Lisa Gardner - Hide

Rock had appeared to be nodding off at the table. This information, however, brought his head snapping up. "Huh?"

"Our thoughts exactly. Two, during his visits with Catherine, Granger produced a composite sketch for her consideration. Catherine said the black-and-white didn't match her attacker. Granger tried to insist it did, got upset when she stayed firm, said it didn't. So, was the sketch an attempt on the part of Granger to distract Catherine, or did he honestly have a suspect in mind as her rapist? I have my opinion." He jerked his head toward D.D. "The sergeant has hers.

"Which brings us to three: There's no record of Russell Granger. No driver's license. No Social. Not for him, not for Annabelle's mother, Leslie Ann Granger. According to real estate records, the Grangers' home on Oak Street was owned by Gregory Badington of Philadelphia from '75 to '86. I'm guessing the Grangers rented the property, except Gregory passed away three years ago, and his wife, who sounded about one hundred and fifty on the phone, had no idea what I was talking about. So one dead end there.

"Yesterday, I started a routine check on financial records, got nowhere. Started a search for the Granger family furniture, ostensibly put into storage. Nada. It's as if the family itself never existed. Except, of course, for the police reports Granger filed."

"You think Russell Granger targeted his own daughter?" Rock said in confusion. "Made the whole thing up?"

Bobby shrugged. "Me, no. Sergeant Warren, on the other hand…"

"It would provide the perfect cover," D.D. said flatly "Maybe by '82, Russell thought police would start noticing the sudden uptick in missing females. By positioning himself as a victim, he figured he could avoid being viewed as a suspect. Plus, it sets up the perfect cover for his own departure come October. Think about it. Seven missing girls between 1979 and 1982, one of them a known acquaintance of Russell Granger's-his daughter's best friend-yet not a single detective tries to track him down and question him. Why? Because he's already established himself as a protective father. It's perfect."

Sinkus appeared crestfallen. It was clear he liked his man, Eola, for the crime, so the sudden rise of Russell Granger as a viable alternative came as a heartbreak.

"One minor detail," Bobby countered. "Russell Granger is dead. Which means regardless of what he was doing in the early eighties, he's not the one leaving a note on D.D.'s windshield."

"You sure about that?"

"You're not really suggesting-"

"Look at the facts, Detective," D.D. said. "So far, you can't prove Russell Granger existed. Therefore, how can you be so sure he's dead?"

"Oh, for crying out loud-"

"I mean it. Do you have a death certificate? Corroboration? No, you have the sole testimony of Russell Granger's daughter, who claims her father was accidentally killed by a taxi. No other supporting documents or details. Damn convenient, if you ask me."

"So Russell Granger is not only a serial killer, but his daughter is covering for him? Now who's devolved from fact into fiction?"

"I'm just saying, we can't jump to conclusions yet. Two things I want to know." D.D. regarded him stonily "One, when did Russell Granger first arrive in this state? Two, why did he keep running after leaving Arlington? Give me those answers, then we'll talk."

"One," Bobby said crisply, "just got word from MIT on the name of Russell's former boss. I hope to meet with Dr. Schuepp first thing in the morning, which should help fill in the background info on Russell Granger, including his Massachusetts time line. Two, I'm trying to research the dates and cities after the family left Arlington, but I've been too busy chasing after you to get anything else done."

D.D. smiled grimly "On that note"-she held up the stack of photocopies-"let's discuss the night's main event."

MY MYSTERY CALLER turned out to be Mr. Petracelli. He was no warmer by phone than he had been in person. He wanted to meet. He didn't want Mrs. Petracelli to know about it. Sooner would be better than later.

The sound of my real name over the phone lines had left me rattled. I didn't want him in my apartment. The fact that he was using the phone number I'd given to Mrs. Petracelli felt invasive enough.

We finally settled on meeting at Faneuil Hall, at the east end of Quincy Market, at eight p.m. Mr. Petracelli grumbled about having to drive into the city, find parking, but grudgingly agreed. I had my own issues-how to strategically plan my shift break to coincide with the proper time-but I thought it could be done.

Mr. Petracelli hung up and I stood alone in my apartment, clutching the phone to my chest and working on finding focus. I was due at work in seventeen minutes. I hadn't fed Bella, changed clothes, or unpacked.

When I finally moved, it was to set down the phone and hit Play on my answering machine. First message was a hang up. Second message the same. Third message was my current client, who, come to think of it, didn't like the valances after all; she'd just seen this great new window treatment at her friend Tiffany's house and maybe we could start over, or if that was too much of a problem for me, she could just give Tiffany's interior decorator a call. Ciao, ciao !

I scribbled a small note. Then I listened to three more hang ups.

Mr. Petracelli, reluctant to leave a message? Or someone else, desperate to get ahold of me? Suddenly, after years of isolation, I was a popular girl. Good news or bad? It made me nervous.

I chewed my thumbnail, looking outside at the dark, rainy gloom. Somebody wanted the locket back. Somebody had found Sergeant Warren's car. Was it only a matter of time, then, before that same someone found me?

"Bella," I declared suddenly, "how would you like to go to work with me?"

Bella liked the idea very much. She twirled half a dozen times, trotted to the door, and gazed at me expectantly. The news that I had to change clothes wasn't well received, but gave her a chance to eat dinner. While she scarfed kibble, I donned worn jeans, a basic white shirt, and black Dansko clogs, perfect for a long night on my feet. And, of course, I grabbed my handy-dandy Taser, a girl's best friend, and tucked it into my oversized shoulder bag.

Bella and I hustled out the door, pausing only as I tended to all the locks behind me. At street level I hesitated again, looking left, then right. At this hour, traffic was busy, people making the long haul home from work. Over at Atlantic Avenue, it was probably bumper-to-bumper, especially given the rain.

My little side street was quiet, however, just the glow of street-lamps bouncing off the slick, black pavement.

I gathered Bella's leash in my hand and we headed into the gloom.

WORKING AT A coffeehouse sucked. I spent most of my eight-hour shift trying not to chew out the overcaffeinated customers or my undercaffeinated boss. Tonight was no exception.

Eight o'clock came. Five people remained in a straggly line, wanting nonfat this, tall soy mocha latte that. I cranked out shots of espresso and worried about Bella, tied up just under cover outside the glass doors, and Mr. Petracelli, waiting at the other end of the food-vendor-jammed length of Quincy Market.

"Need a break," I reminded my manager.

"Got customers," he singsonged back.

Eight-fifteen. "Gotta pee."

"Learn to hold it."

Eight-twenty, a family of caffeine addicts swarmed in and my manager showed no sign of relenting. I'd had enough. I whipped off my apron, tossed it on the counter. "I'm going to the bathroom," I said. "If you don't like it, buy me another bladder."

I stormed off, leaving Carl with four wide-eyed customers, including a little girl who demanded loudly, "Is she going to have an accident ?"