Lisa Gardner - Hide

"You think your father was crazy?"

"You think sane people uproot their families every year and give them new identities?"

He could see her point. He just wasn't sure where that left them. "You're positive you don't have any pictures from your childhood lying around? Photo album, pictures of your old house, neighbors, schoolmates? That would help."

"We left it all in the house. I don't know what happened to it after that."

Bobby frowned, had a thought, made a note. "What about relatives? Grandparents, aunts or uncles? Someone who would have their own copies of your family photos, be happy to hear you're back?"

She shook her head, still not meeting his eyes. "No relatives; that's one of the reasons it was so easy to move away. My father was an orphan, a product of the Milton Hershey School in Pennsylvania. Credited their program, actually, for giving him his academic start. And as for my mother, her parents died shortly after I was born. Car accident, something like that. My mother didn't talk about them much. I think she still missed them.

"You know," she said abruptly, head coming up. "There is someone who would have photos, though. Mrs. Petracelli. Dori and I lived on the same block, went to the same school, attended the same neighborhood barbecues. She might even have photos of my family I never thought of that. She might have a photo of my mother."

"Good, good idea."

Her voice grew hesitant. "Have… have you told them?"

"Who?"

"The Petracellis. Have you notified them about having found Dori? It's horrible news, and yet in the perverse way these things work, I imagine they'll be grateful."

"Yeah," he murmured quietly "In the perverse way these things work… But no, we haven't told them yet. We'll wait until we have evidence to support the ID. Or, more likely, we'll end up approaching them for a DNA sample to use for matching." He contemplated her for a moment, then made a quick judgment call, one D.D. could hang him for later. "You want the inside track? The remains are mummified. Something the news reports haven't managed to learn yet. Given that, it's going to take a bit before we have more information on any of the bodies."

"I want to see it."

"What?"

"The grave. Where you found Dori. I want to go there."

"Oh no," he stated immediately "Crime scenes are for professionals only. We don't do public tours. Lawyers, judges, D.D ., frown on that sort of thing."

She worked that tilt of her chin again. "I'm not just a member of the public, I'm a potential witness."

"Who, by her own admission, never saw anything."

"Maybe I just don't remember. Going to the site might trigger something."

"Annabelle, you don't want to visit a crime scene. Do your friend a favor: Remember her as your happy seven-year-old playmate. That's the best thing you can do." He closed his notebook, tucked it inside his jacket, then finished his water before placing the empty glass in the sink.

"There is one thing," he said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

"What?"

"Well, I don't really know. I mean, Dori Petracelli went missing in '82; everyone's sure about the date. What's so puzzling, however, is that her kidnapping bears a resemblance to another case from 1980. A man named Richard Umbrio kidnapped a twelve-year-old girl and, get this, kept her in a pit. Probably would've killed her, too, except hunters stumbled upon the opening and set her free."

"She lived? She's still alive?" Annabelle's voice perked up.

He nodded, tucking his hands in his pants pockets. "Catherine testified against Umbrio, sent him to prison. That's what's so odd, you see-Umbrio was incarcerated by January of '82 and yet…"

"The cases seem related," she filled in for him.

"Exactly" He looked her up and down. "You're sure you've never met Catherine?"

"I don't think so."

"For the record, she doesn't think she's met you either. And yet…"

"What does she look like?"

"Oh, about your height. Dark hair, dark eyes. Actually, not so dissimilar, come to think of it."

She blinked uncomfortably at that news. He decided it was now or never.

"Say, what would you think of meeting her in person? Face-to-face. Maybe, if we got the two of you in the same room… I don't know, it might shake something loose."

He knew the moment she figured out he'd been playing her, because her body went perfectly still. Her face shut down, her eyes becoming hooded. He waited for an outburst, more swearing, possibly even physical violence. Instead, she just stood there, untouchable in her silence.

"You don't have to like a system," she murmured. "You just have to understand it. Then you can always survive." Her dark brown eyes flickered up, held his. "Where does Catherine live?"

"Arizona."

"Are we going there or is she coming here?"

"For several reasons, it would be best if we go there."

"When?"

"How about tomorrow?"

"Good. That will give us plenty of time."

"For?"

"For you to escort me to the crime scene. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Isn't that how the saying goes, Detective?"

She had him, fair and square. He nodded once, admitting his defeat. It still didn't soften the rigid set of her shoulders, the stubborn tilt of her chin. He realized, belatedly, that his deceit had hurt her. That for a moment there, they had been conversing almost like real people, possibly she had even liked him.

He thought he should say something; couldn't think of what. Policing often involved lying, and there was no sense in apologizing for something he'd do again if he needed to.

He headed for the door. Bella had risen from her dog bed. She licked his hand while Annabelle unlocked the fortress. Door opened. Annabelle gazed at him expectantly

"Are you afraid?" he asked abruptly, gesturing to the locks.

"Chance favors the prepared mind," she murmured.

"That doesn't answer my question."

She was quiet for a moment. "Sometimes."

"You live in the city. Locks are smart."

She studied him a moment longer. "Why do you keep asking why my family fled so many times?"

"I think you know."

"Because perpetrators don't magically stop. An UNSUB doesn't spend years stalking and abducting six girls, then suddenly decide one day to get a new hobby You think my father knew something. You think he had a reason to keep us on the run."

"Locks are smart," he said again.

She simply smiled, stoic this time, and for some reason that made him sad. "What time?" she asked.

He considered his watch, the phone call to D.D. he was gonna have to make, the temper tantrum he was about to endure. "Pick you up at two."

She nodded.

He exited, starting back down the stairs, as up above the bolt locks once again fired home.

I'D NEVER RIDDEN in a police car before. I didn't really know what to expect. Hard plastic seats? The stench of vomit and urine? Like my experience with the Boston police station, reality was a letdown. The dark blue Crown Vic looked like any other four-door sedan. Inside was just as prosaic. Plain blue cloth seats. Navy blue carpet. The dash had a two-way radio and a few extra toggle switches, but that was it.

The vehicle appeared recently cleaned-floor freshly vacuumed, air scented by Febreze. A small consideration for me? I didn't know if I was supposed to say "Thank you" or not.

I belted myself in the passenger's seat. I was nervous, hands shaking. It took me three times to work the metal clasp. Detective Dodge didn't try to help or make any comment. I appreciated that more than the car's freshened hygiene.

I'd spent the time since the detective's departure trying to complete an elaborate window valance for a client in Back Bay. Mostly, however, I'd held the watered silk fabric beneath the needle of my sewing machine, foot off the pedal, eyes glued to the TV. Coverage of the Mattapan case was easy to find, every major news station giving it round-the-clock attention. Few, unfortunately, had anything new to say.