Lisa Gardner - Hide

We drained our coffee cups, just to be polite. Mr. Petracelli seemed reluctant for us to depart, shaking our hands again and again.

When we finally made it out to the car, Mr. Petracelli stood on the front porch, waving, waving, waving.

My last glance of him was as we drove down the street. He became a small, hunch-shouldered old man, face too red, smile too bright, still waving determinedly at the police detective he firmly believed would finally bring his daughter home.

YOU FAXED THE sketch to Catherine Gagnon," I said the moment we hit the highway. "Why?"

"Your father showed Catherine a sketch when she was in the hospital," he said abruptly.

"He did?"

"I want to see if it's the same drawing."

"But that's not possible! Catherine was in the hospital in '80, and that sketch wasn't done until two years later."

"How do you know?"

"Because the stalker dude didn't start delivering gifts until August of 1982. And you can't have a sketch of the stalker dude without any stalker."

"There's only one problem with that."

"There is?"

"According to the police reports, no one ever saw the face of the 'stalker dude.' Not your father or mother, not Mrs. Watts, and not any of your neighbors. In theory, therefore, stalker dude could not have served as the basis for that drawing."

Well, that was a stumper. I stewed on it, telling myself there was a logical explanation, while realizing I was using that line a lot lately. My father had known something in 1980, I decided. Something serious enough to drive him to masquerade as an FBI agent and visit Catherine with a sketch in hand. But what?

I tried searching my memory banks. I'd been only five in 1980. Living in Arlington and…

I couldn't get anything to come to mind. Not even the memory of a comic-strip-wrapped gift. I was certain those started arriving two years later, when I was seven.

The silence was finally broken by the chirping of the cell phone clipped to Bobby's waist. He retrieved it, exchanged a few terse words, slid a look at me sideways. He flipped it shut, seemed about to speak, then the phone rang again.

This time, his voice was different. Polite, professional. The voice of a detective addressing a stranger. He seemed to be trying to work out a meeting, and it wasn't going his way

"When do you leave for the conference? I'll be honest, sir, I need to meet with you as soon as possible. It involves one of your former professors. Russell Granger-"

Even I could hear the sudden squawk on the other end of the line. And then, that quickly, Bobby was nodding.

"Where do you live again? Lexington. As a matter of fact, I happen to be right around the corner."

He glanced at me. I answered with a shrug, grateful that I didn't have to elaborate. Obviously, Bobby was trying to set up an interview with my father's former boss and obviously it needed to happen now.

I didn't mind. Of course, there was no way in hell I was waiting in the car.

TIME TO TAKE Bella for a walk," Bobby announced as he drove through a winding side street just north of the Minuteman Statue in Lexington Center. Paul Schuepp had given his house number as 58. Bobby spotted 26, then 32, so he was moving in the right direction. "Looks like a nice area to stretch your legs."

Annabelle took it about as well as he expected. "Ha ha ha. Very funny."

"I mean it. This is an official police investigation."

"Then you'd better start deputizing me, because I'm going in." House number 48… There, the white colonial with the red brick facade. "You know, it's not exactly the Wild Wild West anymore."

"Have you read the latest accounts of shootings in the city? Could've fooled me."

Bobby pulled into the driveway. He had a decision to make. Spend ten minutes of the thirty Schuepp had agreed to spare arguing with Annabelle, or let her tag along and receive another lecture on proper policing techniques from D.D. He was still annoyed from his last conversation with the sergeant, which, frankly, didn't work in D.D.'s favor.

Bobby popped his door and didn't say a word as Annabelle followed suit.

"Detective Sinkus tracked down Charlie Marvin," he filled her in as they headed for the front door. "Marvin spent the night at the Pine Street Inn, from midnight to eight a.m. Nine homeless and three staff members vouched for him. So whoever came to your building with that gift, it wasn't him."

Annabelle merely grunted. No doubt Charlie Marvin made a good suspect in her mind. On the one hand, he was an urban cross between a priest and Santa Claus. On the other hand, he wasn't her father.

Bobby would like to say he didn't believe Annabelle's father had returned from the dead either. Except he was growing more and more puzzled by the hour. Mr. Petracelli had been a poignant lesson in the power of obsession. Bobby would have an officer follow up on Mr. Petracelli's whereabouts late last night, though, in all honesty, delivering comic-strip-wrapped presents was probably a shade too subtle for someone who was obviously mad as a hatter.

The sketch was the key, Bobby decided. Who had Russell Granger known, and why had he felt threatened nearly two years before filing that first police report?

It had become clear to Bobby within the first five minutes of meeting Walter Petracelli that Annabelle's former neighbor didn't hold the key to those answers. Perhaps Bobby would get luckier with Russell's former boss, whom Bobby had first buzzed at seven this morning from outside Annabelle's apartment. Seemed lately all he did was work his cell phone. Yet, still the demands on his time had D.D. operating behind his back. Reaching out to the ME in a thinly veiled attempt to bolster her own theory of the case… just thinking about it pissed him off all over again.

Bobby found the brass knocker, strategically located in the middle of a giant wreath of red berries. Three knocks and half a dozen berry droppings later, the door swung open.

Bobby's first impression of Paul Schuepp: about two inches taller than Yoda and two years younger than dirt. The small, wizened former head of MIT's mathematics department had sparse gray hair, an age-spotted scalp, and rheumy blue eyes that peered out from beneath bushy white eyebrows. Schuepp's face was sinking down with the years, revealing red-rimmed eyelids, shaky jowls, and extra folds of skin flapping around his neck.

Schuepp stuck out a gnarled hand, catching Bobby's arm in an unexpectedly firm grip. "Come in, come in. Good to see you, Detective. And this is…?"

Schuepp suddenly stopped, droopy eyes widening. "I'll be damned. If you're not the spitting image of your mother. Annabelle, isn't it? All grown up. I'll be damned. Please, please, come in. Now, this is an honor. I'm going to fetch us some coffee. Oh hell, it's gotta be noon somewhere. I'm fetching us some scotch!"

Schuepp set off at a brisk shuffle, heading through the arched foyer into the formal living room. There, another arched doorway led into the dining room, where a right-hand turn took him into the kitchen.

Bobby and Annabelle followed the man through his house, Bobby taking in the heavy floral furniture, the delicate crocheted doilies, the eucalyptus swags gracing the tops of floor-length mauve drapes. He was hoping there was a Mrs. Schuepp somewhere, because life was too scary if Mr. Schuepp had done the decorating.

The kitchen was country-style, with oak cabinets and a massive oval walnut table. A lazy Susan in the middle of the table boasted sugar, salt, and a small pharmacy of drugs. Schuepp fiddled with the coffeemaker, then moved on to the pantry, where after much clinking of glass, he withdrew a bottle of Chivas Regal.

"Coffee's probably gonna taste like crap," he announced. "The missus passed away last year. Now, she could brew a cup of coffee. Personally," he added, dropping the Chivas in the middle of the table, "I recommend the scotch."