She picked up her fourth cup of black coffee, eyed the way her hand performed the over-caffeinated mambo, and took a sip. “On what grounds?” she quizzed her eager young colleague.
Phil nodded with equal skepticism. He sat beside Neil, the whole team assembled to debrief from last night’s shooting and this morning’s ongoing discoveries. Murder investigations had a tendency to ebb and flow. This one was currently flowing. Hell, it was nearing flood stage.
“Charlene Grant matches the description of the shooter,” O stated.
Phil was already shaking his head. “At best, gives us grounds to bring her in for a lineup. But we can’t go around arresting all the females in Boston who have brown hair and blue eyes.”
“She owns a twenty-two, same caliber as the murder weapon.”
“As do thousands of people, probably in just this city block.”
“Handwriting analysis,” O snapped, glancing at D.D. “Especially given the note within the note.”
D.D. shrugged. “I dropped off Charlie’s handwritten list of two names plus the three crime scene notes with Ray Dembowski. He’s going to test the notes from the first two shootings this afternoon to see if they have the same hidden message, Catch Me. Then, he’ll analyze the lemon juice scrawl versus the ink script to determine if the same person wrote both messages on the sheets of paper. Finally, he’ll analyze the handwriting of both messages against Charlie’s list. But it’ll be at least Monday before he has a formal report for us, and he’s already complaining about feeling rushed.”
“Motive, means, opportunity!” Detective O threw her hands up in the air. “Come on, I can’t be the only one who thinks Charlie’s guilty!”
O had exchanged last night’s little black dress for a more sedate light blue Brooks Brothers button-up shirt. It was expertly tailored, perfect for the up-and-coming young detective. Would also look good on TV, D.D. thought, should camera crews catch her making a major arrest.
“It’s not a matter of what we think,” D.D. said, less patient, more curt. “It’s a matter of what we can prove.”
Neil spoke up. “I think we should arrest her.” He had a sullen look on his face, his carrot top mane uncustomarily smoothed down, his lanky shoulders rounded. He’d barely spoken since the meeting started, opting to stare at a fixed spot on the table instead.
O pounced, having finally found an ally. “She’s a flight risk. If we spend too much time getting our ducks in a row, she’s bound to fly the coop.”
“Which is why we generally don’t share our investigative strategies with our prime suspects,” Phil muttered.
“How is she not going to figure it out?” O exclaimed. She pointed a finger at D.D. “She wants to call her in for a lineup. Think that won’t give our game away?”
“I didn’t say call her in for a lineup,” D.D. corrected. “I said that’s all a matching physical description can do for us. Now, put that finger away before you hurt someone.”
O glared at her, hand falling to her side. “What’s the alternative? Request a warrant to search her room or seize her twenty-two? Sure, we’ll gain some evidence. And boo hoo, she’ll be in Canada before we can snap on the handcuffs.”
D.D. sighed. She looked at O, she looked at Neil. Finally, she turned to Phil. “Kids these days,” she murmured.
The father of four nodded in agreement. He’d gotten to sleep last night, which thus far had made him the only sane person in the room. D.D. took a fortifying sip of coffee, and got to it.
“Neil,” she announced, “when were you going to tell us you broke up with Ben?” Ben being the medical examiner, whom Neil would’ve encountered last night when accompanying the latest shooting victim to the morgue.
“No one’s business,” her red-haired colleague mumbled.
“Oh, but it is. Maybe your relationship wasn’t dipping the pen in the company’s well, but it was dipping in the company’s brother’s well. We work with the ME’s office. The end of your relationship has on-the-job consequences and you know it. So dish. What happened?”
“We’re on a break.”