The 7th Month

  Also by Lisa Gardner

  The Perfect Husband

  The Other Daughter

  The Third Victim

  The Next Accident

  The Survivors Club

  The Killing Hour

  Alone

  Gone

  Hide

  Say Goodbye

  The Neighbor

  Live to Tell

  Love You More

  Catch Me

  DUTTON

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First E-special printing, January 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

  Excerpt from Catch Me copyright © 2012 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-101-57252-8

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Step One

  Chapter 1

  Step Two

  Chapter 2

  Step Three

  Chapter 3

  Step Four

  Chapter 4

  Step Five

  Chapter 5

  Step Six

  Chapter 6

  The Final Step

  Chapter 7

  Special Preview

  Have you ever contemplated killing someone? Perhaps your snoring spouse, or overbearing boss, or that pretentious neighbor whose children really are smarter than yours? You probably convinced yourself it couldn’t be done. Too messy, with the blood, the guts, the suddenly voiding bowels. Or too hard, what with fingerprinting, DNA, hair and fiber, and all the other types of newly developed forensic evidence. No way you’d ever get away with it.

  Take it from me, murder isn’t that difficult. It’s a matter of simple logistics. You must plan ahead, plot out each step, then make the necessary preparations. For example, the first thing you must do is select your victim. Blonde, brunette. Male, female. Someone you know well, someone you’re about to know very well.

  Select your target. This is step one.

  Chapter 1

  At first glance, Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren pegged the man to be either a white-collar criminal or a serial killer. White-collar, because he had the rounded shoulders and nervous hands of a browbeaten clerk, desperate to one day have his revenge. Serial killer, because his small stature and weak jawline spoke of a guy who probably preferred his lovers to be passive, e.g., dead, not to mention he was the right size to fit into a home’s crawl space.

  Currently, the man stood just inside the doors of Boston PD’s homicide unit. D.D. sat behind the high-countered cherrywood receptionist’s desk. He eyed her uneasily. She stared back.

  “Er . . . I’m looking for a Boston detective,” he said.

  “Witness a crime, reporting a crime, or confessing to a crime?” she asked.

  “Actually, I’m in need of an expert.”

  D.D. looked him up and down again. Upon closer inspection, the man’s oversized brown suit was cut from a silk-wool blend with flecks of dark green. Shoes, shiny new Italian leather. Tie, mustard yellow designer silk. Some money had been spent on the wardrobe. Too bad it didn’t do a thing for him.

  “You’ve lost weight,” she observed. “Judging by your chewed fingernails and the roll of Tums in your breast pocket, it’s most likely due to stress. You’re not sleeping, and are doing your best to compensate with caffeine and/or cocaine, hence the jitters. Shoes say you can afford cocaine. Breath argues for coffee addiction.”

  “Coffee,” the man supplied hastily, his gaze dashing around the nearly empty detectives’ bullpen. Lunchtime in Boston. Even cops had to eat. “So, can I speak with an investigator? Doesn’t have to be a high-ranking official or anything,” the man continued quickly. “Any detective will do. Probably. At least, I would think so. Just . . . a real honest-to-goodness Boston cop. Male. Well, female would work, I suppose. But with some experience. Three to five years at least. That would be perfect.”

  The man stopped talking. Sitting behind the desk, D.D. arched a brow, then folded her hands over her watermelon-sized belly while she contemplated just what she thought of such a request. Seven months pregnant, Boston’s best homicide cop was reduced to holding down the fort. At least Susan, the receptionist who was currently out to lunch, kept an emergency stash of Kit Kats in her lower left-hand drawer. Normally, D.D. would be raiding that chocolate supply, but at the moment, her stomach felt off.

  Today was D-day. Alex had asked the question. She owed him an answer.

  This morning. This afternoon. Anytime now.

  She regarded the walk-in bundle of nerves instead. He was picking at a hangnail on his left thumb. Very soft hands, she thought. Nearly effeminate.

  “Informant for the mob?” she asked him.

  “No.”

  “Embezzling from a financial firm?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then I’m thinking serial killer.” She nodded decisively. “Yep. The kind of predator who preys on prostitutes, using a garrote fashioned from panty hose, or maybe a last-minute ambush via baseball bat. But absolutely, your victims are weaker than you, and murdering them is the only time you feel powerful.”

  The man blinked his eyes several times. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened. He managed at last: “Who are you?”

  “Your expert. You asked. Here I am. Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren.”

  The man blinked a few more times. He finally closed the five-foot gap to the receptionist desk, peering over the edge of the counter, down to where D.D. sat with her hands around her enormous belly. His turn to be skeptical now: Could a pregnant receptionist really be a homicide detective? D.D. was getting that a lot these days, so she took pity and held up her badge. While he regarded her genuine, city-issued police shield, she continued her observations.

  Definitely, the man in front of her had shed pounds, and not the good kind. His skin was washed out, like he spent all his time under fluorescent lights, and there were lines furrowed so deep into his brow, Botox was already too little too late. Maybe not a serial killer then, she amended, because clearly, he was no good at compartmentalization.

  But he had problems and needed a detective. All in all, that, made him the most interesting thing to happen to D.D. in weeks.

  The first three months of D.D.’s pregnancy, she’d suffered morning sickness so severe her diet had consisted of Gatorade and dry Cheerios. In her third trimester now, ho
wever, she felt great. She ate like a horse, had the energy of six people, and had even achieved the mysterious maternal glow mentioned in various baby books. Certainly, her short blond hair seemed thicker, curlier, and shinier. If she were a canine at Westminster, she was pretty sure she could win Best in Show.

  Which made her current work limitations all the more grating. Sure, early on she’d vomited a few times at a couple of different crime scenes. But she didn’t think the scene where the guy had blown off his own head with a shotgun should be held against her. Her squadmates Phil and Neil had brought her tapioca pudding for an entire week, just to rub it in. She’d saved each cup until her second trimester had brought an end to her nausea. Then she’d sat in front of Phil and Neil and calmly eaten every bite of brain pudding.

  Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren had her mojo back.

  The very next day, her boss had stuck her on desk duty. This is what motherhood did to the working detective. One moment, an invaluable member of the team. The next, a really fat paperweight.

  Whose boyfriend . . . partner . . . father of her child wanted her to move in with him.

  All she had to do was give Alex her answer. This morning. This afternoon. Anytime now.

  Then, at forty-one years of age, D.D. would complete her transition from active, single, workaholic Boston cop, to everyone else’s idea of domestic bliss.

  The nervous, frazzled, guilty-of-something guy in front her was looking better and better all the time.

  “So,” D.D. stated, jarring the man’s attention off her belly and back to her face. “I’ve told you mine. Now you tell me yours.” She pointed to her credentials, which included her name, and the nervous man got the hint.

  “Oh. Right. Don Bilger. Executive producer.” He fished around inside his jacket pocket, producing the previously identified roll of Tums, flushing slightly, then managing to extract a business card: “Call me Donnie.”

  D.D. accepted the offered card. She read: Donnie B. Productions, followed by an address, phone number, Facebook page, and even Twitter hashmark. The modern world, she thought, where businesses occupied social media, instead of the yellow pages.

  “What do you produce?” She set the card down on the counter between them.

  “Entertainment products. TV, movies, videos, that sort of thing.”

  D.D. nodded. She’d heard that Boston had become a hotbed of filming, from feature movies to cable cop shows. The new New York, she’d read. Move over, NYPD Blue. Hello, Rizzoli & Isles. D.D. didn’t watch much TV or get out to many movies. Too busy being summoned to real crimes.

  “We need a cop,” Donnie was trying again. “For technical advice. We had one, but . . . he seems to have gone missing. So we need another one. Immediately. Tonight, in fact.”

  “You lost a cop?”

  “No, no, of course not. What I mean is . . . he went on vacation. Without calling and telling us. It happens in our line of work. Consulting is good money. People work a few days, get some fast cash, go have fun.”

  “How much fast cash did he get?”

  Don rattled off a number; D.D. sat up straighter. The minute the man had mentioned needing an expert and working in film productions, she couldn’t help but think of extra cash for the baby’s nursery. But the number Donnie B. had just rattled off was closer to the baby’s college fund.

  She eyed him with new interest as well as fresh skepticism. “Who was the cop? Boston PD?”

  “Retired. Samuel Chaibongsai. Hung up his shield years ago, I’m told.”

  D.D. didn’t recognize the name, but there were more than a couple of retired Boston cops running around. “What was Samuel doing for you?”

  “We’re filming a crime drama, Cover Your Eyes. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s about two detectives racing against the clock to catch a serial killer who’s returned from beyond the grave—”

  “A dead serial killer?”

  “That’s what everyone thinks, but it turns out that the body had been burned beyond recognition, meaning . . .”

  “The serial killer faked his own death?”

  “Exactly.” Talking about the movie, Donnie B. seemed to relax. The producer’s shoulders came down, his voice warmed up. “So, the murderer, the Gravestone Killer—”

  “Because he’s from beyond the grave?”

  “No, because he kills his victims by whacking them over the head with a piece of granite tombstone.”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s stalking pretty blond widows in Boston. They show up to mourn their loved ones, and he . . . well, whack, whack. But don’t worry,” Don added hastily, “the Boston detectives are on the case, and being the heroes of the movie—”

  “They’ll send the Gravestone Killer back to the great beyond.”

  The producer paused, stared at her. “Oh, I like that. Wait a minute. I’m going to write that down. May I use that? We might play with it a little . . .”

  “Possibly. Keep talking about what you need, then we’ll establish terms.”

  “Well, we’re shooting on a very tight deadline. And, of course, we want the movie to be as authentic as possible.”

  “Hence death by tombstone.”

  “So we prefer to have a police consultant on set. To assist our actors with those tiny little details only a cop would know.” Don’s voice warmed up again. “Think about any cop movie you’ve ever seen. What do they get wrong that sets your teeth on edge?”

  “DNA test results in less than six months,” D.D. said immediately. “In real life, it takes several months, not to mention boatloads of budgets and reams of paperwork to get anything back from the lab. But in movies, TV shows, and crime novels it’s always DNA results in one chapter or less.”

  “Exactly! As a technical consultant, you could assist with that kind of insider’s knowledge. Though, to be honest, in our movie the detectives get DNA evidence instantaneously by scanning the evidence with their state-of-the-art handheld forensic finders. The devices also work on fingerprints, blood spatter, and paint chips.”

  D.D. frowned at him. “Ah, technically—”

  “Tonight,” Donnie interrupted. “We shoot seven P.M. to seven A.M. It’s the graveyard sequence, absolutely critical to the plot. Show up, I’ll have the contract waiting. Per diem, plus expenses, plus all meals are provided. Wear a warm coat.”

  Donnie didn’t wait for her reply. He picked up his business card, scrawled an address on the back and replaced it on the counter.

  Most likely confident that no one, absolutely no one, turned down that kind of money, the movie producer pivoted on his heels and left.

  D.D. looked at the card, then glanced at her watch. One fifteen P.M. She should call Alex, figure out the rest of her life, probably eat a Kit Kat.

  Or . . .

  She picked up the card, made a couple of calls, and with her boss’s blessing, formulated her evening plans.

  What kind of killer are you? Always a central question. The quiet, distant type, stepping out of the shadows to fire three to center mass? Or up close and personal? Perhaps you’ve always been secretly turned on by the way light winks across a freshly sharpened blade.

  Will you approach your victim first? Engage in casual conversation, lowering her guard even as you lure her into your web? Or will you strike out of nowhere—hard, fast, fierce?

  Finally, will you linger, watching the last spark of life leave your victim’s eye, feeling the whisper of her final, gasping scream? Or is this a clinical operation—in, out, done? Nothing personal, simply a matter of business. Take a small memento of the event, then be done with her. Destroy. Walk away. Never look back.

  Select your preferred methodology. This is step two.

  Chapter 2

  D.D.’s cell phone rang just as she was pulling into Mattapan, an inner-city neighborhood in Boston, known for its stately triple-decker houses and on-again, off-again drug wars. The call was from her boss, Deputy Superintenden
t of Homicide Cal Horgan. He had news regarding Samuel Chaibongsai, and it wasn’t good. Horgan asked her a couple of questions. She asked him a couple more. He informed her she should feel free to change her evening plans, return home, wash her hands of the movie biz.

  She informed him that was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. Knowing her as well as he did, he didn’t take offense.

  They worked out a few more details, the call ended, and fittingly enough, D.D. arrived at the film location: a large sprawling cemetery she already knew better than she’d like. Several years ago, she’d worked a major case on the grounds of an abandoned mental institute just across the street from this cemetery. A couple of drunk kids had managed to tumble into an underground pit that held six mummified remains. At first glance, she’d wondered if the bodies weren’t the handiwork of a serial killer she and her then-partner, State Detective Bobby Dodge, had presumed dead.

  Now, six thirty P.M., well after dark in November, D.D. parked her Crown Vic, got out, and stretched her lower back. In the past week or so, she was noticing more minor pains, some small episodes of shortness of breath. Probably because she had a fairly decent-sized life-form hanging off her spine, pummeling her lungs, playing soccer with her bladder. The usual baby games.

  She rubbed her belly, tried to encourage the tight bands of muscle to relax. Long day, leading to a longer night. When she’d finally mustered the courage to call and talk to Alex, he hadn’t been wild about her decision to pull an all-nighter on a film set. In his opinion, she should be taking things easy, curling up on the sofa with her feet on a pillow.

  Another reason for her to move in with him, she’d thought, but hadn’t said. So he could “take care of her”? Monitor her every move, give her plenty of superior male advice? Almost immediately, however, she’d recognized those thoughts as her baggage, not his. In the nearly year they’d been together, Alex had never been anything but patient and understanding of her various foibles. Even this afternoon, he hadn’t brought up the question or pressured her for an answer.