admire his naivete.”
She shifted baby Jack to her other shoulder, resumed rocking. Judging by the whimpering in her ear, Jack didn’t like her left shoulder any more than the right.
Alex stood up. “Want me to take a turn?” He gestured to Jack, who churned his feet fussily.
D.D. rubbed her son’s back, hating not being able to soothe him. It felt both wrong and inevitable. Proof that she wasn’t maternal enough, just as distant as her own parents. Except she didn’t feel cold and dismissive. She hated that her baby was upset. Wanted desperately to do the right thing, say the right thing that would comfort him. So far they’d tried burping, swaddling, rocking, singing, pacing, and driving. Nada.
The baby was winning. And they were old.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly.
Alex crossed to her. “What about the ballistics report?” he asked as he transferred Jack from her shoulder to his chest. “Got anything to conclusively tie the shooting of victim one to the shooting of victim two?”
“Got a note,” D.D. said triumphantly. “Left in first victim’s pocket. Exact same phrase:
Alex was impressed. Jack was not.
“Maybe we should try going for a drive again,” D.D. suggested.
“Not sure either of us is safe behind the wheel.”
D.D. nodded tiredly. Alex was right about that. They were stupid tired. Which was why they were talking shop. It was the only topic of conversation that came to them naturally.
“Ballistics report should arrive tomorrow,” she murmured.
“Before or after your parents’ plane lands?”
Alex stopped pacing with the baby. “Was I not supposed to remind you of that?”
“We should just run away,” D.D. said. She couldn’t deal with this. She was too tired and her baby hated her. There was no way she could handle her mother, too.
“I could meet them,” Alex offered bravely. “Pick up Jack from day care, do the honors. Then, if you get stuck at work, it’s not so terrible. You could always meet us later for dinner, something like that.”
“They’ll never forgive me.”
“Yes they will. You’re the mother of their grandson. And when he’s not squalling like a howler monkey, he is the cutest, most adorable, most brilliant baby boy ever. Aren’t you?” Alex hefted baby Jack into the air, gave him a little toss, then caught him again.
Jack stopped crying. He gazed down at his father. He hiccupped, twice.
Heartened, Alex gave him another little toss.
Jack landed in his father’s arms, hiccupped again, then, with a giant belch, finally relieved the gas cramping his tiny tummy, by spewing his entire liquid dinner down his father’s chest.
Alex stopped moving, held perfectly still.
“Well, at least he’s not crying,” Alex said at last.
D.D. scrambled for towels, wet wipes.
“You are the best father in the entire world,” she assured her sleep-deprived partner. “Come Father’s Day, Jack is gonna get you not one, but two ties. I swear it!”
D.D. HAD JUST FINISHED getting Jack cleaned up and settled into his carrier, when her cell phone rang. She checked the screen. Blocked number, which could mean any number of things this late at night. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, D.D. took the call.
“Detective D. D. Warren? FBI Special Agent Kimberly Quincy from Atlanta. Sorry to call so late.”
“Oh,” D.D. said. “Oh, oh, oh. Not a problem.”
“Been out all day,” Special Agent Quincy continued in a clipped voice. “Just got your message and was going to call you back tomorrow, then I realized the date.”
“Only two and a half days till the twenty-first,” D.D. filled in.
“Exactly. Figured if you were calling me, you had some kind of development, and you’d appreciate a call back sooner versus later.”
“I have the third friend,” D.D. said. “Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant. I believe you know her.”
“You could say that.”
“Well, now I know her, too. Like you said, it’s nearly the twenty-first. Charlie’s preparing for war. As a backup plan, she’d like me to handle her murder investigation.”
“Huh.”
“With all due respect, Special Agent, I haven’t slept in ten weeks. I was hoping for more than ‘Huh’ from the FBI.”
“Big case?” the special agent asked.
“New baby.”
“Boy or girl?” Kimberly’s voice warmed up.
“Boy. Loud, fussy, cranky, beautiful boy.”
“Two girls,” Kimberly provided. “The seven-year-old wants a cell phone. The four-year-old wants a puppy. Sure you don’t want help on the case? I could fly right up.”
D.D. smiled. “You’re supposed to tell me it gets easier. ‘This is just a phase. Parenting gets better and better every day.’ Lie to me. I could use a good story right now.”
“Absolutely. Best days are ahead. And FYI, never leave a five-year-old alone with a jump rope and her two- year-old sister, and if your husband works as many nights as mine does, buy the king-sized bed now, because all life-forms will be in your room.”
“Hard to fit a king-sized bed in Boston real estate. Jump rope?”
“Technically, the two-year-old was only tied up for ten minutes, then figured out how to wiggle out of the knots. I blame my husband. He’s an outdoorsman, so he keeps teaching the girls ‘skills’ that inevitably result in babysitters never returning.”
“What’s your husband do?”
“Mac’s a state cop.”
“Ah,” D.D. said, connecting the dots. “So your daughters are double-Special Agent kids-FBI on the one side and Georgia Bureau of Investigation on the other.”
“That might be the other explanation,” Kimberly agreed.
“My partner is also a former detective, who now teaches courses in crime scene analysis at the police academy. I figure when Jack skins his knee for the first time, he’ll fetch placards to mark the scene of the crime first, then grab a Band-Aid.”
“Mac’s been taking our eldest, Eliza, to the shooting range with him. He swears her first time out, she clustered three to the chest. Apparently, aiming for center mass is genetic.”
“Your seven-year-old can shoot?”
“It’s the South, honey. We like our guns.”
“I like your daughter,” D.D. assured her.
“Me, too. So what can I tell you about the Jackie Knowles murder? I’m assuming you’ve read my father’s report.”
“Your father’s…” D.D.’s voice trailed off, then she got it. “The consultant, retired FBI agent Pierce Quincy, he’s your father?”
“Yep. He’s the reason I got involved. Generally speaking, a local homicide doesn’t garner FBI attention, but my dad had done the initial analysis of the Rhode Island crime scene. He identified several overlapping variables between the Providence murder and Atlanta homicide, and a predator operating in multiple jurisdictions would be our cup of tea.”
“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’
