Lisa Gardner - Hide

"What did he do, Catherine?"

She shrugged. "He asked questions. Police questions. What did I remember about the vehicle-color, make, model, plates, interior? Please describe the man who was driving. Height, weight, coloring, age, ethnicity. What did he say, what did he do? Where did he take me, how did we get there, and on and on and on. Then he showed me a sketch."

"A sketch?"

"Yes, a pencil drawing. Black and white. Nicely detailed, like what I imagined a police artist would do. I was hopeful, because no one had made an attempt to identify my attacker yet. But the drawing wasn't of Richard."

Bobby blinked a few times. "The sketch wasn't Richard Umbrio?"

"No, the man pictured was smaller, more refined around the jawline. When I told Mr. Special Agent that, he didn't take it so well."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he started arguing with me. Maybe I didn't remember quite right, it was dark, I was underground. Honestly, the agent started to piss me off. But then the door opened, a nurse appeared, and he left."

"Mr. Special Agent left, just like that?"

"Yes. Closed up his notebook, exited stage right."

"Did the nurse say anything?"

"Not that I remember."

Bobby frowned, trying to put these pieces together. "Did Mr. Special Agent provide a name, contact information, a business card?"

"No."

"Did you mention his appearance to anyone else? The police, your parents?"

Catherine shook her head. "Everyone was asking me questions. What was one more suit in the room?"

"But he came a second time?"

"The day I was going to be discharged. A nurse was in the room this time, taking my blood pressure. The door opened, he appeared. He looked the same as before. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Maybe the same suit, now that I think about it.

"This time, he flashed his credentials toward the nurse and said we needed a minute alone. She hustled out. He came over to my bed, got out his notebook. He went over all the questions again. His voice was gentler this time, but I liked him less. Everyone was asking me everything and telling me nothing. Then, of course, he produced the sketch again."

"Same sketch?"

"Exact same sketch. Except this time, as I watched, he altered it. Thickened the hair, added shadowing to the cheeks. 'What about now,' he'd ask. I'd shake my head and he'd tinker with another element."

"Wait a minute," Bobby interrupted. "You're telling me the original sketch was something he'd done himself? Not an official police sketch?"

"I'd originally assumed it was a police artist's rendering, but to watch Mr. Special Agent go to town, I guess not. His revisions blended into the first picture perfectly Who knew FBI agents had such skills?" Catherine shrugged.

"So as you watched, he altered the drawing."

"Sure, but it didn't change anything. The man in the sketch was not Richard, and no amount of tinkering with hairstyles was going to change that. Which I told Mr. Special Agent. He didn't take it so well. Insisted I was wrong. Maybe the person in the sketch had gained weight, wore a wig."

Catherine curled one corner of her mouth with disdain. "Really, I was twelve. What the hell did I know of disguises? Mr. Special Agent had asked me a question, I gave him my answer. The minute he started arguing with me, he pissed me off."

"So what happened?" Bobby prodded.

"I told him to leave."

"Did he?"

Catherine hesitated, picking up her coffee cup, holding it in front of her lips. "For a moment… For a moment, I wasn't sure he would. And I remember, just for an instant, starting to feel uneasy. But then the orderly showed up and Mr. Special Agent bolted from the room. As the saying goes, good-bye and good riddance." Catherine blew the steam off her coffee and finally took a sip.

"Did you see him again?"

"No."

"Ever mention his visits to anyone?"

"A few weeks later, when the police finally showed me a photo array. I spotted Richard's photo immediately, tapped on it, and said, 'At last you people are listening to me.' The police didn't seem to know what I was talking about. But that didn't surprise me. Even a twelve-year-old can realize that law enforcement types don't play well with one another."

Bobby grunted at that. "What about anyone else from the FBI? Ever get interviewed by any other FBI agents?"

"Nope."

"And that didn't strike you as odd?"

Another shrug. "Why? I wasn't lacking for officers taking an interest in my case. Every goddamn man in uniform wanted to hear all the sordid details. Is it interesting for you guys? Do you get a secret thrill? Stay alone in the office, whacking off while reading your notes from the rape interviews?"

Bobby didn't respond. Catherine had a reason for her rage. Nothing he could do about it all these years later. Not much she could do about it either.

After a moment, Catherine's gaze relented. She went back to sipping her coffee.

"Was he an imposter?" she asked abruptly.

"Annabelle's father?"

"Is that why you're here now? Because he lied?"

"That's what I'd like to figure out."

"He took her away. That should mean something. When his daughter was threatened, he kept her safe. Sounds like more than a mathematician to me."

"Could be."

Bobby didn't fool her for a minute. "If he wasn't actually with the FBI, why come to my hospital room, why ask me so many damn questions?" she exploded. "Why keep showing me the drawing?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know, or you won't tell me?" She sounded bitter, then sighed, and seemed simply depressed.

"You have a beautiful house," he said at last. "Arizona seems to suit you."

"Ah, money"

"I'm happy to hear things are going well with Nathan."

"He is the love of my life," she said fiercely, and Bobby believed her. He knew better than anyone just how far she'd been willing to go to protect her child. It was the reason their relationship would always be only business.

"Thank you for the coffee," he said.

"Leaving so soon?" Her smile was wistful, but he could tell she wasn't surprised.

"Taxi's waiting."

He thought she'd fight him a little, at least protest. Instead, she rose from the table without a murmur, walking with him to the front door. He was tempted to feel insulted, but it wouldn't be fair to either of them.

At the last minute, in the foyer, broad walnut doors looming, she touched his arm, shocking him with the feel of her fingertips grazing his bare skin. "Are you going to help her?"

"Annabelle?" he asked in confusion. "That's my job."

"She's beautiful," Catherine whispered.

He didn't say anything.

"I mean that, Bobby, she's really beautiful. When she smiles, it reaches her eyes. When she talks about fabric, of all things, she gets giddy I wonder…"

Catherine stopped talking. They both knew what she meant. She wondered what her life might have been like if a blue Chevy had not turned down the street, if a young man had not asked her to help find a lost dog, if a twelve-year-old girl had not gotten lost in an endlessly dark pit.

Bobby took her hand, pressed her fingers with his own.

"You're beautiful to me," he told her softly.

He kissed her once, on the cheek. Then he was gone.

ANNABELLE WAS AT the airport. She sat four chairs down from D.D., eyes staring out the window at the activity on the tarmac, arms around her knees. She glanced up briefly when Bobby appeared, then returned to her intent study of anyone who wasn't a detective investigating her case. He took that as a hint, and let her be.

D.D. acknowledged him with a wave. Her blonde curls were damp, her clothes fresh. He took that as a good sign while she talked animatedly on her cell phone, unleashing such a long torrent of profanity that a mother traveling with a small child got up and pointedly moved away.