Lisa Gardner - Catch Me

“So when are you coming to Florida?” her mother said.

“What?”

“We were thinking March,” her mother continued, with a look at her father. “The weather’s warm, the sun shines every day, so much better than March in New England, dear. I mean, if you’re lucky the temperatures will what? Finally break into the twenties? You can bring Jack to the beach, let him dip his toes into the ocean. And we’d like to have a party, of course. Nothing too big. Just enough for our friends to meet you and Jack. Oh, and, of course, Alex.”

Alex started at the sound of his own name. He looked up, expression faintly panic stricken at what he might have missed.

“We’ll handle the tickets,” D.D.’s mother continued. “It’ll be our gift to you and Alex. A baby gift.” She beamed.

D.D. stood in the middle of the family room, holding on to Jack’s binky for dear life. She glanced at Alex.

“Florida?” he asked blankly.

“Yes,” D.D. filled in. “They would like us to visit. In March.”

“The weather in Florida is nice in March,” he said.

“True.”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“We can go. In March. It will be nice to see where your parents live.” Then Alex got up and walked to the kitchen.

D.D.’s cell phone rang. Probably the only thing that saved her from triple homicide. Detective O’s name lit up the screen.

“Gotta take this,” she muttered and made a beeline for the rear bedroom.

“Cassir just called,” O announced without preamble. “Ballistics is a match for the second shooting and third shooting. First shooting, slug’s too damaged, as he’d predicted. But come on, two out of three…”

“Yeah,” D.D. agreed, wheels churning again. “Two out of three works for me. Request the arrest warrant for Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.”

“On it.”

“O, have you checked Facebook this morning? The page you set up?”

“Yeah. Eleven hundred friends and climbing. No obvious threats and crazies. Ex-husband hasn’t posted again. Half a dozen people who appear to have gone to high school with both victims, but hell if I can tell if they’re psycho. We’d need more time.”

“Can you check birthdays?”

“If people include that information in their profiles. Some do, some don’t.”

“Search for Jan twenty-one.”

“Today? You think…you think this is someone’s idea of celebrating their birthday?”

“There’s gotta be a reason it’s Jan twenty-one, right? Date didn’t mean anything in Randi’s world, didn’t mean anything in Jackie’s world, and doesn’t mean anything in Charlie’s world. Hence, it means something to the killer.”

“Happy birthday?”

“Yes,” D.D. said, and as she said it, she felt the last pieces of the puzzle click. Her mental churning ending. The answer arrived. “Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant,” she stated. “That’s our problem. We keep thinking this is about Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s not. Maybe this has nothing to do with Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. Maybe, it has everything to do with Abigail.”

“Charlie is Abigail. Ballistics report confirms it.”

“Maybe. But that still doesn’t answer the question: Our shooter made a point of introducing herself as Abigail. Why?”

“She was comforting the boy. She hates the perverts, not the victims.”

“She could comfort the boy without providing a name. But she was specific. ‘My name is Abigail.’”

“In honor of her sister. The baby whose body we haven’t found yet.”

“So dead baby Rosalind becomes a middle name, and dead baby Carter becomes another middle name, whereas Abigail…?”

“Becomes a splintered personality.”

“Why?”

“How the hell do I know? I believe that’s why they call it insanity.”

“What about the twenty-first?” D.D. continued. “Charlene’s BFFs were each murdered on January twenty-first. Why that day?”

“That question’s been asked. Unfortunately, no one knows the answer. On the other hand, maybe we’ll finally get some new data today.”

“I think the two things go together,” D.D. said.

“What two things?”

“Abigail and January twenty-first. See, we only know Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. We’ve only dug into her past, asked her questions. But what about Abigail? Why that name, why that date?”

“You’re implying Abigail is the connection between the BFF murders and the sex offender shootings?”

“I think so.”

“But…” O’s voice hesitated. “Abigail is Charlie.”

“Actually, if this is a case of multiple personalities, that’s not true. Abigail is a piece of Charlie. But technically speaking, the two have never met.”

“Do I get to arrest Charlie?” O asked.

“Sure. We have ballistics. Use the report to obtain the warrant. Getting Charlene behind bars isn’t a bad thing, but I’m telling you now, who we really want to meet is Abigail. Whatever’s going on, she holds the key.”

“I’m off to arrest Charlene Grant,” O said, her tone implying D.D. was the one who’d now gone crazy.

“Fine,” D.D. agreed. “I’m off to learn about Abigail. We’ll see which one of us finds the killer first.”

WHEN THE FIRST Grovesnor PD cruiser came wailing into sight, I froze. It was coming for me. No logical reason to assume such a thing, but I did. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

I planted myself next to a telephone pole near the entrance to the underground T station, shoulders hunched, head ducked down as if I could magically disappear into the bulk of my winter coat.

Didn’t work. Brakes screeched. The cruiser careened to a halt beside me. I eyeballed the distance to the subway stairs, descending beneath the earth. Forty, fifty steps. I was small, fast. Had a fighting chance at it if I took off right-

“Get in,” Officer Mackereth growled through the open passenger side window. “For fuck’s sake, Charlie. Get in. Get down. Now!”

I popped the door, tucked myself into the front passenger’s seat, then shut the door and curled myself into the foot well beneath the dash. Head down again, trusting my dark brown hair to blend with the black leather seat as further camouflage, while Tom hit the gas and the cruiser shot off, sirens still wailing, looking for all intents and purposes as if the officer were in hot pursuit.

“Describe your gun,” Tom said, both hands on the wheel, gaze straight ahead, expression grim.

“What?”

“Describe your firearm!”

“Taurus twenty-two semiauto. Nickel-plated…rosewood grip…”

“What kind of grip?”

“Rosewood.”

He grunted, threw the car around a corner, accelerated slightly.

“Tom, what’s going on?”

“Call came in from the sergeant two minutes ago. You’re wanted on an outstanding warrant.” He finally spared a glance at me. “Murder one.”

My eyes widened. I didn’t say anything.

“Gonna argue with me, Charlie? Say you didn’t do it? You’re innocent.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Neither do I,” he stated flatly, and he sounded angry. At himself, me, the situation-I couldn’t tell. “This is what I don’t get: Been chatter over the radio for the past thirty minutes about a break in a major case-string of shootings of child molesters. Finally got a match on the gun, something like that. Bunch of Boston cops been joking that maybe instead of arresting the shooter we should give her a badge.”

Tom took his eyes off the road just long enough to stare at me. “Knew it was you, Charlie. Knew it had to be. The request last night to seize your weapon, the LT pulling your time cards, spending half the night on the phone with a Boston detective-”