Catch Me (12 page)

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry.

I wanted to throw myself into Mackereth’s arms and remember what it felt like to be held again.

“Did you learn that in training?” he asked me evenly.

“No.”

“What about the gun? How’d you know he had a gun?”

His hand was still on my arm, his blue eyes fastened intently on my face. I kept my chin up, my expression neutral. “Just knew.”

His arm finally dropped. Beside me, Tulip whined slightly, as if sensing my discomfort.

“Good work,” he said abruptly. “I think.…Thank you, Charlie. I mean it, thanks.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I said simply. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out the situation. I’ll do better next time.”

Two more shifts. That’s all she wrote. Two more shifts.

Officer Mackereth switched his attention to Tulip, who was now pressed against my leg. I noticed his hands by his side. No wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything. Few officers wore them, not wanting to broadcast personal information in their line of work.

“I’ll take you home,” he said abruptly.

“It’s okay—” I started.

He cut me off. “Can’t take her on the T,” he said, gesturing to Tulip. “We might be open-minded,” his tone was wry, calling my bluff, “but Boston mass transit isn’t.”

He had me there. Taxi had cost me thirty bucks, nearly a third of my shift. Take another taxi home, and after taxes, why had I bothered to work at all?

I still hesitated, old instincts dying hard. Detective D. D. Warren had advised me to confide in my officers. They didn’t have ties to Randi or Jackie. They couldn’t be part of the problem, so I should make them part of the solution.

Except…In war movie logic, Officer Mackereth’s use of my name meant I’d die next. But in the story of my life, if I used Officer Mackereth’s name, he’d be the next to go. There was a reason I kept to myself; not just because I was trying to limit the pool of people who could hurt me, but because I was trying to limit the pool of people I might hurt back.

“Come on, Charlie,” Officer Mackereth said gruffly. “Cut a guy a break. You probably saved my life tonight. Least I can do is save you cab fare.”

He turned toward the door. And Tulip and I followed, Tulip with a fresh prance in her step at the unexpected attention.

I wondered what Jackie had been doing this time last year. I wondered what she’d been thinking, who she might have recently met. And I wondered, if she had known, if our trio’s erstwhile planner had foreseen her own death, what would’ve she done differently.

Said no or said yes?

That’s a central life question, don’t you think? Do you regret the things you did, or the things never done?

Eighty-four hours and counting, I followed Officer Mackereth to his vehicle.

I
TOLD
O
FFICER
M
ACKERETH
I lived in Cambridge, by Harvard Square. Close enough, I figured. Tulip and I could walk the rest of the way from there.

Officer Mackereth, I learned, lived in Grovesnor. Meaning, given morning rush hour traffic northbound on I-93, he was now driving at least an hour out of his way. I protested again. He led me to his patrol car, which all officers drove home.

I climbed in the front, taking up position in a genuine black leather passenger seat that was quite comfortable. Tulip got the hard vinyl-covered bench in the back. Perfect for hosing down. Not so good for smooth-haired dogs. Tulip slid off twice, then gave up and lay on the floor.

“Where you from?” Officer Mackereth asked me as we hit the on-ramp for 93.

“New Hampshire.”

“Concord?”

“North, the mountains.”

“You ski?”

“A little. Cross-county.”

“Used to downhill in college,” he offered. “Tore my ACL. Cross-country might be better for me. Family?”

I squirmed in my seat, looked out the window. “Not married. You?”

“Never tried it. Seeing anyone?”

“Tulip’s pretty special,” I offered.

He chuckled. “You two been together long?”

“About to celebrate our six-month anniversary. I’m hoping she’ll bring me flowers. You have any pets?”

“No girlfriend, no kids, no pets. Two parents, one pain-in-the-ass older sister, and three adorable nieces and nephews. That’s enough for me.” His turn again: “Hobbies and interests?”

“I like to clean.”

He paused, glanced at me with his left hand on the wheel. “Seriously?”

I shrugged. “I work all night, then sleep all day. Cuts into a girl’s social life, you know.”

“Fair enough.” He glanced down at my hands fisted on my lap, stating shrewdly, “Bet you didn’t get those knuckles cleaning.”

I stared down self-consciously, wishing I’d put on my mittens, or at least tucked my hands beneath my legs. My knuckles were a mess, the valley between the joints of my pinky and ring finger swollen and purple on both hands. The remaining knuckles were abraded in several places, a collection of old and new injuries. Prizefighter hands. Not pretty, not feminine, and yet I valued this new and improved look very much.

“Boxing,” I admitted at last.

Officer Mackereth arched a brow. “Then you do have a hobby. Must be a serious one if you can do that kind of damage wearing gloves.”

I didn’t correct his assumption. Of course I fought bare-knuckled. What good were gloves gonna do me on the twenty-first?

“You seem to work mostly graveyard,” I stated, switching the focus back to him.

He nodded. “Mostly.”

“Why? You must have enough seniority to request a better rotation by now.”

Officer Mackereth shrugged. “I started out with graveyard because that’s what rookies get. And I don’t know. Guess I’ve always been a night person. I don’t mind the hours, while there are plenty of officers with families and kids and dogs, and God knows what, where graveyard would be a real pain in the ass. Seems to make more sense for me to keep the shift.”

“Team player,” I said.

“Most cops are,” he observed. “What about dispatch officers?”

“Loners,” I assured him, which wasn’t exactly true, but I was feeling impulsive. “Being shut up in a darkened room with multiple monitors and a dozen cups of java is our idea of a good time. You
know what you get when you cross an air traffic controller with a tightrope walker? A nine-one-one operator.”

He laughed, a rich, easy sound that thrilled me more than it should have.

“What got you into dispatch, anyway?” he asked.

“Tried it out in Colorado. Needed a job, didn’t have a college degree. Call centers will take just about anyone, which fit my qualifications.”

As a student, I’d suffered from chronic memory issues, not to mention a limited ability to focus. It had made for a rough academic ride. Oh, the times Jackie had shaken her head at me as I’d failed yet another test. Turned out, however, that crises brought out the best in me. You don’t want me on your team for a quiz bowl, but if someone’s breaking into your house, I’m the gal to call. I planned on the adrenaline rush being my friend on the twenty-first.

“Not many dispatch officers make it through training,” Officer Mackereth observed now.

My turn to shrug. “Turned out I liked it. Every shift is different, you get to think on your feet. I’m probably painfully ADD, meaning it’s perfect. You?”

“Father’s a cop. Cliché, but there you have it. And I like it. Every shift is different. You get to think on your feet.”

Officer Mackereth exited 93 for Storrow Drive. Almost there now. Through the top of the rear divider, I could just make out Tulip’s head as she sat up in the back.

“You can drop us off in Harvard Square,” I said.

“You don’t live in Harvard Square.”

I looked at him. “How do you know where I live?”

“I’m a cop,” he answered levelly. “I looked it up.”

My hands stilled on my lap. I thought of my loaded Taurus, snug in my bag because they’d never let me wear it holstered at work. “Officer Mackereth,” I began.

“Tom.”

“Officer Mackereth.”

“Tom,” he repeated stubbornly.

“You can drop us off at Harvard Square,” I informed him crisply. “Tulip could use the walk.”

“Only if you answer one question.”

I eyed him mutely.

“Is it just me you don’t trust,” he continued evenly, “or is it all men? Because to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never done anything to disrespect you, but if I have, then I’d like to know so I can do better next time.”

He was nearly at Harvard Square. And he wasn’t going to slow down. I could tell that. He knew my address and he had it in his head that he owed Tulip and me a ride home. Maybe that was nefarious, maybe he wanted to prove what he knew, how close he could get.

Or maybe, he was a guy and I was a girl and tonight we’d shared something pretty intense. And I was exhausted and fired up and he was exhausted and fired up, and he had that deep laugh and that broad chest and it would be easy to touch him.

I remembered that. The warm, hard feel of a man’s skin beneath my hand. The coarse rasp of beard, the hungry taste of a man who wanted me as much as I wanted him. It made me feel a little reckless, a little wild.

Maybe what most of us feared wasn’t dying, but dying alone. Without ever really touching. Without ever really connecting. Having inhabited this earth, but without leaving any impression on it.

The thought hollowed me out. Took all my fatigue and restlessness and spiraled it dark and low, until I did want to sleep with a virtual stranger. I just wanted, for one moment, to feel like I mattered.

Officer Mackereth hit Harvard Square. He slowed, allowing for the morning congestion of lights, cars, and college students. He followed the road as it looped around brick buildings, slid under the overpass, took a left at one of the many green spaces, and formed a direct line to my house.

In the back, Tulip whined, sensing we were close. Four blocks. Three, two, one. Officer Mackereth tapped the brakes, turned right, traveled half a block down, then halted right in front of my landlady’s gray triple-decker.

I already had my fingers on the door handle—good news, front
seat passengers were allowed to come and go as they pleased from police cruisers. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.

“Dinner?” he asked evenly. “Tonight. Before our shifts. I could pick you up. Cook you dinner at my place if you’d like to bring Tulip. Or take you out if you prefer.”

“Thank you for the ride,” I said again.

He sighed. “You’re a tough nut to crack, Charlie.”

I didn’t disagree, just climbed out and released Tulip from the back. She bounded out gratefully, racing a little circle on the snow-covered sidewalk.

Officer Mackereth didn’t say anything more. Just studied me through the window as I closed the passenger door in his face. A heartbeat later, he put his cruiser in drive and pulled away.

Tulip and I stood side by side, watching him depart.

I waited until the patrol car was out of sight. Then I finally exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and turned toward my landlady’s house. At the last second, a movement caught the corner of my eyes. I glanced up sharply, just in time to catch the silhouette of a person standing in the second-story window of the house next to mine.

The second I spotted the figure, he or she stepped back. Blinds came down. The window blanked out, leaving Tulip and me once again alone on the street, with the hairs prickling the back of my neck.

“I
WANT IN.
”

“What?” D.D. looked up bleary-eyed from the stack of interview statements she’d been skimming. She already felt bewildered, but that didn’t surprise her. Jack, so cute and peaceful over dinner, had been up all night crying again. She’d taken the first shift, rocking him. Alex had taken the second. Come morning, they were both wrecked.

A fellow detective leaned over her desk. Ellen O. She had a real last name, but it was too long and involved too many consonants. When the newly minted detective had first joined the force two years ago, someone had shortened her name to O, and, half the time, no one bothered with even the Ellen part, but simply referred to her as Detective O.

O was fifteen years younger than D.D. and fifteen pounds heavier, but in all the right places. She had dark exotic eyes and glossy brown hair nearly the same shade as cinnamon. In the beginning, male detectives had been very interested in mentoring the young sex crimes detective. When she was less than receptive to their attentions, rumors had started that she was a lesbian.

D.D. doubted that. From what she could tell, Detective O lived and breathed her job. She was actually more intense than even D.D., which was not, in anyone’s mind, a good thing. While D.D. would admit this to no one—no one!—the rookie detective scared her a little.

“Your dead perv,” O prodded now. “Possibly one of two. I want in.”

D.D. started with the obvious: “You’re a sex crimes detective. This is a homicide investigation.”

“Where the victims are suspected pedophiles, which just so happens to be my area of expertise. Trust me, you need me.”

D.D. gave O a look. They’d both been around long enough to know that as arguments went, trust me was never the right approach.

O slapped a sheath of papers on D.D.’s desk. “Forensic analysis of the first perv’s computer. I’ll give you three minutes to review it, then you tell me the relevant findings, because I already know.”

“Three minutes?” D.D. scowled. She hadn’t gotten to reviewing details of the “first” shooting yet. She was still working on the homicide that had happened on her watch, not the one that hadn’t.

“Three minutes was all it took me,” O declared boldly. She crossed her arms over her chest. The sex crimes detective was wearing a white button-down shirt over a blue tank. Nothing wrong with the ensemble, perfectly professional. It was all D.D. could do not to reach over and fasten the top button.

Apparently sleep-deprivation made her petty. And bitchy. And way too tired for this.

D.D. sighed and gave up. She pushed the report back to O. “Fine, you’re the expert, and yeah, especially if these two shootings are related, we could use some help. What do you got for me?”