Lisa Gardner - Catch Me

“I’d like to think the victims would snap out of it and fight back,” D.D. agreed. She chewed another bite of sandwich. “I don’t get it. Abigail killed two women, for no apparent good reason. Wasn’t angry, wasn’t driven by compulsion, wasn’t for any clear personal gain. Just killed them because it had to be done. What’s worse do you think? Being murdered, or having your own murderer not that personally invested in your death? Just, you know, getting the job done.”

“Murder for hire?” Phil asked.

“Would still have to be someone somewhere who gained. I can’t figure out how the deaths of these two women lead back to any one person’s gain. The only real connection between the two is Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.”

“Maybe the killer gained Charlene,” Phil said. “Access to Charlie, attention or affection from her, something of that nature.”

“Actually, we think Abigail is Charlene.”

“Really? When’d that happen?”

“Late this morning. Ballistics matched Charlene’s gun to the sex offender murders. Meaning, Charlene shot the pedophiles, and given that the killer identified herself as Abigail during the third shooting, Charlene is Abigail.”

“That gives me a headache,” Phil said.

“Me, too!”

D.D.’s cell phone rang. She glanced down, half-afraid it might be her mother, half-hopeful it would be Detective O with word of Charlene’s arrest. Instead, it was a number she recognized from having called the day before.

“Speak of the devil,” she murmured, answering her phone. “Good afternoon, Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. Or, seeing as it’s January twenty-first, would you prefer to be called Abigail?”

“NOT MY GUN,” Charlene said without preamble.

“Excuse me?”

“Your ballistics report. It wasn’t run on my weapon, and I can prove it.”

“How?”

“You. You saw my gun at HQ. Remember? Taurus twenty-two, nickel-plated with a rosewood grip. Gun that was tested last night had a rubber grip. Not my gun.”

D.D. pursed her lips, glanced at Phil, then motioned for a pen and paper. She quick scrawled, ballistics report? Because truth was, she hadn’t seen the final report yet. She’d only heard of it.

“Maybe you have two guns,” D.D. said.

“I don’t. Just my legally registered Taurus with the rosewood grip.”

“Prove it.”

“Contact J. T. Dillon, my firearms instructor. He helped me purchase the weapon a year ago and has seen me practice with it for the past twelve months.”

“Only establishes that you definitely own at least one weapon with a rosewood grip. Doesn’t say you don’t own a second twenty-two with a rubber grip.”

There was a moment of silence. “Isn’t that burden of proof on you?” Charlene spoke up. “Look at the report again. Are my fingerprints on the second gun? Because it’s not mine, meaning they aren’t, meaning you can’t prove that it’s my gun. I didn’t shoot three pedophiles, and you can’t prove that I did.”

“I’ll tell you what. Come down to HQ, and we’ll sort it out.”

“I’ll tell you what. Today is January twenty-first. My handgun has disappeared and I think your own detective is fucking with me, and I’m not going anywhere near Boston PD.”

“My detective?”

“Detective O. She’s the one who submitted the fake gun. And probably stole my Taurus.”

“What do you mean your Taurus is missing? You mean the one with the rosewood grip.”

“Exactly. I hid it yesterday, when I went to work. I…” There was a pause. D.D. could practically hear the girl do some quick thinking. “After you and O questioned me yesterday, I realized you seemed to think I’d done something wrong. You treated me like a suspect, not a victim. I got spooked. I didn’t want to be without my handgun, but I know it’s not allowed at work. So I hid it under a bush in the parking lot, in a snowbank. Tucked it where it would be safe.”

D.D. nodded, knowing this part from Detective O.

“Except when I finally got off work, my handgun was gone. Then…I heard over the police scanner the bulletin for my own arrest and the chatter on the ballistics report. So I called the lab-”

“You called the crime lab?”

“Sure. I called the lab, said I was Detective O and asked for the details of the report. The second I heard the description of the gun, I knew it wasn’t mine. Except, mine is also gone. Don’t you get it yet?”

D.D. said, slowly, “Why don’t you tell me,” though she had a sudden sinking feeling. She glanced up at Phil, who was listening to the conversation positively wide-eyed.

“Detective O submitted the real murder weapon for ballistics testing,” Charlene stated. “A twenty-two semiauto Taurus with a rubber grip. Except that’s not my gun. That’s Detective O’s gun. She had the murder weapon. She killed the sex offenders. And now she’s framing me for it. Has me unarmed, in hiding, and basically a sitting duck on the day we already know I’m supposed to die. Come eight P.M., Randi and Jackie’s killer will finish me off, and no one ever has to be the wiser. I’m dead, Detective O gets away with triple murder. Four homicides, if you count me, and personally, I think you should count me.”

D.D. stared at the whiteboard. “Detective O shot the sex offenders.”

“That’s what I’m saying! Her gun, not mine. Her crime spree, not mine.”

“Detective O introduced herself to the little boy as Abigail.”

“Yes. Trying to frame me.”

“Trying to frame you?” D.D. tested. “Then why didn’t she introduce herself as Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant, or Charlie. Why Abigail?”

“Abigail’s my sister.”

“Charlie, how would Detective O know that?”

Silence on the other end of the phone line.

“Everyone has to die sometime,” D.D. murmured. “Be brave.”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“What does that mean, Charlie?” D.D. had never told Charlie about the notes linking the three shootings. The contents of a message were the kind of detail a good detective held back, tried to trick a suspect into confessing, not the sort of thing one gave away.

Now she heard Charlie whisper in a faraway voice, “Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave, child. Be brave.”

“Charlie?”

“My mother. My mother said those words to me.”

“To you, Charlie? And maybe to your baby sister, Abigail?”

“Oh my God…”

Oh my God was right, D.D. thought. She stared at Phil. Phil stared back at her, then together they looked at the table, the sprawling, full color collage of two women’s murders.

“Charlie,” D.D. said urgently. “Tell me about Abigail. You need to remember Abigail. Because somehow, some way, she’s become a Boston detective known as Ellen O, who at the very least has killed three sex offenders, as well as probably murdered your two best friends. Your sister’s not only alive, but she’s coming for you, Charlie. In a matter of hours, you’re dead.”

THE PROBLEM WITH BOXING is that it’s a relatively civilized sport.

You face off squarely against your opponent. You use only your fists. You aim only above the waist.

From a self-defense point of view, this strategy is not as effective as say, an all-out brawl. Certainly, there were other disciplines I could’ve studied that might have been more appropriate for fighting off a murderer, while also being more efficient for a girl.

But from the very beginning, I loved boxing.

I think I’ve waited my entire life to stand before my attacker and stare her in the eye.

Fortunately, my boxing coach, Dick, taught self-defense classes for women. He also hinted of a misspent youth, where knocking heads and kicking ass seemed the easiest solution to all of life’s problems. For the past year, after our bouts, he’d shared some of his secrets with me. J.T., my firearms instructor, had done the same. Trust me, if you want to learn how to fight dirty, ask a guy who used to be Marine Force Recon. Apparently, when it comes to warfare, they really do believe the end justifies the means.