January the daily temperature will start at negative twenty and most of your Boston guests will have forgotten to pack hats, scarves, and gloves and will consider it all your fault.
I thought of my aunt now, as Tulip and I slowed at an intersection, waited for the light to change, then sprinted through the crosswalk. I thought she deserved better than yet another life-changing phone call on January 21.
I thought, heart pounding from the exertion of my six-mile run, sweat pouring down my face, dog trotting beside me, gun quickly accessible in my fanny pack, that I was glad my aunt couldn’t see me now.
Because she’d have taken one look at me and understood that even if I was winning the battle, I’d lost the war: I’d become the spitting image of my mother, down to the bruised eyes, hollowed out cheeks, and hard-lined face.
The mountains had left me. My aunt had left me. Living in isolation, fighting paranoia in a big city, I had become everything I knew better than to be.
These days, I was my mother’s daughter.
Except I didn’t chew shattered glass anymore.
I carried a. 22 semiauto. And this evening, sometime after 7 P.M., I was going to prove once again that I knew how to use it.
Chapter 10
HELLO. My name is Abigail.
Have we met yet?
Don’t worry, we will.
Hello. My name is Abigail.
Chapter 11
RHODE ISLAND STATE POLICE DETECTIVE SERGEANT Roan Griffin had the voice of a bear and the build of a boulder. Big guy. Probably bench-pressed small automobiles after toppling sumo wrestlers and tackling linebackers. Good-looking guy, too. Officer Blue Eyes, the
Truth was, the Rhode Island State Police had a reputation for the best-looking cops in New England. No one knew how they did it. Maybe a special factory that chiseled out broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, square-jawed men. Either way, whenever there was an opportunity for cross training with their Rhode Island counterparts, the female officers of Massachusetts quickly signed up. Like, all three of them.
Currently, D.D. was on the phone with Griffin. A shame, really, because Rhode Island’s headquarters was only an hour south, and given the restaurants available for lunch in Providence’s Federal Hill…Missing out on sightseeing and Italian dining, D.D. thought with a sigh. So much for the new and improved lifestyle.
Griffin was a married man. Actually, his second marriage, as the first wife had died of cancer. Wife number two was a blond advertising executive named Jillian. D.D. had never met her, only knew her because of the press coverage. Jillian had survived the notorious College Hill Rapist about eight years back. Her younger sister hadn’t been so lucky. When they’d finally arrested a man for the attacks, Jillian had formed a group dubbed the Survivors Club in order to assist one another through the trial. Except there hadn’t been a trial, given that the suspect had been gunned down outside the courthouse and Jillian and her fellow club members had gone from sympathetic victims to prime suspects.
D.D. would be the first to admit she’d followed the case as zealously as Nancy Grace, especially when days after the alleged rapist’s murder, another woman was attacked. Seriously, there were days on this job when she thought not even a suspense novelist could make these things up.
Griffin and Jillian had two boys now. Ages four and six, D.D. was learning. The youngest, Dylan, had taken a page out of his father’s book and was all football all the time. The six-year-old, Sean, had recently discovered cooking. As in last night he’d prepared rack of lamb for the entire family.
“With a pomegranate molasses marinade,” Griffin was finishing now, “though I suspect his mom helped him with that.”
“He’s six. How’d he even lift a roasting pan into the oven?” D.D. wanted to know.
“Oh,” Griffin said breezily. “He gets that from me.”
“And the hot oven…not a problem?”
“Jillian did the honors of taking it out. And she helped him sear the outside on the stove. But he found the recipe-”
“Where? At the back of his comic books?”
“He checked out a cookbook from the library. He’s a how-to kid. No fiction, but brings home books on how to plant gardens, how to engineer robots, how to build boats. Guess now it’s gonna be how to cook.”
“Rack of lamb. That’s amazing.”
“Hell, it was fabulous. I’m ready to start a college fund for Johnson and Wales.”
“I don’t know about cooking yet for baby Jack,” D.D. said. “But last night he threw up something that might pass for molasses.”
Griffin laughed. That was the great thing about parents and homicide cops-nothing ever grossed them out. She could tell diaper stories all day, and her fellow detectives would actually find that charming. D.D. wondered sometimes how normal people lived.
“Is he sleeping at all?” Griffin asked.
“No.”
“Try driving around?”
“No. Too afraid I’ll fall asleep.”
“What about during the day? Does he nap?”
“Some. When you’re holding him, or when he’s in his carrier, then he passes out cold.”
“Okay,” Griffin said briskly, “so Dylan wasn’t much of a sleeper when he was an infant. I’d take him for short drives in the car seat, get him wiped out. Then return home and place his carrier directly in his crib, with him still strapped in. Worked like a charm for weeks. Then pretty soon, we could just place him straight into the crib. Maybe being in the carrier helped get him acclimated to the crib? Hell if I know, but it worked.”
D.D. pursed her lips, nodded. “Sounds like something worth trying. Or I could just sign up for the funny farm now.”
At the last minute, she realized maybe she shouldn’t have said that. Given Griffin’s own past, that little incident with the Candy Man, Griffin’s ensuing mental breakdown, the medical leave from the state police.
Griffin just laughed again, sounding unruffled. D.D. took that as a sign his new family was working for him. She hoped so. Griffin was a good guy and great detective. If he was happy, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.
“So,” she declared, “as delightful as our children are, I’m actually calling you about a case. Randi Menke, murdered in Providence two years ago. Guess the state police became involved because you were already investigating the number one suspect for fraud.”
“Jon Menke,” Griffin said immediately. “Slimy bastard.”
“You think he did it?”
“Please, at the time I would’ve bet my career on it, which it turned out, would’ve cost me, given the second murder one year later.”
“Jackie Knowles,” D.D. filled in. “So you heard about that.”
“Only four dozen times. The friend…Charice, Chartreuse…”
“Charlene. Charlie.”
“That’s it.” Griffin snapped his fingers over the phone. “Charlie something something Grant. She visited our fine headquarters many times. Made her wishes for swift and immediate justice known.”
