Catch Me

  “She’ll fight that,” O warned. “She believes she needs the gun for the twenty-first…which would be tomorrow.”

  D.D. shrugged. “Then she needs to spend more time reading her employer’s rules and regs. Her mistake, our opportunity.”

  O nodded. “Smart,” she said finally, which D.D. would’ve taken as more of a compliment if the beautiful young detective hadn’t sounded so surprised.

  “Gee thanks.” D.D. pulled together her notes, rapped them into one eight-and-a-half-by-eleven stack, then rose to standing. “Now you just have to keep it our little secret while speaking to her this afternoon.”

  “We’re speaking to her this afternoon? Why?” O looked puzzled. “We don’t have any developments from the Facebook page yet. People are just starting to friend it. Frankly, I’m not sure eight P.M. tomorrow night is enough time, even by the viral standards of the Web.”

  “It’s not about the Facebook page. I have news for her, however. Worth her paying us a visit.”

  Neil had also risen to standing. “You know who killed her friends?” he asked.

  “Nope. I found her mother.”

  DID ALL DAUGHTERS FEAR THEIR MOTHERS? It was food for thought, after D.D.’s own breakfast with her parents. Even now, three hours later, she couldn’t decide which moment was the most humiliating. Maybe when she’d first showed up in the lobby of the Weston Hotel in Waltham, and her mother had pointedly asked, “Isn’t that the same outfit you were wearing last night, dear?”

  D.D. hadn’t even thought about it, given that she pulled a lot of all-nighters on the job and wardrobe change was generally the least of her concerns. She’d brought that up. Her father might have even appeared sympathetic. Then they’d sat at the table. Her mother had wanted to know where Alex and Jack were. D.D. had answered that Alex had to teach today at the academy, so Jack was at day care.

  Her mother had gotten that look again. Like she was sucking on lemons. Which had pissed D.D. off, because if memory served, her mother hadn’t exactly played house when D.D. was a baby. Her mother had gone back to teaching, too close to tenure to give up now. D.D. had gone to day care. Hell, D.D. remembered loving day care. There were other kids who rolled and tumbled and got dirty and laughed hard. Day care was nirvana. Home was all “Sit still, don’t make that face, for God’s sake can’t you stop fidgeting for just one minute?”

  No was the general answer. D.D. couldn’t be patient, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stay in one place. Even now, she was forty-one, and within the first two minutes of breakfast she was compulsively folding and unfolding her napkin on her lap. It was either that or scream.

  Her mother had ordered a bowl of fruit. Her father had asked for toast. D.D. had gone for eggs Benedict with extra béarnaise sauce.

  Her mother had arched a brow. Fat, cholesterol—should D.D. really be eating such things at her age?

  Interestingly enough, her mother’s lips had never moved, her throat had never vocalized the syllables. Turned out, she didn’t have to actually speak. She could communicate an entire range of disapproval all with the single lift of her brow.

  If D.D. hadn’t been so thoroughly infuriated, she would’ve been impressed.

  They didn’t speak while waiting for their food. They just sat there, a father, a mother, a daughter, who all these years later couldn’t bridge the divide. And eventually D.D. had stopped feeling so angry and simply felt depressed. Because they were her parents and she loved them in her own way and understood they loved her in their own way, and what a shame it didn’t make bearing each other’s company any easier.

  Food came. They ate gratefully.

  D.D. had thought she just might survive the meal, when her mother chewed her last piece of cantaloupe, set down her fork, looked D.D. in the eye, and stated, “This is what I don’t understand: If Alex is good enough to father your child, why isn’t he good enough to marry? I mean really, D.D., what are you waiting for?”

  D.D. had frozen, forkful of eggs Benedict midair, and stared at her mom. Then, belatedly, she’d turned her gaze to her father, who was resiliently studying the white linen tablecloth. Coward.

  “I’m glad you like Alex,” D.D. had mumbled at last, then set down her fork and bolted for the bathroom. By the time she’d returned, her mother sat pinch-faced, staring straight ahead. Her father had his hand lightly on hers, but whether that was offering comfort or asking forgiveness, D.D. couldn’t tell.

  They were an attractive elderly couple, she realized, approaching the table. They fit together in a way you could see from across the room. And maybe that was the problem. They were the unit. And she was forever the outsider, looking in.

  She kissed her mom on the cheek, feeling the rigidness of her mother’s spine. She kissed her father as well, feeling the dry brush of his lips on her cheek. Then she paid the bill and got out of there.

  At a certain point, you had to agree to disagree, even with your own parents. Logically she could accept that. But it hurt. It would always hurt.

  At least she knew, somewhere deep down inside, that her mother loved her.

  She wondered what Charlene thought about her mother, a woman who’d physically abused her most of her young life. But at least she’d let Charlene live, which based on the police reports D.D. had read just this morning, was more than Christine Grant had done for her other two children.

  Parents and children. Mothers and daughters.

  Love and forgiveness.

  And homicide.

  D.D. picked up the phone and made the call.

  Chapter 29

  I WAS TWITCHY when I first took Detective Warren’s call. Twitchier, by the time I departed for BPD headquarters. I left my aunt behind, nestled with Tulip in my room. Given her exhaustion from the early morning drive to Boston, it hadn’t taken much to convince her to rest. I’d told her I needed to tend to a few things before work. No need to mention my conversation with a local homicide investigator. That Detective Warren had located my mother. That she had more information on the baby sister and baby brother I myself had just remembered a few hours ago. No need to mention my growing conviction that the past was closing in on me for a reason. That I was remembering my failings just in time for judgment day.

  Three P.M. Friday afternoon. Twenty-nine hours before 8 P.M. Saturday night. Sky had finally cleared and turned that crystalline blue that marks bitterly cold winter days in Boston.

  The brightness hurt my eyes, encouraged me to keep my head down and my shoulders hunched, when I should’ve been walking shoulders back, eyes straight ahead, taking constant inventory of the world around me. Trees cast skeletal shadows on the white snowy ground. Corners were mushy with slush and filled with blind spots caused by heaping snowbanks.

  What if the killer had gotten bored with January 21 as the annual day to murder a young, defenseless woman? Maybe he’d realize there was more opportunity on the 20th, when his third victim, namely me, wouldn’t be expecting it yet. Eight P.M. was also an arbitrary time, a rough average between two approximate times of death in two separate homicides. Maybe morning was better for the murderer this year. Or later Saturday night or even Sunday morning. A lot could happen in a year. The killer could’ve moved, gotten a new job, maybe fallen in love, had a child.

  He or she could be following me. Right now. Maybe he/she had started a week ago. Or a year ago: Officer Tom Mackereth, carefully scoping me out on the job. Or my aunt, suddenly showing up on my front door, after nearly a year apart. Or a long-lost friend, that kid from high school I couldn’t remember but would vaguely recognize, having spent yesterday flipping through the yearbook. Someone I wouldn’t immediately assume was a threat. Someone smart enough, practiced enough, to walk right up to me without tripping any of my internal alarms.

  Twelve months later, I still had more questions than answers. Mostly, I felt the stress of too many sleepless nights, the ticktock of a clock, so close now, so unbelievably close to a very personal, very gruesome deadline.

  I walked
down the sidewalk toward the T stop in Harvard Square, jumping at every unexpected noise, while thinking that it was a good thing I’d left my Taurus at home, because at this stage of the game, I was a danger to myself and others.

  I wished it was already January 21. Frankly, I needed the fight.

  A crunching sound behind me. Footsteps, fast and heavy breaking through the crusty snow. I jumped to the side, turning quickly. Two college students strode past me, the bottom half of their faces hidden behind thick plaid scarves. The boy glanced up at my acrobatics, gave me a funny look, then put his arm around the waist of the girl, pulling her closer to him as they walked past.

  My heart rate had just resumed its normal pace, my feet turning back toward the Cambridge T stop, when the cell phone in my pocket chimed to life.

  I pulled it out, half-curious, half-fatalistic. I flipped it open. “Hello.”

  And heard nine-year-old Michael’s voice. “She called him. Last night. She’d been drinking and then she started crying and then she called him.”

  I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t find the words through the rush of guilt and shame that flooded through my veins. Michael, and his sister Mica and his mother Tomika, the family I’d tried to save. Little Michael, whose father I’d taken from him, iron spikes protruding from his bloody chest.

  “But he didn’t answer the phone,” Michael continued now, voice flat and quick, getting his story out. “Tillie, our next-door neighbor, answered, and he-she said Stan fell off the fire escape. He-she said Stan’s dead.”

  “He-she?” I asked, the only words I could muster.

  “Our neighbor Gary Tilton. ’Cept now he’s a she, so we call Tillie him-her or he-she, but never it ’cause that gets him-her mad.”

  “Okay.”

  “Charlie…is Stan really dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good!”

  The vehemence in his young voice startled me, made me wince.

  “She was gonna take him back. She was gonna take us back. Not even two days and already life was too hard and she needed her man even if he did break our fingers. I yelled at her, Charlie. I told her no. I told her she promised not to do that to us, but she just cried harder and picked up the phone. Why is she like that, Charlie? Why doesn’t she love us more?”

  Michael’s voice broke. He wasn’t talking in a flat rush anymore, he was crying, a little boy consumed by giant, wrenching sobs, and I continued to stand there, back against a snowbank, searching for words that would both comfort a child and assuage my guilt.

  I’d saved this boy by murdering his father. I’d played angel and avenger. I’d hurt in the name of hope.

  Which I guess made sense, as nine-year-old Michael both mourned his father and was grateful he was dead.

  “I’m sorry,” I said at last.

  “Is she gonna be all right?” he asked at last, quieting his sobs. I understood he didn’t mean his little sister, but his mother.

  “Give her time, Michael. Your mom’s never been on her own before. It’ll take some practice.”

  “She’s just gonna find some other asshole,” he predicted, probably accurately.

  “Are you guys staying put, or is she talking about moving back?” I hadn’t considered that news of Stan’s death might encourage Tomika to return to their old housing project, maybe even tell people of what she did, how I’d helped her.

  “Can’t. They’re closing down the building. Gotta fix it.”

  “Do you like the new place?”

  “I like the yard. There are trees and stuff. And the apartment’s sunny. Mica likes the windows. She spent all yesterday standing in front of them. She even smiled.”

  “Good, Michael, I’m happy to hear that.”

  “Mom says we don’t gotta pay yet.”

  “No, you’re okay for a bit.” I’d prepaid the first two months of the rental, the top floor of a converted house, within walking distance of a park, as well as a decent elementary school. I’d worked hard to find the apartment, hoping that a nice unit, conveniently paid up, would help Tomika realize that she could live alone and be happy. But maybe that was naïve of me. I wanted to judge Tomika, call her up and tell her to grow a backbone. But mostly, I remembered being a little kid in a big emergency room, injured once again by my own mother and never saying a word.

  “Mom wants to go to the funeral. She says now that he’s dead, maybe we could get some money.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know.

  “I don’t think we should go. We’re supposed to be gone. We should keep it that way. Safer, if you ask me.”

  “Maybe the three of you could have a funeral for your father.”

  “No,” Michael said, and his voice was hard again, a boy sounding as angry as a man.

  “It’s okay to miss him, Michael. He wasn’t always a bad guy. I bet sometimes he was nice to you. I bet you liked those moments. I bet you miss that dad.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “My mother used to stroke my hair,” I whispered. “In the middle of the night, when I had a bad dream. She would stroke my hair and sing to me. I loved that mom. I miss her.”

  “You gonna see your mom?”

  “No.”

  “Are you…are you still afraid of her?”

  I wanted to tell him no. That I was all grown up now, ready to shoot, hit, and chase all the shadows in the dark. But I couldn’t lie to Michael. I said, “Yes. Always.”

  “How’d my daddy die, Charlie?”

  “All is well, Michael. You’re a strong boy and your mother and sister are lucky to have you.”

  The ground beneath my feet started to tremble, announcing the arrival of a subway in the tunnels below. “I gotta go now, Michael. Thanks for calling. I might be away for a bit. If you call and I don’t answer…Know that I’m thinking of you, Michael. I have faith. You’re a strong boy and you’re gonna be okay.”

  “Charlie…Thank you.”

  He hung up quickly. I slipped the phone back into my bag and ran for the train.

  I MADE SURE I LOOKED BOTH WAYS before boarding the subway car. I took a seat with my back to the far wall, where I could watch all doors, monitor all people coming and going. My black leather messenger bag sat on my lap, my hands fisted around it.

  I studied faces, met stares.

  Until one by one, each of my fellow passengers stood up and moved away from me.

  I sat alone, and even then, I didn’t feel safe.

  “CHARLENE ROSALIND CARTER GRANT.”

  Detective D. D. Warren uttered my moniker slowly, allowing each name its own weight and space. She’d met me in the lobby. Asked about my dog, asked about my gun, appeared genuinely surprised, perhaps even skeptical, that I’d dared to journey to Roxbury without either of them.

  Instead of her tiny office, she’d led me to a modest-sized conference room, furnished with a table large enough for eight. Only other person in the room, however, was Detective O. She stood against a huge whiteboard, wearing a button-up men’s dress shirt in light blue.

  When Detective Warren moved to her side, I realized they matched, as D.D. wore nearly the same shade of blue, but in silk. She’d paired hers with black slacks, while O had charcoal gray trousers with pencil thin stripes of blue and gray. D.D. had her short blond hair down, in loose curls that almost softened the hard lines of her face, while O’s rich brown hair was pulled back in a fat knot at the nape of her neck.

  Two coordinating and contrasting images of female cop. One older, one younger. One athletic, one more feminine. One with direct blue eyes, one with deep brown eyes.

  Both of them all business.

  I wished I’d brought Tulip, just to have a friend in the room.

  “Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant,” D.D. repeated, testing each word. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Turns out, my past is a work in progress.”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “You gave us the two names to run, Rosalind Grant, Carter Grant.”

  I nodde
d.

  She tossed a file on the table. It landed with a faint thwack and I flinched. “There you go. Full report. Sister. Brother. Mother. Ever read it?”

  I shook my head, eyed the manila file folder, made no move to touch it.

  My aunt said the doctors had advised her that I should remember on my own. That forcing the issue, before I was ready, might do greater emotional harm.

  Greater harm than what? Waking up each morning, knowing that when I had nightmares of my mother digging midnight graves with coiling, hissing snakes in lieu of hair, I wasn’t totally wrong?

  A perfectly pale and still baby girl. The nearly marble-like form of an even smaller baby boy. That is what I’d spent the past twenty years trying to forget. Rosalind Grant. Carter Grant. The baby sister and baby brother I’d once loved, then lost to my mother’s madness. The babies, crying down the hall, that I’d known, even as a toddler, that I needed to help. Tell a nurse. Bolt with them out into the rain.

  I’d tried in my own way. But I’d been small and vulnerable, my mother all-knowing, all–powerful. In the end, what I couldn’t change I’d opted to forget.

  One crazy mother. Two murdered siblings.

  Was it any wonder my head was so fucked up?

  I stared now at the manila file. I thought it was unfair that my sister and brother’s entire lives could be distilled into a single thin folder. They had deserved better. We all had.

  “Why you?” Detective O spoke up crisply. “You lived. They died. You must think about that, have some theories on the subject. Were you more cooperative, the good little girl? Maybe they were sniveling little brats—”

  “Stop.” I wanted my voice to come out firm. It sounded more like a whisper. I cleared my throat, tried again. “You want to beat me up, fine. But not them. You don’t get to pick on them. They were just babies. You leave them alone, or I’m outta here.”

  Detective Warren was scowling at her partner, clearly agreeing with me. Or maybe not. Maybe this was just the latest episode of good cop, bad cop. But then I realized a couple of things: They didn’t need me to come down to HQ to talk about two twenty-year-old homicides from an entirely different state. Nor were they mentioning the Facebook page, or how to bait a killer in preparation for tomorrow evening’s murderous deadline. Instead, they had a single manila folder holding police reports from my childhood.