Catch Me

slam the door right away.”

“She would have ability to research pedophiles through her police dispatch job. Maybe hear about them on the scanner or via incoming calls, but also, she can log on to police databases, registered sex offender lists.”

“Access to information would not be a problem,” D.D. agreed.

“And in terms of the profile developed by the graphologist-”

“Our daily dose of quack.”

“She fits the requirements of being anal-retentive.”

“Though I appreciate the help with my pictures.”

“Definitely a bit of a control freak. What’s the deal with the hair anyway? She’s not just wearing a ponytail, she’s basically seized the strands in a choke hold. And none shall ever escape.”

“Very controlled hairdo, but very sloppy clothing. Oversized, baggy. Maybe her way of trying to look larger and tougher than she really is?”

“Pretty blue eyes,” O commented. “Hair down, better clothes, she could talk her way into most men’s apartments, pedophiles or not.”

“But would she leave the puppy?” D.D. asked.

“Pardon?”

“In Stephen Laurent’s apartment. The killer left a young puppy to fend for itself. It’s one thing to kill a suspected pervert. It’s another to abandon a puppy without food or water. Charlene must have some sympathy for dogs, as it appears she’s adopted a street mutt. So would she leave the puppy behind?”

“Calculated gamble. Odds are the victim’s body will be found soon versus later, and the puppy rescued.”

“Possible,” D.D. said, but the detail bothered her. Felt not as right to her as the other variables.

“She suffered abuse as a kid,” O continued, “making it easy for her to identify with the victims.”

“She also feels powerless,” D.D. filled in. “Both of her friends have been murdered, the police have no answers, she’s convinced she’ll be the next one to die. She’s trying to prepare, but mostly, she’s waiting. Someone is about to kill her, and there’s not a thing she can do about that.”

“Whereas attacking pedophiles…”

“Would make her feel powerful. Now she’s the one in control, taking charge, righting wrongs. Pulling the trigger probably beats Xanax for anxiety reduction, that’s for sure.”

“Unless she’s the one who murdered her friends,” O pointed out.

“Possible.”

O studied her. “But you don’t think so.”

D.D. shrugged, tried to put her thought, which was really more of an instinct, into words. “As a former profiler explained to me just this morning, two murders don’t provide enough data points for thorough analysis. Who knows if Charlene is really a target, or if there will even be another murder on the twenty-first. But I believe Charlene believes it. Because of the marks on her knuckles and the fingerprints bruising her neck. She’s training that hard. She’s willing to be attacked and pummeled and choked, because she believes that’s what she needs to do in order to survive January twenty-one.”

“And assuming she believes she really will die in a matter of days…”

“Then she has some incentive to color outside the legal lines.”

“Exact vengeance for young, powerless victims everywhere.”

D.D. nodded. She looked up at O. “One thing’s for certain.”

“What?”

“If it really is Charlene Grant, she only has two days left. Given she’s probably cleared her calendar for the twenty-first, that means sometime in the next twenty-four hours…”

“Another pervert will bite the dust.”

“With the twenty-two semiauto we just returned to her.”

Chapter 23

FOUR THIRTY P.M. Sky was already dark, snow drifted lazily outside the apartment window, and Jesse was nearly frantic.

He’d been asking to go to the Boston Public Library for, like, the whole afternoon. He’d wanted to take a bus after school, but his mother had said no. She didn’t want him on the bus in this weather, meaning there were, like, six snowflakes on the sidewalk and now the whole world had to grind to a halt.

When he’d begged and pleaded and nearly cried with frustration, she’d finally said she’d take him at four, when she got off the phone, because she had some school research she needed to do. Plus, Jesse had said they were studying libraries at school and he was supposed to write three sentences on his favorite library, which is why he needed to go. So they would ride the subway together, to the central branch of the Boston Public Library, then maybe have dinner at the food court in the Pru Center. A big night out, said his mom.

She’d looked happy about that. A little excited, planning their evening adventure, and that had made Jesse feel bad ’cause he was lying. But he wasn’t lying too much. He really would write three sentences and they could go to dinner in the mall, but first he really, really, really needed to meet Pink Poodle and learn how to hit a curveball.

At 3:55, he put on his big fat winter coat, then a fresh pair of dry socks, then his boots, his hat and gloves. By 3:59 he was standing next to the door, poofed out three times his natural size, clutching Zombie Bear, and ready to go.

Except his mother hadn’t gotten off the phone.

She was talking and talking and talking (“Just a minute, Jesse!” “Jesse, shhh!” “Interrupt me one more time, young man, and no library!”)

Jesse was now too hot. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he hopped from foot to foot because he had to pee, but he didn’t want to get unbundled, because his mother might hang up the phone any second, then it would be time to leave, and they needed to go.

He walked little circles in front of the door, spent time jumping over the piles of shoes. Jump, jump, jump, the world’s smallest obstacle course.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon!

Then, when he thought he couldn’t take it a second more, his mother appeared in the hallway.

“Jesse? Ready to go?”

“Ahhhhh!” he nearly screamed, then bolted for the bathroom before his bladder burst.

When he returned, still overheated, but slightly less crazed, his mother was just finishing buttoning up her coat. Without another word, he followed her down the three flights of stairs into the cold.

Jesse liked the city at night. He liked the lights everywhere, different colors and shapes that bounced off the low-hanging clouds and made the city look like a fun house. He especially liked a night like this one, when the snow was drifting down in big fat flakes, that you could catch on your tongue and feel melt into droplets of rust-flavored water.

Jesse’s mother walked briskly toward the subway stop three blocks away. Jesse darted around her, pretending he was a frost monster, powered by snow, running at the icy flakes, snapping at them with his mouth until his mother told him sharply, to stop it before he hurt himself.

Then he trotted along beside her, subdued but still happy, because they were finally going to the library and the city was all lit up and there were people everywhere, and surely that meant Pink Poodle would still be hunched over a computer in the Boston Public Library, because it was that kind of night. Cold and busy and bustling.

Zombie Bear’s bandaged head poked out of his pocket, the undead homerun hitter along for the ride.

It took forever to finally reach the main branch of the Boston Public Library, on Boylston Street. Technically it was two buildings; the historic McKim Building and the newer Johnson Building. Jesse loved the 160-year-old McKim Building, with its massive stone arches and ornate carvings and the kind of long, shadowed halls that hinted of ghosts and gargoyles. The McKim had mostly the research stuff, however-government documents, historic papers. Jesse and his mom headed for the Johnson Building instead. It was built in the