“Woman?” O asked.
D.D. hadn’t mentioned her conversation with the forensic handwriting expert before. She figured it was probably time. “The notes left at both scenes: Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave. Based on penmanship, our note writer is most likely female. Tightly wound, probably private school-educated, and prone to wearing plaid. Which is another question, I suppose: How much ‘personality’ can you tell from chat room logs? Any of the users come across as a type A female? Or can you even distinguish male users from female users?”
Phil shook his head. O, too. Both detectives were thinking, however. D.D. had that feeling between her shoulder blades, the one that as a detective she liked to get. They were on to something. Finally gaining ground.
Case would crack. Soon. Suddenly.
They would get their man…or woman.
“Anything else I need to know?” she asked.
Her case team shook their tired heads. “O,” D.D. said, “how about you meet with Neil, take over photos?”
O nodded. Neil looked embarrassed to surrender his assignment but didn’t argue.
“Neil,” D.D. continued, “in my office at ten. Phil, you’re off duty at noon. Go home, get some rest. O, you can finish today, but I don’t want to see you tomorrow before noon. Remember, it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
Phil looked at her strangely. “You never send us home.”
“Are you complaining?”
He shut up.
D.D. adjourned the meeting, returning to her office, where she picked up a second crime scene report and prepared for her second major case of the day: the soon-to-be murder of Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.
D.D. lifted the phone and dialed.
Chapter 19
TRAINING EQUALS PREPAREDNESS. You drill a pattern of movements over and over again, so that when the moment of attack occurs, rather than freezing in shock, you fall back into a series of instinctive responses that quickly renders your opponent useless.
That’s the theory at least.
Tulip and I left the Grovesnor PD a little after 8 A.M. No Officer Mackereth to drive us home. The morning sun was weak, barely penetrating the thickening clouds. I could already taste the snow building on the horizon, feel the frosty bite through my coat, hat, and gloves.
Within a matter of minutes, Tulip, with her short tan-and-white fur, was shivering.
It distracted me. That was my excuse as I hustled us both to the corner, where I began the competitive game of hailing a taxi at the height of the morning commute.
After five minutes, I’d had no luck, and Tulip was shivering harder.
Bus pulled up. Number was right for my purposes, so I boarded, hefting Tulip up with me.
The bus driver, a heavyset black woman with crimped gray hair and a face that had seen it all, shook her head. “Service dogs only.”
“She is a service dog. Lost her collar. Some jerk took it off her right outside the police station. How d’you like that? Now look at her. She’s out of uniform and freezing to death.”
Tulip helped me out by giving the driver a particularly pathetic glance.
Four other people shoved up behind me, trying to board, impatient with the holdup, particularly given the freezing temperature.
Bus the driver ignored them, stared at me.
“What’s your disability?” she demanded.
“Peanut allergy.”
“There’s no dogs for peanut allergies.”
“Are too.”
“Are not.”
“Are too,” muttered the man behind me. “Come on. Let her on or kick her off. It’s fucking cold out here.”
I glared at him, then took in the row of passengers already filling the seats. “Anyone eat peanut butter this morning?” I called out. “Or have peanuts in your purse?”
Couple of tentative hands went up. I turned triumphantly to the bus driver. “See, I need my dog. Otherwise, I might die on your bus, and think about the paperwork. Nobody wants to do that kind of paperwork.”
I swiped my commuter card and dropped Tulip into the aisle, as if that decided the matter. As I headed toward the back of the bus with Tulip in tow, I could tell the bus driver still didn’t believe me. But it was fucking freezing out, and nobody liked paperwork.
I lied. I got away with it. It made me a little triumphant, a little cocky. Second mistake for the morning.
Really, it was only a matter of time.
I had to stand. Right hand up, holding the overhead bar for balance. I had the end of Tulip’s leash encircled around my left wrist, with my left hand pressed flat against the closed flap of my messenger bag. Protecting the contents, particularly my weapon.
Now, here’s a rule of mass transit: The colder it is outside, the hotter it will be inside.
Heat blasted through the vents, and pretty quickly, the wool coats and fleece-lined hats that made so much sense outside, became suffocating inside. Tulip started to pant. I started to sweat. More people jammed in, hot bodies pressing together, adding to the sauna.
Twenty minutes into my fifty-five-minute ride, I started to feel nauseous. The swaying suspension system, rolling beneath my feet. The beads of sweat, rolling down my hairline to pool on my overheated neck. The stench of too many bodies crowded too close together, only some of whom had bothered to shower recently.
Another five minutes, and I raised my hand from my messenger bag long enough to loosen my scarf, remove my hat. I breathed marginally easier, then the bus was off and bouncing again, passengers bobbing, windows fogging.
I managed to stuff my hat in my coat pocket, then I had to move my left hand again. Unbutton the top button of my jacket, second, third, fourth.
I wore an oversized navy blue fleece pullover beneath my coat. The kind of soft, bulky sweatshirt perfect for cozying up with a good book on Sunday afternoon. It was strangling me now, the collar damp with sweat, the compressed sleeves squeezing my arms.
Thirty minutes down, twenty-five more to go.
Bus stopped. Passengers got off. More passengers got on. Tulip whined and panted. I loosened my grip on the sweat-slicked metal bar, wiped my forearm over my brow.
Bus lurched forward and so did my stomach.
Was I still holding on to the messenger bag? Maybe. Maybe not. I was hot, uncomfortable, fighting motion sickness. So first distracted, then cocky, and now partially incapacitated.
Cities operate by jungle rules, you know: The weak and infirm are immediately targeted to be culled from the herd.
Stop after stop. Block after block. With me panting almost as hard as Tulip. Not paying attention to my fellow passengers. Not noticing my surroundings. Just counting down the blocks. Wishing desperately to get off that damn bus.
Finally, as my face went from overheated red, to unsightly pale, to alarming green, the stop. Doors opened in the front. I started the forward charge, leading with Tulip, who weaved effortlessly through a sea of heavy boots and flapping overcoats.
“Excuse me, excuse me, coming through.” Pushing, shoving, and shimmying. Following the siren’s song of fresh air, beckoning through the open door. At last, we made it. The bus driver and I exchanged final scowls, then Tulip and I clambered down the steep bus stairs onto hard-frozen terra firma. We jogged a couple of steps away from the metal sauna.
I was vaguely aware of the bus doors closing, the bus pulling away. I had both hands away from my messenger bag. Opening up my coat, gulping for icy, snow-laced air, trying to draw as much of it as I could into my overheated lungs, through my sweat-soaked fleece.
My leather bag dangled at my hip, my open coat flapped around my thighs.
I was all about the refreshingly frigid air, the feel of it against my face. I was finally off the bus. End of the road. From here, Tulip and I could jog the roughly mile and a half to our destination. Away from the densely packed urban sprawl, into the back roads and rolling countryside that still dotted random parts of Greater Boston.