Lisa Gardner - Hide

D.D. remained wide-eyed. "Huh?"

Bobby sighed, tried to fold his arms behind his head, and promptly whacked his elbow on the window well. He remembered why he hated the tiny confines of airplane seating, and he wasn't even that large a man.

"Catherine implied that Granger's main focus was on who attacked her," Bobby thought out loud. "He wanted a physical description, voice intonations, any distinguishing marks. Then he showed her the sketch. Now, this could've been a cover. Lull her defenses by pretending to have a suspect, when really he was mining her for all the nitty-gritty details of how she was abducted and what Umbrio had done. If that was his strategy, it worked, because she never caught on to anything."

"He gets her focused on one aspect of the interview," D.D. filled in, "the sketch, when, in fact, ninety percent of his questions have been about her assault. An interview version of sleight of hand."

Bobby smiled. "Gotta give the guy some credit. The strategy sounds like something we would do."

"Great, just what we needed, a smart psychopathic son of a bitch." D.D. rubbed her temples. Sighed. Rubbed her temples again. "Any chance Catherine is making this all up? I mean, she's supplying a great deal of detail for a random FBI agent she only met twice twenty-seven years ago."

"True," Bobby conceded. "I think Mr. Special Agent made a strong impression on her, however. That he brought a sketch of a suspect, then became so adamant that the man in the drawing had to be the person who'd abducted her, even after she told him no. His response was unexpected, thus memorable. Besides, why would she yank our chains?"

"Got you back to her house, didn't it? Plus, it gives her a stake in an ongoing investigation. She has reason to call you, and an excuse to torment me. That sounds like her style."

Bobby shrugged. All good possibilities, except… "I think she honestly likes Annabelle."

"Oh please! Catherine doesn't have friends. Lovers, maybe, but not friends."

"I'm a friend," he countered.

D.D.'s raised eyebrow let him know what she thought of that. The disagreement was old and intractable; he returned to matters at hand.

"I think she was telling the truth. The realization that the man she remembered as a pushy FBI agent was actually Annabelle's father seemed to shock and confuse her. Yesterday afternoon, she'd been convinced there wasn't any connection between her case and Annabelle's. This morning, on the other hand…"

They both fell silent, considering and reconsidering.

Bobby spoke up at last. "We have two possibilities. One, Granger was playing Catherine. Set her up just so he could learn details about her abduction without anyone being the wiser. Or two, Granger honestly had a suspect in mind. He produced a sketch of the man he had reason to believe was her rapist."

D.D. went along: "Say he had a suspect in mind-why not call the police with the name?"

"Dunno."

"Also, this is 1980, right? Two years before Granger's daughter allegedly starts receiving gifts. So why was Granger so obsessed with criminal activity?"

"Concerned citizen?"

"Who thought the best way of serving justice was to masquerade as the FBI? Please. Honest people don't disguise themselves as police officers."

"Honest people generally have records with the DMV, and Social Security numbers," Bobby pointed out.

"Meaning…"

"Russell Granger's not very honest."

"And could very well have been researching criminal activity to inspire his own set of crimes. Sinkus is chasing Eola," D.D. declared crisply "I want you in charge of Granger. Hunt down the neighbors, locate this former head of mathematics at MIT. Let's see what kind of life Annabelle's father led in Arlington. Then get serious about their life on the run. You have cities, you have dates. I want to know-did Annabelle's family run because of something Russell Granger feared or because of something Russell Granger did . You get me?"

Bobby nodded. "We should follow up with Walpole," he said. "Catherine's convictions aside, we need to check Umbrio's prisoner file for records of previous correspondence, the visitors' log, that sort of thing. Make sure he continued to be the antisocial fuckup she knew so well."

"Agreed."

"I… uh, I'm pretty busy covering the Granger angle… "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll sic someone else on it."

"Okeydokey" Bobby said.

"Okeydokey," D.D. agreed.

Satisfied, she zipped up her files, snuggled deeper into her seat.

"Good night, Bobby," she murmured. Thirty seconds later, she was out cold.

Bobby glanced across the aisle to where Annabelle still slept, seat reclined, long dark hair obscuring her face. Then he glanced back to D.D., whose head was already lolling against his shoulder.

Complicated case, he thought, and tried to get some rest.

WE FOUND THE note on D.D.'s car on the third floor of the parking garage at Logan Airport, positioned under the right windshield wiper.

None of us had spoken since we'd disembarked from the plane, trudging through the terminal, the yawning pedestrian skywalk, the labyrinth of walled-off construction sidewalks that tunneled through Central Parking. Outside, it was cold and raining. The weather matched our moods. I was preoccupied with thoughts of my father, questions about my past, and-oh yes-the need to pick up Bella from the vet's, which was always complicated when using public transportation. D.D. and Bobby were no doubt thinking high-level police thoughts, such as who had once kidnapped and murdered six girls, had the subject done such a thing before, and-oh yes-how could they blame my dead father for this entire mess?

Then we saw the note. Plain white paper. Thick black ink. Handwritten scrawl.

D.D. moved immediately to block my view The first two lines, however, were already seared into my brain.

Return the locket or

Another girl dies.

There was more text. Smaller letters, lots of words following the opening threat. I couldn't read them, however. Details, would be my guess. How exactly the police should return the locket. Or how exactly another girl would die. Maybe both.

"Shit," D.D. said. "My car. How did he know…?"

She conducted a quick twirl of the vast cement space. Looking for the messenger? I saw her gaze dart to the corners and realized she was checking for security cameras, trying to see how lucky they might get. I glanced around for security cameras myself. They weren't that lucky.

Bobby was already leaning over the front hood of the car, scrutinizing the sheet of paper, careful to touch nothing.

"Gotta treat it as a crime scene," he said in a clipped, tight voice.

"No shit."

"We've been away, what? Thirty, thirty-one hours? Pretty big window for delivery."

"I know," D.D. singsonged, her tone as curt as his.

She shot me a glance over her shoulder, her expression all pissy again.

"Hey, can't blame my father for this one," I said.

She glowered. "Annabelle, now would be a good time to catch a cab."

"Perfect. Wonder how many reporters I can find along the way? I'm sure they'd love to hear about this."

"You wouldn't dare-"

"Gonna return the locket?"

"One, this is police business. Two, this is police business-"

"Who wrote it? Did he sign a name? Mention me? I want to read the note."

"Annabelle, catch a cab!"

"Can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because this is my life!"

D.D. thinned her lips. She pointedly returned to the note, still untouched on the windshield of her car. She wasn't going to let me see it. She wasn't going to share. Law enforcement was a system. One that didn't care about a person like me.

Moment stretched into moment. D.D. read. Bobby studied her face, his own look impenetrable. They were in the zone. I was outside, looking in.