As she hit the hood of her car, she could see enough to realize it wasn’t a flier—the letters were handwritten script, not block printed. She faltered, footsteps slowing. Keeping her hands in her pockets, she leaned forward, studying the half sheet of paper more closely.
The script letters were thin, almost spidery looking but curiously flat at the bottom, as if the person had used a ruler to set an edge. The note wasn’t addressed or signed. It contained two sentences:
Everyone has to die sometime.
Be brave.
Immediately, D.D. glanced up, looked around. There, across the street, a figure disappearing around the corner in a black down coat.
D.D. started to run.
AS SHE SPRINTED ACROSS THE STREET, D.D. had two thoughts at once: Running was not a good idea for a woman who’d given birth ten weeks ago; things bounced that had not bounced a year ago and none of it was comfortable. Second, chasing a potential suspect all alone was not a good idea for a new mom who hoped to kiss her baby boy on the cheek in approximately three hours.
Bad news: Uniformed officers might carry radios, but detectives did not. Meaning she should’ve stopped at her car for the radio, yelled over her shoulder at another officer, something.
Ah fuck it. D.D. rounded the corner, saw the fast-moving figure in black preparing to cross the next street, and yelled out her Hail Mary pass: “Boston Police. Stop or I’ll shoot.”
Not even remotely close to appropriate use of force, but given that most of the public grew up on Dirty Harry, who were they to question such a threat? The figure in black obediently halted and turned around.
“Keep your hands where I can see them!” D.D. boomed, slowing to a jog, right hand inside her coat, on the butt of her handgun, still nestled in her shoulder holster.
The person of interest stuck his arms out, splaying black gloved fingers in a comic parody of I didn’t do it.
D.D. settled into a walk, approaching more carefully. She homed in on the pale oval face she could just make out between the high collar of the black down coat and the low brim of the black wool hat. This close, she could see that the features were too small, too delicate to be male. In fact, once she adjusted for the bulky winter coat, she realized that the person in front of her was probably only five one, maybe a hundred, hundred and ten pounds.
Female. Young, early to mid-twenties would be her guess. Caucasian, with dark hair and hollowed out blue eyes that currently looked simultaneously wary, fearful, and defiant. Basic response of most of the general population when being confronted by a cop. The initial I didn’t do it warring with the deeper knowledge of but I have done something.
D.D. came to a halt three paces back from the lone female. She kept her gaze hard, right hand still resting on the butt of her gun.
“Name,” she asked crisply.
“Why?”
D.D. narrowed her eyes. “You always talk back to cops?”
“I’d like to see your badge,” the woman said firmly, but her voice wavered at the end. Tough, but not that tough.
D.D. said nothing, did nothing. Always the best offense.
In response, the girl sighed and seemed to settle in herself. A woman of experience.
D.D. let an entire minute drag out. Then, slowly, deliberately, she unclipped her badge from the waistband of her jeans with her left hand and held it out. “Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren, Boston PD. I’ve told you mine, now you tell me yours.”
“Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant.”
“Say what?” D.D. blinked a few times at the long string. “Rosalynn Carter…You’re a former First Lady?”
“Rosalind Carter. Charlene. Rosalind. Carter. Grant. But you can call me Charlie.”
D.D. stared at her harder. “You’re not from around here, are you, Charlie?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing at my crime scene?”
The young woman stared at her. Her expression seemed to waver then, all at once, harden in resolve. “I’m checking you out.”
“Excuse me?”