Lisa Gardner - Hide

A woman's voice from inside: "Bella, down! Bella, stop that. Oh, for heaven's sake!"

The door didn't magically open. He didn't think it would. Instead, he listened to the metal covering scrape back from an ancient peephole. The woman's greeting was almost as warm and friendly as the dog's.

"Ah shit!" Annabelle Granger said.

"Detective Bobby Dodge," he answered politely "I have a few follow-up questions-"

"What the hell are you doing here? I didn't give you my address!"

"Well, I am a detective."

That reply earned him only silence. He finally held up her phone number. "Reverse directory I put in your number and, voila, I got a name and address. Technology is a wonderful thing, yes?"

"I can't believe you didn't tell me about the pit," she called out from the other side of the door. "How could you sit right across from me, relentlessly milking me for information, and still withhold those kinds of details? Particularly once you realized one of those girls might be my best friend."

"I see you've been watching the news."

"Me and all of Boston. Jerk."

Bobby spread his hands. He found it difficult to negotiate with a solid wood door, but he did his best. "Look, we're all on the same page. We want to know what happened to your friend and find the sorry son of a bitch who did it. Given that, do you think I can come in?"

"No."

"Suit yourself." He reached inside his jacket pocket, withdrew his audio mini-recorder, a spiral notepad, his pen. "So-"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm asking my questions."

"In an open stairway? Whatever happened to privacy?"

"Whatever happened to hospitality?" He shrugged. "You set the ground rules, I'm just playing by them."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Two sharp metal thunks as steel bolt locks drew back. The rasp of a chain being temperamentally released. A third, more resonant thunk from the vicinity of the floor. Annabelle Granger took her home security seriously. He was curious to see how a professional curtain seamstress had managed to reconcile ambience with the iron bars that no doubt guarded her windows.

She flung the door open. There was a flash of white, then a long-legged dog hurtled itself at Bobby's kneecaps, barking shrilly. Annabelle made no move to rein in the animal. Just watched him through narrowly slit eyes, as if this was the ultimate test.

Bobby stuck out a hand. The dog didn't bite it off. Instead, it ran around his legs over and over again. He tried tracking it and immediately grew dizzy.

"Herd dog?"

"Yeah."

"Border collie?"

"They're black and white."

"Australian shepherd."

She nodded.

"Got a name?"

"Bella."

"Will she eventually stop barking?"

A single shoulder shrug. "Are you deaf yet?"

"Almost."

"Then soon."

He stepped gingerly into the apartment. Bella pressed against the backs of his legs, gamely helping him out. When he got in the apartment, Annabelle closed the door. She went back to work on the double bolt lock, chain lock, and floor jam. Bella finally stopped spinning, standing in front of him to bark instead. Pretty dog, he decided. Really long, sharp teeth.

The last steel bolt fired home, and as if a switch had been thrown, Bella shut up. She gave a final huff, then trotted into the tiny sitting area, weaving her way through piles of fabric before plopping down on a half-buried dog bed. At the last moment, she cocked one eye at him, as if to say she was still paying attention, then she sighed, put her head on her paws, and went to sleep.

"Good dog," Bobby murmured, impressed.

"Not really," Annabelle said, "but we suit each other. Neither one of us likes unexpected guests."

"I'm a bit of a loner myself." Bobby walked deeper into the apartment, doing his best to scope out the place while he had the chance. First impressions: small, cramped main room leading to a small, cramped bedroom. Kitchen was about the size of his bedroom closet, strictly utilitarian, with plain white cupboards and cheap Formica countertops. Family room was slightly larger, boasting a plush green love seat, oversize reading chair, and a small wooden table that also doubled as a work space. Walls were painted a rich golden yellow. Two expanses of enormous eight-foot-high windows were trimmed out with scalloped shades made from a sunflower-covered fabric.

As for any other features of the room, they were obscured by piles of fabric. Reds, greens, blues, golds, florals, stripes, checks, pastels. Silk, cotton, linen, chenille. Bobby didn't know a lot about these things, but he was guessing there was about any fabric you could ever want somewhere in this room.

And cords and trim pieces, too, he figured out, walking past the kitchen counter and discovering the other side adorned with strings of tassels.

"Homey," he commented, then pointed to the windows. "Great lighting, too. Must be helpful for your line of work."

"What do you want?"

"Now that you mention it, a glass of water would be great."

Annabelle thinned her lips, but crossed to the sink, banging on the faucet.

She was dressed casually this morning. Low-rise black sweatpants, a gray long-sleeve top that skimmed to a stop just above her waist. Her dark hair was held back loosely in a ponytail, no makeup adorned her face. Again he was struck by her resemblance to Catherine, and yet he couldn't think of two women who seemed more different.

Catherine was a carefully wrapped package, a woman who consciously honed her sex appeal and wielded it like a weapon. Annabelle, on the other hand, was an advertisement for urban chic. When she slapped the half-full glass of water into his hand, he didn't so much think of sex as he thought she might try to kick his ass. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and he finally got it.

"Boxing," he said.

"What about it?"

"You're a boxer." He tilted his head to the side. "Tony's gym?"

She snorted. "Like I want to work out with a bunch of testosterone-pumped muscle heads. Lee's. He specializes in kick-boxing anyway"

"Any good?"

She glanced at her watch. "Tell you what. If you don't have your questions asked in the next fifteen minutes, you can find out."

"You this testy with all cops, or I'm just special?"

She regarded him stony-eyed. He sighed and decided to get on with it. Russell Granger's deep love for law enforcement had apparently been passed on to his daughter. Bobby set down the water, flipped open his notepad.

"So, I learned some things about what happened in the fall of '82." He glanced up expectantly, thinking to find a glimmer of interest in her eyes, a small softening of her stance. Nothing. "Turns out some guy-an unidentified subject, UNSUB, we call him in official police speak-took an interest in you. Started delivering little gifts to the house. Was caught trespassing after dark. Went so far as to try to break into your bedroom.

"The police were called by your father several times. Third time out, they discovered the subject had been hiding in the neighbor's attic across the street, where apparently he had been watching you. They found stacks of Polaroids, notes containing your daily schedule, that sort of thing. Any of this sound familiar?"

"No." She still sounded belligerent, but her arms were down, her expression less certain. "What'd the police do?"

"Nothing. Back in '82, stalking a seven-year-old girl wasn't a crime. Creepy, yes. Criminal, no."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Apparently, your father thought so as well, because within weeks of the final episode, your family disappeared. And weeks after that," his voice grew quieter, "Dori Petracelli was snatched from her grandparents' yard in Lawrence, never to be seen again. You're sure you didn't know?"

"I looked it up online," she said curtly. "Last night. I figured you wouldn't help me. Detectives answer their own questions, not other people's. So I looked it up for myself."