D.D. nodded. “Fair enough. Want coffee?” She strode across the street, keeping the girl beside her.
“Yes please. Are you charging me with something?”
“Should I be charging you with something?”
The girl sighed. “Have you spoken to the Grovesnor PD?”
“Yep.”
“Then you know I’m not a total fruitcake.”
“Why’d you leave a note on my windshield?” D.D. asked.
“What note? I didn’t leave a note.”
“Note you watched me bag and tag.”
“Not my note,” the girl said. “Didn’t even see it, let alone know that car was your vehicle. Trust me, to us non-law-enforcement types, all Crown Vics look alike.”
D.D. didn’t comment, but thought it was a fair observation. In a street chock-full of police cruisers and Crown Vics, had the author of the note known enough to target D.D.’s car specifically, or a detective’s vehicle generally? Something to consider for later.
D.D. escorted Charlie inside HQ, then upstairs to homicide. The homicide department was a nice space, D.D. always thought. More business suite than gritty cop show set. As a squad leader, D.D. had her own tiny office, complete with a laminated wood desk, laptop, and plush black leather desk chair. Very civilized.
D.D. didn’t take her charge there, but instead led Charlie to a small interview room, where she took the girl’s coat, then plunked her down at the table. D.D. went off in pursuit of beverages. Coffee for the girl, which made D.D. waver, eye the pot. But no, she’d been decaffeinated this long, she could make it another hour.
She’d initially given up coffee during her pregnancy, or rather, Jack had rebelled so insistently she couldn’t stomach the dark brew. Then, she’d stayed off the caffeine as she’d breast-fed for the first six weeks, surprising herself by desperately wanting to nurse, and had only weaned Jack at the six-week mark because she had to return to work and no way her schedule allowed for all that pumping and stuff other working moms heroically endured.
She missed it. Didn’t talk about it, not even to Alex, because what could she say? She had to return to work. So her baby took a bottle and was now being watched eight hours a day by a nice lady down the street. That was life. If D.D. could walk a homicide scene, surely she could handle parenthood.
D.D. poured a cup of coffee for Charlie, grabbed a bottle of water for herself.
Ninety-three minutes before she went home.
She reentered the interview room, took a seat across from her person of interest, and got down to business.
“WHERE YOU FROM, CHARLIE?”
“J-Town, New Hampshire.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Three hours north, near Mount Washington. Small town. One of those places where everybody knows your name.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Because I believe the person who will try to kill me on January twenty-first will be someone I know. So, first line of defense is to run away from everyone I know.”
The girl grimaced. She’d taken the coffee from D.D. but wasn’t drinking it. Just holding it between her hands as if for warmth.
According to the preliminary background report, Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant was twenty-eight years old. In person, with her long brown hair scraped tightly into a ponytail, she appeared even younger. She had a slight frame, D.D. decided, further hollowed out by nerves or stress or something. The girl’s pale cheeks were gaunt, her blue eyes bruised from sleepless nights. She wore an oversized shapeless black sweatshirt, the kind favored by street thugs and vandals, paired with broken-down jeans and cheap snow boots. An outfit guaranteed to blend into almost any urban landscape.
A good ensemble, D.D. figured, to be either predator or prey.