Lisa Gardner - Hide

Bobby made a face. "Still can't find a driver's license or a Social Security number. Have tried multiple databases, multiple spellings. Have tried Leslie Ann Granger, Annabelle's mother. I got zero, zip, nada."

"In other words, Russell Granger is an alias."

"Your guess is as good as mine. I managed to reach a personnel director with MIT right before we left town. According to her, there's no record of a Russell Granger in the HR files. She's working on tracking down the former head of mathematics in the eighties to verify. Hopefully, I can talk to him the minute we're back in town."

"What about life on the road?" D.D. quizzed. "Every time Annabelle and family got the hell out of Dodge, there must have been a reason. Have you tracked the cities, checked with local law enforcement?"

Bobby gave her a look. "Sure, boss, those are exactly the type of calls I can make in my free time. You know, between two and four a.m."

"Hey, if this job is getting too tough for you-"

"Oh, shut up, D.D."

She smiled at him. Not too many people felt like they could tell D.D. to shut up these days. He supposed it was part of his charm.

Now, however, her expression returned to being serious. "Bobby, what was the alias Annabelle's father was using in Boston again?"

He looked at her in bewilderment. "Russell Granger. I thought that was the whole point of this conversation."

"Not in 1982, Bobby. Later, when he and Annabelle returned to Boston. If she became Tanya Nelson, then he became…"

"Mr. Nelson?" Bobby quipped. He flipped through his spiral notepad. First time they'd questioned Annabelle at BPD headquarters, she'd provided a rough overview of cities, aliases, and dates. He found the page in his notes, skimmed through, repeated the process two more times. "I don't… I don't have Boston listed. Annabelle didn't discuss their return."

D.D. arched a brow. "Interesting omission, don't you think?"

"There are a lot of cities and akas," he countered, holding up the page for her inspection. "Come on, we just figured out we'd overlooked that information ourselves."

D.D. continued to appear skeptical. "Get the Boston alias, Detective. Run it. Maybe Russell Granger stayed off the radar screen in the early eighties, but when he returned for his second time around…"

"Yeah, okay. Sometime, someplace, someone knew this guy."

"Exactly. One last thing-don't tell Annabelle."

"I haven't."

"I don't want to overplay our cards. If Russell Granger is the key to all of this, our only link to him is Annabelle. Meaning, we're going to need her cooperation if we're going to get anywhere." D.D. paused. "And we need to talk to Catherine again."

"You mean, I gotta talk to Catherine again," he amended. "Nothing personal, but as you mentioned, clock's ticking here, and it would take you and her half a day just to work out your aggressions. We have"-he glanced at his watch-"approximately two hours, which means I win Catherine, while you get to babysit Annabelle." He glanced around her room. "Maybe you can put her to work cleaning."

"Very funny"

"Promise me you're going to shower."

"Funnier still."

"Put on clean clothes?"

He was rising out of his chair. She smacked his arm. It hurt like hell, so he knew she was feeling better.

"Meet you at the airport," he called over his shoulder. "I can hardly wait."

IT TOOK BOBBY ten minutes to grab his luggage, square away his room, and hail a cab. The sun was just coming up, tingeing the sky an unnatural shade of pink, streaked with smoky purple. Traffic would hardly be a problem.

He doubted Catherine would be up at this hour. Which might work to his advantage, or might not. He wondered if she still had nightmares, and if so, were her dreams haunted by Richard Umbrio? Or her dead husband?

It took two tries before a voice answered the box outside the elaborate front gates. The taxi driver's eyes widened as he entered the estate, but he didn't say a word.

"Can you wait for me?" Bobby asked the driver, flashing his badge.

If anything, he made the hunch-shouldered Hispanic man more nervous.

"It's okay, you can leave the meter running," Bobby assured him. "Moment this meeting is done, I gotta hustle to the airport. Be good to have a cab already waiting."

The driver reluctantly agreed and Bobby nodded in satisfaction. He wanted the cab visible from the house. A subtle reminder that Bobby was just passing through.

The housekeeper opened the door. She registered no surprise at his appearance. Simply told him the senora would be with him shortly. Would he like something to drink?

Bobby declined, then followed her to the atrium, where she showed him to a small patio table beautifully inset with a peacock mosaic and bearing a silver coffee service.

He took a seat, poured himself a cup of coffee, and tried not to glance at his watch. He wondered how long Catherine would make him wait. Anticipation or punishment? With her, it was always hard to know.

The answer was fifteen minutes.

When she finally did appear, she wore a royal blue satin robe, belted at the waist. The long, sinuous fabric moved with her as she walked toward him, the rich color setting off her glossy black hair. A smile toyed with the corners of her mouth. He recognized her look instantly.

First time Bobby had met Catherine after the shooting, it had been at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. She'd been standing in front of a Whistler painting, Lapis Lazuli , which featured a nude woman lounging against a rich sea of blue oriental fabric. Catherine had remarked on the sensual lines of the painting, the erotic nature of the pose.

She had picked that painting to befuddle him then, just as she had picked this robe to befuddle him now.

And even knowing better, he could feel his stomach tighten in response.

She drew toward him, pausing in front of the table. She didn't take a seat.

"Miss me, Detective?"

"Heard the coffee was good."

Her smile broadened. "Still playing hard to get."

"And still as astute as always," he acknowledged. "How's Nathan this morning?"

A shadow flickered across her eyes. "Rough night. I don't think he'll be going to school today"

"Nightmares?"

"It happens. He's seeing a good therapist now. Plus, he has his dog. Who knew Richard's own puppy could make such a difference? But the dog calms him, often better than I can. I think he's making progress."

"And you?"

She gave him a playful look. "I'm much too old to tell a complete stranger how I really feel." She finally pulled out a chair, gracefully taking a seat. He poured her a cup of coffee in paper-thin china. She accepted it wordlessly.

For a few minutes, both of them sipped their coffee and let the silence be enough.

"You're here about Annabelle," Catherine said at last. "Because I recognized her father."

"Came as a bit of a shock," he acknowledged. "Can you tell me about it?"

"What's there to tell? I was in the hospital. He came to my room. Asked me some questions."

"Did he give you a name?"

"No, just said he was a special agent, FBI."

Bobby arched a brow, but she put down her coffee cup, dead serious now.

"I only remember him because he kept arguing with me. I was in the hospital, happy to finally have everyone gone, not asking me all sorts of ridiculous questions. How do you feel, Catherine? What do you need? Can we get you anything ? Really, I was starving, dehydrated, and raped out of my fucking mind. What I needed was for everyone to leave me alone.

"And then this man walked in, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Not a big man, but quite handsome. He flashed his badge and announced, 'Special Agent, FBI.' Just like that. With authority I remember feeling impressed. His tone was firm, strict. Like what you would expect from an FBI agent."