DD Warren 00 - The 7th Month by Lisa Gardner Read Free Book Online

before a jury of your peers that during the time of the murder, you were in fact talking to him by phone. And no, you didn’t sound stressed out, anxious, frantic, enraged. You sounded A-okay normal. Juries like to hear these things. Because we all know murderers can’t be normal right? They can only be freaks with stooped shoulders, disfiguring scars, and the complete inability to make eye contact. That’s the kind of monster a jury wants to find guilty of murder. Not a charming, well-dressed, well-spoken person like you.
    Now, if you don’t trust yourself enough to engage in a rational phone conversation in the minutes before engaging in murder, there is a second approach: Once you’ve incapacitated your victim, finish the deed while listening to the radio or watching TV in the victim’s own bedroom/car/office/motel room. Later, when the police question you, you can say you were at home watching TV or listening to the radio. The cops, of course, will demand to know what channel, which show, what songs, peppering you with questions in hopes of tripping you up. Either you will fail to provide enough specific information or, later, when they cross-reference your answers with the local TV guide or radio playlists for that date or time, they will be able to prove you lied. You, of course, will have plenty of accurate details to supply. “Why, I was watching
The Simpsons
on Fox. . . . You know, the episode where Homer tries to strangle Bart.”
    It’s tending these little details that enables one to get away with murder. Carefully consider what must be done before, during, and
after
the killing. Plan accordingly.
    Concoct an alibi. This is step six.

Chapter 6
    D.D. was a sap. Maybe it was hormones or a pregnant woman’s biological response to the father of her unborn child, but each time she saw Alex, her heart skipped a beat. Didn’t matter that it was nearly ten P.M. , freezing-ass cold, and they stood outside a fake-fogged cemetery. She took in her man, his salt-and-pepper hair, trim build currently hunched beneath a charcoal gray wool coat, strong legs striding toward her, and she beamed like a giddy school girl, awaiting the star quarterback’s approach.
    “I thought you said he was a teacher,” Joe said beside her. They remained next to D.D.’s car, where they could confer with Alex in private. It was dark here, the wind kicking up and delivering a knife-edged chill. Joe, wearing only a thin sports jacket, was shivering hard. D.D., carrying around her own private heater in the form of an incubating baby, felt great.
    “Teaches crime scene management at the police academy,” D.D. supplied.
    “He doesn’t look like a teacher.”
    “He still likes to get out in the field. That’s how we met. Family annihilation. Husband took out three kids and his wife with a kitchen knife, before shooting himself point-blank in the head.”
    Joe glanced sideways at her. “That’s your romantic first-meet story?”
    D.D. rolled her eyes. “Fraud investigators. No stomach for real crime.”
    Alex drew to a halt in front of them. He glanced at D.D. first, the warmth of his smile reaching his blue eyes. And she felt herself melt a little bit more. No lecture or whiff of censure that it was ten P.M. on D-Day and she still hadn’t given him an answer. Instead, she asked for help, he came. She smiled at him, and he beamed back with his entire body.
    She was an idiot. Stubborn, foolish, but worse than all that, a scared ninny. When had Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren ever allowed herself to behave so cowardly? When had she ever tolerated fear?
    Beside her, Joe cleared his throat. Belatedly, D.D. and Alex turned to him.
    Alex stuck out a hand. “Alex Wilson.”
    “Joe Thieriault,” the FBI agent said.
    The men didn’t exchange titles or departments, given that in the dark it was difficult to know who else might be listening. They finished shaking hands, then Alex enveloped D.D. in a quick hug. “How are you feeling?” he