - Catch Me

“When you pressed Menke about his wife’s murder, how’d he take it?” D.D. asked. “Get hostile on the subject, or smug?”

“Moral indignation. He was totally over her, how dare we suggest otherwise.”

“Ah, moral indignation. Always a nice choice for a wife beater. Taking the high road.”

“Well, he was a doctor you know.”

Both D.D. and Griffin lapsed into silence. “No physical evidence at the scene?” she tried again.

“Only evidence was lack of evidence,” Griffin assured her.

“What do you mean?”

“Most homes have fingerprints. How odd that this one didn’t.”

“So the killer really did clean up afterward.”

“Stone cold and handy with a sponge. I’m still thinking murder-for-hire, and this guy has quite the résumé.”

“And the second murder?” D.D. tried. “In Atlanta?”

“Don’t know the details. Only heard after the fact from Charlie, plus some Atlanta Feebie, Kimberly Quincy, gave me a buzz. She’d heard there might be a connection between Jackie Knowles’s murder and a Providence case and was curious. She commented that the Knowles scene was equally pristine. Other than the dead body and all.”

D.D. frowned. She didn’t like it. “They gotta be connected,” she muttered now. “I mean, how many clean murder scenes have you seen in your day?”

“Counting Randi’s: one.”

“Exactly. So they have to be connected. But how?”

“Question,” Griffin corrected, “is who? We knew Randi had at least one enemy-her ex. But what about Jackie Knowles? Who had reason to want her dead?”

“Murder-for-hire suggests money,” D.D. said immediately. “But two different victims from two different families rules out inheritance.”

“Please, Randi wasn’t getting that kind of alimony. She had thirty bucks in checking, that was it. Look,” Griffin took a deep breath, “I gotta run in a minute, but for what it’s worth, when I heard about the Atlanta scene, I went back to the area hotels. Tried to see if maybe a mutual acquaintance of Randi and Jackie might be in town. They grew up together, right? So maybe a neighbor, classmate, friend.”

“Charlie yada yada Grant,” D.D. guessed.

“Not that I could prove, but maybe she paid for a room with cash…You know how it is.”

D.D. nodded. She did know how it was. “She found me, you know.”

“Charlie something something Grant?”

“Yep. She’s living in Boston now. Running from her neighbors, classmates, friends.”

“Three days until the twenty-first,” Griffin murmured.

“Yep. She wanted to meet me in person. She hopes, if she doesn’t survive the twenty-first, that’ll make me try harder to solve her murder.”

“Shit,” Griffin drawled.

“My thought, exactly.”

Griffin said, “You should call Atlanta. Try the Feebie. She seemed all right. Wish I could help you more, especially given the time line…”

D.D. agreed. Three days to solve two cold cases that hadn’t yielded any leads in the past two years…“So,” she asked briskly. “If you were me, who would you be on the lookout for?”

“Someone physically strong, mentally patient, good with his words, better with his hands, and absolutely positively soulless. Probably above average computer skills as well-the Internet being every stalker’s new best friend. Conversely, I’d tell Charlie that as long as she’s running, stay off the net. Logging on these days is like sending out smoke signals: Here I am . And mine the connections. How many people really knew all three women? In fact, here’s a thought-have you checked out Facebook? Sometimes there are pages in memoriam, you know, in honor of Randi Menke and/or Jackie Knowles. See who’s posting, then track them down. Might give you a start.”

“Lotta man hours for a case that’s not even a case,” D.D. muttered. Then in the next instant, she thought of Detective O, Internet predators, and online grooming and felt a satisfying click in the back of her head. Ten weeks of total sleep deprivation, and she still had it. “Thanks, Griffin,” she said hastily. “You just gave me an idea.”

JESSE FLEW OFF THE SCHOOL BUS, slinging his Red Sox backpack over his left shoulder while dashing down the snowy street. Didn’t have a watch. Wasn’t sure about the time, but the bus had been late. Wouldn’t it figure that today of all days the bus would be late? Had to hurry, hurry, hurry.

He hit the front steps of the apartment building and jumped them two at a time before slapping the palm of his hand against the buzzer for his apartment. His mom, expecting him, buzzed back. He jerked open the heavy outer door and leapt for the stairs, missing the bottom two, hitting the edge of the third and sliding down on his knees before he got his feet beneath him and finished the long rat-a-tat dash up three levels. He was already digging in his coat pocket for the apartment key. He arrived at his unit’s front door, sweaty, trembling, and feeling a little sick.

Couldn’t be late, didn’t want to be late.

Helmet Hippo was depending on him.

Jesse jammed the metal key in the lock, got the door open, and burst into the apartment, already hemorrhaging boots, backpack, mittens, coat, hat, snow pants. No time for snack. Gotta move, move, move.

He sprinted for the table, hitting the power button above the keyboard of the computer as his mother yelled down the hall: “Jesse, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just gonna play a game.”

“Jesse?”

“AthleteAnimalz. Geez, Mom, everything’s all right!” Second the words left his mouth, Jesse bit his lower lip, realizing too late, he should’ve watched his tone. Sometimes, if he was “fresh,” his mother would take his computer privileges away. He paused, hand still on the computer, eyes on the screen as the old laptop slowly churned to life.

But his mother didn’t appear in the hallway, didn’t say anything more. Probably on a call, couldn’t tear herself away. Jesse felt guilty, but grateful. He darted away from the loading computer long enough to grab Zombie Bear and a glass of milk. The stove clock told him it was 3:42 P.M.

Yep, he was late. Very late.

He flew back to the table, sloshing some of the milk over the rim of the glass, then had to run back to the kitchen for a napkin, and by the time he returned and cleaned up the mess, his heart was really going thump, thump, thump and he didn’t feel well again. He was hot, like shaky and trembly and he wanted to cry, but he didn’t know why.

He was late and Helmet Hippo would be mad and he’d been fresh and now probably his mom was all mad and he just wanted a friend; he just wanted everything to be okay and for someone to like him, and for his mom to not have to work so hard and for their downstairs neighbor Mrs. Flowers not to bang on the floor all the time when he was trying to use quiet feet but still wasn’t so quiet.

Jesse plopped down in front of the computer, entered the AthleteAnimalz website, and did his best not to weep. He knew he was late. He still didn’t want to blubber like a big baby.

Homerun Bear had mail. Jesse’s arm was trembling so badly, it took him three tries with the mouse to click on the mailbox icon. The letter was from Helmet Hippo. It included a smiley face and a picture of a baseball mitt.

“Hey Bud. I’m here and ready to play. Find me when you’re ready. Your friend, Helmet Hippo.”

Then Jesse did cry. Giant tears of relief. Helmet Hippo wasn’t mad at him. Helmet Hippo still wanted to play.

Helmet Hippo was still his friend.

Jesse sobbed gratefully.

AT 4:31 P.M., I began phase one of operations. First up, dress code. I went with black jeans, black turtleneck, thick-tread running shoes, and a black wool coat, all courtesy of the local Salvation Army store.