Catch Me

by Lisa Gardner

  “Drank your OJ,” I said.

  “Find any unexpired food?”

  “The dill pickles were pretty good.”

  “How about the gun safe?”

  “Twelve months together, and I still don’t know your birthday, favorite pet, or mother’s maiden name. Totally screwed me with guessing the combo.”

  “Figured as much. Calls?”

  “One. Talked to Detective D. D. Warren. Good news. I think she believes me.”

  Tom drew up short. He stood on one side of the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. I stood on the other.

  “She didn’t pull the warrant,” he said.

  “I said she believes me. Not that she trusts me.” I had my hands down at my side, hidden behind the counter. I didn’t want him to see that they were shaking. That, in fact, I was trembling with nerves over what was about to come.

  Everybody has to die sometime. Be brave.

  “So, why does this other detective, O, have it in for you?”

  “D.D. believes she’s my long-lost sister. Out for revenge.”

  Tom’s eyes widened. “Seriously? That’s why she’s going to kill you?”

  “D.D. thinks so.” I took the first sideways step toward the end of the counter, putting my right hand into my pocket, fiddling around until I found what I needed to find. “I disagree.”

  “You don’t think she’s your sister?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure D.D.’s right about that. But I don’t think Abigail, O, is going to kill me. I’ve been wrong all along. I’m not the third target.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Quincy, the profiler, kept warning me we didn’t have enough data points. Our victim pool, so to speak, was too small. I kept seeing best friends, two out of three, making me the next logical target. But Randi and Jackie weren’t killed because they were my best friends. They were killed because I loved them.”

  From the other side of the counter, Tom frowned at me. “Isn’t that a matter of semantics?”

  “No, it’s a broader category. I had two best friends. But there are three people I love.”

  “Aunt Nancy.”

  “I think so. I’ve tried calling her hotel twice, but there’s no answer. Detective O was supposed to interview her sometime today. Of course, Detective Warren gave those orders before she knew O’s true identity.” I made another sideways move. Almost at the end of the counter, where in two steps, I could lunge around, reach him where he stood in the kitchen.

  My hands, shaking harder. My throat tightening, forcing me to swallow, take deep breaths.

  Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave.

  All these years later, my mother was coming for me. That’s how it felt on some level. In a way I didn’t understand yet, she had won, and I had lost, and twenty years later she was still making me pay.

  Except I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I wasn’t going quietly into that good night.

  I had learned my lessons. I was prepared to die. But more than that, I was prepared to fight.

  “You sure this Abigail is going after your aunt?” Tom was asking now. “Because you still have only two victims for analysis. And if this detective is your long-lost sister seeking revenge, still makes sense she’d go after you.”

  “If all she wanted was to kill me, she could’ve done that in the beginning. Knocked on my door and told me her name. I would’ve let her inside, Tom. I would’ve stood there and willingly let my baby sister place her hands around my neck and squeeze. But she didn’t. She went after my friends. She doesn’t want me dead. She wants me to suffer. Probably, just like she has.”

  “That why she framed you? Gonna kill your friends, your aunt, then get you tossed in jail?”

  I shrugged, hoping it looked casual as I executed my final sideways shuffle. “I think the framing thing was just to buy time. It got me isolated and on the defensive, making it even easier for her to go after my aunt.”

  “All right,” Tom said decidedly. “Where’s your aunt staying? We’re on our way.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I can call for backup. We make up an excuse. Burglary in progress, a fire, hell code the living daylights out of it, get the place crawling with uniforms. That’ll set her back on her ass.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He picked up his keys, ignoring me completely, as I knew he would do.

  “Got a surprise for you—” he started.

  I lunged around the end of the counter. Two steps, half pivot, left hand up, eye-to-eye with my opponent. Jab, jab, jab to his nose, fingers curled tight, thumb to knuckles. Tom didn’t get his hands up. He didn’t defend himself against this surprising attack from a girl. He didn’t defend himself against me.

  Final blow. Overhand right to the head. I pivoted my back leg and rolled my shoulder into it. My fist, bearing the extra weight of a tight bundle of coins, connected with the side of Tom’s head.

  He went down. First collapsing at the knees, then swaying, before finally toppling back and to the side. His shoulder cracked against the hard wood of the kitchen cabinets. I winced, closing my eyes before I caught myself.

  If you can attack the man who three hours before would’ve been your lover, the man who would still be your lone defender in the world, then you can damn well keep your eyes open and absorb the blow.

  He crumpled on the floor. I shook out both of my hands, my knuckles and wrists already aching from impact. But that’s the point of training—it prepares you for the pain, enables you to soldier through.

  Not much time now.

  Nightfall. January 21.

  I laid out Tom on the floor. Checked his pulse to make sure it was steady, found a pillow for beneath his head. Then I swapped out my dark jacket for a lined L.L. Bean camouflaged hunting coat I’d found in his closet. I wrapped his brown scarf around my neck, catching the scent of his soap and cologne. I pulled another brown knit cap low over my head. Conducted one last check of my pockets.

  Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave.

  I kissed his forehead. Gently. Tenderly. Regretfully.

  Then, because I was only human, and my eyes were burning and my resolve shaking, I moved away.

  I know Tom would’ve helped me. For that matter, I could probably partner with Detective Warren as well. But I didn’t want to. From the first moment D.D. had said my baby sister was still alive and coming for me, I’d known what I must do. The next few hours would be deeply personal.

  A matter of family business.

  I left a note, scrawled earlier with a brief apology that would never be enough. I took Tom’s keys, exited his apartment.

  I got a fresh shock in the dimly lit parking lot. The low sound of a dog whining, which grew louder as I approached Tom’s police cruiser. There, in the front seat, staring at me through the windshield: Tulip.

  He’d started to say he had a surprise for me. My dog. Tom had searched the city for Tulip and brought her to me.

  Possibly, my eyes blurred as I worked the key remote for the police cruiser, opening the door, releasing the dog who was definitely my dog and feeling the solid weight of her as she hurled herself against my shaking form. I scooped her up and held her close. I was sorry for her, and sorry for Tom and sorry for my baby sister, whom I still loved, and sorrier still for my aunt, who might even now be paying for my sins.

  I closed the police cruiser door. Too conspicuous.

  Instead, I located Tom’s dark green Ram truck, and opened both doors. Tulip rode shotgun.

  We set off into the night.

  Twenty years later. Once the victim, now the cavalry.

  Chapter 40

  D.D. CALLED NEIL AND PHIL into her office for an emergency meeting. In the next thirty minutes, she needed to report to her boss, the deputy superintendent of homicide, about the latest developments involving possible criminal actions taken by a fellow investigator, Detective O. First, D.D. wanted to get her ducks in a row.

  She started
without preamble. “Where the hell is Detective O, what did she do, and why didn’t we figure this out sooner?”

  Phil went first. Given that O wasn’t answering her cell phone, returning official pages, or replying to requests for contact from police dispatch, chances were she’d gone rogue. They hadn’t issued a full BOLO yet, but word was out among Boston cops: if anyone spotted Detective O or her Crown Vic, they should contact HQ immediately.

  In the meantime, Phil was blitzing his way through her official file. Given her young age and limited time on the job, it made for quick reading. O had joined Boston PD two years prior, transferring from a smaller jurisdiction in the burbs. Was known for her hard work and tireless dedication. Perhaps a bit rigid in her approach, perhaps didn’t always play well with others, but the sex crimes investigator also got results with some pretty tough cases in a pretty tough field.

  Certainly, nothing in her annual eval suggested that she was a nutcase waiting to crack.

  “On the other hand,” Phil reported, “she spent eight years living in Colorado, including the time frame when Charlene worked in Arvada dispatch, and Christine Grant’s body was discovered.”

  D.D. sat across from her squadmates, totally poleaxed. “She did it. I’ll be damned, but O—or Abigail, or whatever the hell her name is—killed her own mother. Told me all about it, too. That she’d held a pillow over her face and suffocated her, just as her mother had suffocated her own babies.”

  “Why?” Neil asked.

  “When we find her, we’ll have to ask.” D.D. chewed her lower lip. “We need Charlene. We need more info on twenty years ago, and the final incident, which left Charlene nearly dead, and her mother and younger sister on the run. Only thing that makes sense. Something happened, maybe her mother snapped, actually tried to kill Charlene instead of just maim her. Then panicked, grabbed the younger kid, and hit the road.”

  Neil spoke up. “I don’t get it. How did Charlene forget an entire sister? How did the police, investigating that ‘final incident,’ never figure out there was another kid?”

  D.D. shrugged. “We know Christine Grant had two babies that were off the record. I’m guessing Charlene’s younger sister, Abigail, makes three. As for the police investigation, the comment that struck me most in the official report was that there was nothing in the rental house that indicated a family had even lived there. No toys, no clothes, no…stuff. Sounds to me like Mommy Grant wasn’t just psychopathic, but truly, genuinely bona fide crazy. As in not fit to take care of herself or others. I’m wondering more and more how much of that load eight-year-old Charlene shouldered. Only to then be stabbed and left for dead. I gotta say, I can’t really blame her for not wanting to dwell on those happy times.”

  “So Christine Grant is whacko enough to murder two babies, but then sane enough to try to raise two others?” Neil clearly remained skeptical.

  D.D. thought about it. “O asked Charlene if she was the good kid. She implied that maybe baby Rosalind and baby Carter were fussy and that’s why they had to die.” She looked at her squadmates. “Knowing what we know now, maybe that’s how the story was told to her, by their mother. Be good, and I’ll let you live. Act up, whine, defy me, and…”

  “Except at some point, Abigail did turn against her own mother,” Phil said. “In fact, you just said she probably killed her.”

  “Sure. Think about it. For the first eight years, Charlene served as her mother’s target of choice—to be broken and repaired at will. Want to believe that Mommy Grant gave up her Munchausen’s ways just because she lost her eldest daughter? I bet she simply picked back up with daughter number two. Meaning Abigail now got to eat shattered glass and drink liquid Drano. Meaning Abigail now got to learn just how much a mother’s love can burn.”

  D.D. sighed, her voice turning somber. “Munchausen’s is most common with children who are very young. Babies, toddlers, who are unable to speak up in their own defense. Once Abigail reached a certain age, however, chances are she didn’t submit as willingly to having her fingers smashed in doorways. Chances are, she started to come up with some tricks of her own. God knows she learned from a master.”

  D.D. turned back to Phil. “This is what we need to prove: how did Abigail Grant become Ellen O? Because before we accuse a fellow officer of being the real perpetrator of two separate strings of murders, we’re going to want to nail that down.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, knew you were gonna say that. In the,” Phil glanced at his watch, “twenty minutes you gave me with this project, I haven’t been able to answer that question. Assuming Ellen O is an alias, it’s a well-vetted one. I found a Social Security number, driver’s license, credit history, not to mention college transcripts from the University of Denver. My guess is, given the depth of the paper trail, Abigail Grant became Ellen O while still a teenager. Now, several ways that could happen: formal adoption, becoming a legally emancipated minor while also petitioning for a name change. Or hell, the witness protection program, for all I know. I’ll keep digging around in family court records, etc., but so far, no luck.”

  “Wouldn’t she have real family or friends to rat her out?” Neil asked.

  “Not according to her personnel form.” Phil held up a sheet of paper. “No family members listed, and as for her ‘emergency contact number,’ when I called it, I reached the holding company of her apartment building. I think it’s safe to say, Abigail…O…is officially alone in the world.”

  “But why was she shooting pedophiles?” Neil asked with a frown. “Given the family history, I get her targeting Charlene and, okay, even Charlene’s best friends, as part of her ‘quest for vengeance.’ But why the pedophiles?”

  “Think of it this way,” D.D. explained. “One killer, but two different crime sprees, driven by two different sets of needs. What Abigail did to Randi and Jackie, what she has in store for Charlene, is more intimate, more ritualized for her. She’s both seeking to punish the older sister who abandoned her and to exorcise a lifetime of taking her mother’s abuse with this ultimate method of seizing power. The pedophile shootings, on the other hand, are almost everyday stress management. Another case she can’t close. Another incident of a kid getting abused by a registered sex offender who just moved in down the hall…O accused Charlene of over-identifying with the victims, of hating to feel powerless. In hindsight, I think that was her way of telling us about herself. She also over-identifies with the victims, and two years on the job, she’s tired of feeling helpless.”

  “What about the notes? Everyone has to die sometime…”

  “According to Charlene Grant, that was an expression of their mother’s. A family mantra, so to speak. What’s more interesting, I think, is the note within the note, the secret message written in lemon juice—Catch Me. At first, I thought that might be some sort of taunt by the shooter. Now I wonder if it wasn’t a plea. Abigail wrote Everyone has to die sometime. While Detective O added, Catch Me. Two notes representing the two sides of her nature.”

  “Good cop, bad cop,” Neil finished darkly.

  “Exactly,” D.D. answered. To think of all the times she and O had sat alone in this very office, poring over those carefully executed notes, the handwriting analysis, witness statements. O had never given anything away. The level of compartmentalization necessary for that degree of subterfuge was just plain scary.

  It also fit the expert’s profile of the note writer perfectly: someone rigid, anal-retentive, type A.

  First thing D.D. had done, once she’d gotten off the phone with Charlene, was to run to Detective O’s desk and gather up three samples of the investigator’s handwriting. She’d laid them out on a cleared table, side by side with the three notes from the pedophile shootings. The handwriting wasn’t a dead-on match, at least not to D.D.’s untrained eye. O’s “natural” script was neat and precise, but hardly contained letters with flat bottoms and perfectly proportioned size. Maybe she’d written the notes for the shootings using a ruler, maybe even a stencil, to further obfu
scate matters. Given that the notes all said the same thing, it would be easy enough to perfect those two sentences, a mere seven words, by practicing them over and over again.

  But some of the author’s personality had still come through. Controlling, determined, psychopathic.

  “The witness to the third shooting,” D.D. said now, “called this afternoon. The boy’s mother said he’d realized that the shooter’s eyes weren’t really demonic, but special contact lenses meant to look like blue cat eyes. They found a picture in a Halloween catalogue and dropped it by an hour ago as a visual aid.”

  She pulled out the torn catalogue page, placed it before Neil and Phil. “I’m guessing O wore the contacts so she would better match Charlene’s general description of brown hair, blue eyes—”

  “But why cat eyes?” Phil asked, shuddering slightly as he took in the array of creepy contacts.

  “Does that freak you out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Exactly. Remember, O not only wanted the shooter to match Charlene’s physical description, but she also had to disguise her own appearance. I mean, just an hour later, she personally stood in front of this boy. She had on makeup then, her hair piled in big curls, a nice dress, wide trench coat. I remember thinking at the time she must’ve come from a date. But I think she was just trying to soften all the lines. The boy had seen a thin, gaunt-faced woman with tight hair and scary eyes. Then in real life, O did her best to appear the opposite.”

  “But she’s not thin or gaunt,” Neil countered.

  “Maybe she wears padding under her clothes.” D.D. looked down at her own chest, definitely no longer what it used to be during pregnancy. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

  Redheaded Neil blushed slightly, shook his head at her. “All right, assuming O transferred here two years ago so she could kill Charlene, how’d she know Charlie would be in Boston? Charlene didn’t even move to Cambridge till last year.”