by Lisa Gardner
“So you definitely think the murders are related.”
“Hard to believe otherwise,” Kimberly said bluntly. “Victims knew each other. Were murdered exactly one year apart by someone using the same MO. There’s a connection, all right. I’ll be damned if I know what it is, but there’s a connection.”
“What do you think of the third friend, Charlene yada yada Grant?”
“Only met her a couple of times, and she wasn’t feeling good about the investigators handling her friends’ murders on either occasion. She’s interacted with my father many more times, and much more positively. He likes her, but remains reserved. While she seems to earnestly and passionately care about her friends and has remained a staunch advocate on their behalf…”
“She remains a prime suspect,” D.D. filled in.
“Yep.”
“She got an alibi for the Knowles murder?”
“Her aunt claims she was in New Hampshire the evening of the twenty-first. By midday on the twenty-second, when Charlene got the news of Jackie’s death from the local police, she flew straight down from Portland, Maine. We have her name on the ticket and can corroborate the Delta flight. All in all, a decent alibi.”
“There’s a but in your voice,” D.D. said.
Kimberly sighed. “Only lead we’ve ever had in the case—Jackie’s neighbor claims to have seen Jackie return home after nine P.M. on the twenty-first, and she wasn’t alone. She’d brought home a friend: a female with long brown hair and a petite frame.”
“Like Charlene Grant,” D.D. mused thoughtfully.
“Who was a thousand miles away with her aunt. Unfortunately, the neighbor only saw the woman from behind, so not the best ID, but all we got.”
“Crime scene?” D.D. prodded.
“Clean. Conspicuously clean. Switch-plates-wiped-off, floorboards-mopped, every-sofa-pillow-in-place kind of clean. Kitchen, entranceway, family room—all spotless. The killer took his or her time, felt comfortable in the home. Detail-oriented, thorough, smart.”
“Strong,” D.D. added. “Manual strangulation?”
“COD, manual asphyxiation, yes. So, strong hands. But I’m less convinced on this subject than the Rhode Island investigators. They took the manual strangulation as proof the perpetrator must be male. Maybe it’s living in the South, but I’ve watched enough little old ladies wring the heads off chickens to be more open-minded. Plenty of women have decent upper body strength. Especially if they grabbed another female from behind, I think it could be done.”
“So maybe the ‘friend’ Jackie brought home that night. You check with the local bars?”
“Sure, credit card activity told us where Jackie had spent the evening. Unfortunately, it was a new bar opening downtown. When we flashed Jackie’s picture, couple of servers remembered seeing her that night, but no one was paying much attention. Apparently, the debut was very successful and the place was cranking.”
“Her e-mail messages, cell phone log?” D.D. asked.
“No recent contact from a new friend, or calendar notation to meet so-and-so at such-and-such. I’m guessing Jackie hadn’t planned on meeting a friend that night. I think the other woman found her.”
“Found her, or stalked her?”
“Good question.”
“And the woman talked Jackie into taking her home.”
“Conjecture, but a good one.”
“Because Jackie might be suspicious of a man, given what happened to her friend, Randi. But she wouldn’t think much of a strange female.”
“According to friends and family, Jackie thought Randi’s ex-husband killed her. So it’s not clear Jackie was on guard one way or the other. Then again, it was the one-year anniversary of her best friend’s murder. Jackie’s at a downtown bar, probably feeling a little lonely, a little blue…”
“The right approach, Hey, I like your sweater, mind if I have a seat…”
“A little conversation, a couple drinks,” Kimberly filled in.
“Jackie was an easy target. Assuming our killer is a female and really good at social engineering.”
“To judge by both scenes, we’re looking for someone with advanced people skills. Which, let’s face it, you can’t say about all killers.”
D.D. nodded, mulled it over. This case that was not even a case was growing on her, sinking in. A puzzle within a puzzle.
“So now it’s basically two days until the twenty-first,” D.D. provided. “Location has moved to Boston, where we have the final member of the trio, Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. She’s definitely on guard. Carrying a. 22, running, training, boning up on forensics and true crime, not to mention outreaching to her local homicide detective. I don’t see her bringing home any ‘new’ friends, male or female, on the twenty-first.”
“Probably not,” Kimberly agreed.
“So our killer would have to come up with another ruse,” D.D. murmured, still thinking.
“What does Charlene want most?” Kimberly asked.
“What d’you mean?”
“If you’re a killer, if you want to get someone’s attention who has every reason to be on guard, you have to offer something so good, so personal, so compelling, that even paranoid Charlene would be willing to throw caution to the wind, just to learn more.”
“She wants to know who killed her friends,” D.D. said.
“Then maybe the killer has it even easier this time around. She doesn’t have to ‘pretend’ to be anything at all. She can just be herself. Because she is who Charlene wants more than anything in the world. She holds all the answers to Randi and Jackie’s last minutes. And if you’re someone who has lost people you love to crime…it’s very hard to say no to that. Even if you know better, the desire, the need to know what happened to your loved ones…That’s a very powerful tool. I wouldn’t blame Charlie for not walking away.”
“Who’d you lose?” D.D. asked softly.
“My mother and sister.”
“And if the murderer called you up tomorrow?”
“He’d have to be dialing from one eight hundred rent a psychic,” Kimberly said flatly.
“And now your seven-year-old can plug three to center mass.”
“Yep.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Charlene’s preparations are physical,” Kimberly stated curtly. “Her killer’s MO, however, is psychological. Intimate. Up close. Personal. What good is running a six-minute mile going to do her, when she’s the one willingly opening the door? Charlene doesn’t need to be tough. She needs to think tough. That’ll get her through the twenty-first.”
“I want to stir the pot,” D.D. announced.
“How so?”
“Facebook, social media. I’m working with another detective who’s something of an expert. We’re thinking of putting together a fake Facebook page, with posts commemorating the deaths of both Randi and Jackie. See who responds.”
Kimberly seemed to consider the matter. “What about leaking info?”
“You mean crime scene details?”
“I mean fake crime scene details, maybe a criminology report. Something unflattering. No, I take that back. Something…messy. Our killer likes to be in control, yes? Neat, tidy, thorough. What if you reveal something about the Knowles scene the killer missed. Something that’s now a possible lead in the investigation. Get the killer feeling defensive, second-guessing him- or herself.”
“Get inside his or her head,” D.D. murmured.
“Turnabout is fair play.”
“Got an idea for a detail?”
Kimberly hesitated. “I’d ask my father. He knows both scenes, he was a profiler. Messing with criminal minds. Hell, he’ll love this. Give him a call.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem. Keep me posted. Especially on the twenty-first.”
“Will do. Good luck with your growing girls.”
“Good luck with your baby boy.”
Both women sighed, hung up their phones.
&nbs
p; Chapter 15
I WAS LATE FOR MY GRAVEYARD SHIFT. First time ever. Couldn’t help myself.
I’d had to race all the way to the T stop. Then wait for the train to return me to Cambridge. Then run another seven minutes, snotty-nosed and watery-eyed, all the way back to my one-bedroom rental. Mrs. Beals wasn’t home, but Tulip was sitting on the front porch.
I didn’t even stop to think about it. I scooped up the warm, solidly packed body of the dog that was not my dog and buried my face into the sleek folds of her neck. Tulip leaned her head against my shoulder. I could feel her sigh, as if releasing a great strain herself. So we stood like that, my arms cradling her body, her head on my shoulder.
Maybe I cried a little more. Maybe she licked the tears from my cheeks. Maybe I told her I loved her. And maybe she thumped her tail to let me know that she loved me, too.
I carried Tulip to my bedroom. Didn’t care anymore if Frances discovered and kicked me out. So little time left. What did it matter anymore? So little time left.
Stan Miller. Metal rods, protruding through his massive frame. The blood, dripping down the corners of his mouth. Sightless eyes, forever staring at me.
I tucked Tulip in my room with a bowl of food, then retreated down the hall for a long hot shower. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Shampooed, rinsed, conditioned. Did it all over again.
Was it just my imagination, or could I still smell the gunpowder on my fingertips? I searched my naked body for other signs of the evening’s activities. Blood, bruising, something. I felt altered on the inside, ergo it made sense the outside should change as well.
But…nothing. My leather shooting gloves had done their job and protected my boxing-battered hands as I’d careened down the fire escape. My heavy winter wardrobe had done its job and guarded my already battle-scarred skin as I’d dropped and rolled. Even my ankle felt almost fine, a minor twist that had quickly recovered.
When I got out of the shower, I cleared the steam from the mirror to confirm what I already knew.
I had just killed a man, and I looked absolutely, positively the same as I had before.
Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant meet Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.
Loving niece, loyal friend, respected dispatch officer, and stone cold murderer.
I started shaking again, so I returned to the shower, cranking up the water as hot as it would go, but still not beating the chill.
ELEVEN FOURTEEN P.M. Tulip and I caught a taxi to work.
Second-to-last shift.
Sixty-eight hours, forty-five minutes.
I kept my arms around the dog that wasn’t my dog and didn’t let go.
“BABY’S CRYING.”
“Wh-wh-what?”
“Baby’s crying. Down the hall. Crying and crying and crying. Nothing helps. Dunno…” A shaky sigh. “Dunno, dunno, dunno. Please, ma’am, tell me how to make it stop.”
Sitting alone in the glow of multiple monitors and a muted TV screen, I rubbed my face and forced myself to focus. Crying baby. Overwhelmed new parent. One of dispatch’s top ten calls. Protocol was to establish basic physical health of newborn and basic mental health of new parent. If both seemed okay, then remind caller that 911 was for emergencies, not for parenting tips, before disconnecting.
I didn’t disconnect my caller. It had been a relatively quiet shift, the police scanner filled with chatter about one major crime, already being handled, with no other emergencies coming down the pike. And I understood, like a lot of dispatch operators who sat alone in darkened comm centers at 2 A.M., that sometimes people just needed to talk.
So I let my caller talk. I learned the name of her nine-month-old baby girl, Moesha. I learned that the baby’s father worked graveyard for a janitorial service company. I learned that my caller, nineteen-year-old Simone, was still hoping to get her GED and wanted to be a vet tech someday. She’d been excited to get pregnant, still held out dreams of getting married. But her baby daughter cried most nights and it was getting tough, and now the baby’s dad was being a jerk and Simone just wanted to go shopping with her friends, but she didn’t have any money and her boyfriend said she was too fat to buy new clothes and why didn’t she wait till she lost all the baby weight, and yo, when might that be?
Simone talked. Simone cried. Simone talked some more.
I sat and listened and stroked Tulip’s head.
Simone talked herself down. Call ended. Screen went blank.
I sat in the dark, smoothing Tulip’s floppy ears.
“Baby’s crying,” I whispered to Tulip.
She gazed up at me.
“Down the hall.”
Tulip placed her head in my lap.
“I screwed up, Tulip. All those years ago, in my mother’s house…I failed that baby. And that’s why I don’t think about my mother anymore. I don’t want to remember. Not that it matters anymore, does it? Too little, too late.”
Tulip nosed my hand.
I smiled down at her, stroked her head. “Funny, I’ve spent a whole year planning, preparing, and strategizing for my last stand. And in the end, I’m probably gonna die just like everyone else—filled with a list of unfinished business.”
Tulip whined softly. I leaned down, put my arms around her neck.
“I’m going to send you up north,” I promised her. “You’ll get to live with my aunt Nancy, become a B-and-B dog. And the mountains are beautiful and filled with paths to run and squirrels to chase and rivers to swim. You’ll like it up there. I certainly did.”
I held her closer. “Remember me,” I whispered.
Tulip sighed heavily.
I knew exactly how she felt.
DOOR OPENED SHORTLY THEREAFTER. A dark figure appeared, backlit by the hall light, and it jolted me from my chair. I sprang up, into an automatic pugilist stance, while my desk chair flew across the tiny space.
Officer Mackereth flipped on the light.
“You always work in the dark?” he asked gruffly. He was dressed in his uniform, duty belt clasped around his waist. I’d checked the roster when I started my shift, so I knew he was working tonight. I also knew he’d been called in earlier, along with a dozen other officers, to help handle a homicide in the Red Groves housing project. Dead black male, skewered on a collapsed fire escape of a tenement housing building. Messy scene, according to the radio chatter. The crime scene techs had finally used blowtorches to sever the metal rods in Stan Miller’s body from the fire escape. Then the ME had hauled away the corpse, still shish-kebabbed, in an extra large ambulance the city had recently purchased for transporting extra large patients.
I dropped my hands to my side, flexed my fingers. I wanted to move farther away, but the desk kept me in place. The single-person comm center was strictly utilitarian. Seven feet wide, seven feet deep. The PD’s handicap-accessible unisex bathroom was larger.
Beside me, Tulip perked up. She trotted over to Officer Mackereth, sat before him, and presented her head.
He bent over, scratched her neck. Then, in a move that probably surprised him as much as me, he squatted down and gave Tulip a hug. She licked his cheek.
“At least one of you likes me,” he said.
Under the wash of fluorescent lights, I could see the heavy lines in his face. The price one paid for working death scenes. Would he dream of Stan Miller’s body later this morning? How much would it surprise him to know I’d be having that nightmare, too?
“Tough night,” I commented now, staying next to my console.
“At least no other calls,” Officer Mackereth said.
“Pretty quiet.”
“Figures. We got every uniform buzzing around the Red Groves scene, so of course nothing else comes in.”
“How’s Red Groves?” I stared at my monitor, as if I should be checking it.
Tom shrugged. “Scene’s secured. Body’s bagged and tagged. Neighbors are furious and fearful. The usual.”
“Any witnesses?” I asked. Casually.
“Only three or four dozen—”
“Really?”
Officer Mackereth blew out a huff of breath, stood up. “Hell, we had so many gawkers saying so many different things, who the hell knows? Half of them claimed the vic was yelling at his wife, then must’ve gone to storm down the fire escape, but it collapsed. Others swear there was a shoot-out at the OK Corral, probably drug dealers, maybe Russian Mafia—”
“Russian Mafia?”
“Not likely. Someone sure as hell shot up the apartment, though. Bullet holes everywhere. We’re still looking for the family. Wife, two kids. One of the neighbors saw them leaving earlier in the evening. I’m hoping for their sakes, that’s true.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Messy way to go,” Tom said, rocking back on his heels. “Christ, never seen anything like it. Plunging five stories to land in a bed of metal stakes.”
At the last moment, he must have seen the look on my face. He caught himself, said hastily, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…Occupational hazard. Cops forget sometimes that other people don’t spend their time staring at corpses.”
“It’s okay,” I said numbly. “I hear enough stuff.”
“Not the same. Hearing is easier than seeing.”
“Is it? Or does it just leave more to the imagination? Especially when I never get to learn the end of the story. Yelling, screaming, crisis, crisis, and now on to the next caller. Oh well.”
Officer Mackereth nodded slowly, as if considering the life of a dispatch operator for the first time. “Clean anything?” he asked abruptly.
I had to think about it. “Not yet.”
“Hit anyone?”
“Not yet.”
“Slow day for Charlene Grant?”
“Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant,” I corrected automatically.
“Not what your driver’s license says.”
My chin came up, I regarded him levelly. “The form didn’t allow for two middle names, so I opted not to include either one.”
“Why the two middle names, anyway?”
“Don’t know.”
“Family names?”