Lisa Gardner - Hide

Bobby hit Starbucks. His stomach couldn't stand the thought of more coffee. He purchased three bottles of water, plus yogurt, then returned to the fold. D.D., still on the phone, wrinkled her nose at the yogurt-she'd probably been hoping for a bear claw-but gestured for him to leave the snack on her seat. He then crossed to Annabelle, who, if anything, curled up tighter in her chair.

He held out the treats. She accepted them grudgingly, so he took the seat next to her, digging out two white plastic spoons from the bag.

"How are you feeling?"

She made a face.

"Need more aspirin?"

"Need a new head."

"Yeah, I've been there."

"Oh, shut up," she told him, but she leaned a little closer, going to work on the foil lid of the yogurt. The pendant she always wore dangled down. He eyed the vial until she finally looked up, flushing as she noticed the direction of his gaze. Her fingers folded around the glass self-consciously, tucking it back inside her shirt.

"Whose?" he asked quietly, having finally figured out that the contents resembled ash.

"My mother's and father's," she mumbled, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

So of course he pursued the subject. "What did you do with the rest of their remains?"

"Scattered them. No point in burying them under fake names. Seems too disrespectful to the other dead people."

"What was your mother's name when she died, Annabelle?"

She regarded him uncertainly. "Why?"

"Because I bet of all her names over all those years, there are two you remember. The one from Arlington, and the one from the day she died."

Slowly, Annabelle nodded. "My mother lived as Leslie Ann Granger, but died Stella L. Carter. I remember those names. Always."

"And your father?"

"Lived as Russell Walt Granger. Died Michael W. Nelson."

"I like the pendant," he said quietly.

"It's morbid."

"It's sentimental."

She sighed. "Good cop today, Detective? That must mean D.D.'s really going to work me over on the flight."

He grinned. "You know we're all on the same team here, Annabelle. We're all just trying to find out the truth. I would think you of all people would like to know the truth."

"Don't patronize me, Bobby. For you, this is an analytical exercise. For me, it's my life."

"What are you so afraid of, Annabelle?"

"Everything," she replied flatly. She took her yogurt, twisted away, and resumed her study of the planes.

FATHER'S LAST KNOWN alias was Michael W. Nelson," Bobby reported three minutes later, upon returning to D.D.'s side.

D.D. peered around him to Annabelle, who was looking away from them both, oblivious to the conversation.

"Excellent work, Detective."

"Got a gift," Bobby said, and pretended he didn't feel like a total heel.

THIER FLIGHT HIT cruising altitude. Across the aisle, Annabelle reclined her seat, fell asleep. While sitting next to Bobby, D.D. turned to him with bright eyes.

"We found Christopher Eola," she said excitedly "Or rather, we've confirmed that he's lost. Get this, Bridgewater released him in '78."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, some Einstein never actually filed the charges against Eola for leading a patient revolt while in Boston State Mental. So while his patient records contained notes on the alleged 'incidents,' and the local PD listed him as a 'person of interest' in a young woman's murder, technically speaking, he had no criminal record. Bridgewater got overcrowded and guess who they offered the door?"

"Ahhh God."

"According to his patient file, he was a regular choirboy at Bridgewater, so they never thought to follow up with his former institute. In fact, Bridgewater is quite proud of Eola. Considers him to be a real success story."

Bobby laughed, only because it was that or hit something. Misfiled paperwork, incompetent bureaucracies. The public held the police accountable for the rising crime rate. Little did they know, they should go after the pencil pushers in the world. "All right," he said, pulling it together. "So in '78, Eola rejoins the land of the living. Then what?"

"He disappears."

"Seriously?"

"Never checks into the halfway house, never applies for his benefits, never keeps his follow-up appointment. One day he exists, the next he's gone."

"Flew the coop, or disappeared into the black hole of the homeless shelters?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I'm thinking, given his reported level of intelligence, that he assimilated into society under an assumed identity. Think about it-he came from a life of privilege. What rich kid is going to settle for hanging out on the streets? Plus, even in the homeless circuit, people get known. They attend the same soup kitchens, sleep at the same shelters, hang out at the same street corner day after day. Sooner or later, someone like Charlie Marvin, someone who works with both the mentally ill and the homeless, would be bound to recognize him. No one really disappears anymore, not even in the mean streets of Boston."

"Yes and no. Last I heard, officials listed the city's homeless at six thousand. Given that even a large shelter such as the Pine Street Inn serves only about seven hundred, there's a lot of people whose faces aren't being seen."

"Yeah, but you're talking about someone who's managed to fly under the radar for almost thirty years. That's a long time to be invisible. Which also raises the possibility that Eola's simply dead." D.D. pursed her lips, mulled it over. "We'd never be so lucky. The true sickos always live forever. Have you noticed that, or is it just me?"

"I've noticed that, too." Bobby frowned. "Has Sinkus managed to locate Eola's family?"

"Paid them a visit yesterday afternoon-at their Back Bay residence," she added meaningfully "They wouldn't even let him in the door, that's how excited they were to hear about long-lost Christopher."

"Have you ever noticed that the richest families are always the most fucked up, or is that just me?"

"I've noticed that, too. See, there are some advantages of our pitiful wages; we'll never be rich enough for our families to be that fucked up."

"Exactly"

"Wonder of wonders, the Eolas have already lawyered up. They're not answering questions about their son without a subpoena in hand and their lawyer in the room. So Sinkus is pushing the paperwork through now. I'll bet you a buck, he'll have the fine folks, and their overpaid suit, in our offices this afternoon. Couple cups of burnt coffee and they should start talking, if only to preserve their taste buds."

She paused. "I'm guessing they don't know where Eola is. Sinkus said it was clear they had nothing but distaste for their son. I'd like to learn a lot more about the incident that got him sent to Boston State Mental, though. Would be good to develop a more robust profile on Mr. Eola, see how his childhood MO matches up with other things we know."

D.D. nodded to herself, already flipping through her stack of files, cheeks flushed, energy crackling. Nothing like two viable suspects to make the sergeant as giddy as a schoolgirl.

"So," she asked briskly "how'd it go with Catherine?"

Bobby recapped the highlights: "Catherine claims to have spoken with Russell Granger twice. He introduced himself as Special Agent, FBI-no name-and his questions were consistent with what the other officers were asking her. Most interesting tidbit-he brought a pencil sketch of her alleged attacker."

"Really?" D.D.'s eyes widened.

"According to Catherine, the sketch didn't match Richard Umbrio. Granger's drawing showed a much smaller man. When she tried to tell Granger that, he argued with her. Maybe she didn't get a good enough look at her attacker. Or maybe, if the man in the sketch was wearing a disguise, had gained some weight, he would match her description. That sort of thing."