Lisa Gardner - Hide

Bobby stared at me. "Annabelle… Amy? Annabelle."

"Annabelle. I just… I'm used… Annabelle."

"Annabelle, you need to find a new apartment."

"Why?"

Arched brow. "Well, for starters, a crazy man knows you live there."

"Crazy man isn't exactly a spring chicken. And I'm not easy pickings."

"You're not thinking straight-"

"You are not my father!"

"Whoa, back up. Despite my, um, obvious personal interest"- he plucked at his trousers, which had tented nicely-"I'm still a state detective. We get training in these things. For example, when an obsessed stalker homes in on a target, bad things are bound to happen. This Tommy-or whatever he goes by these days-has obviously figured out you're alive and well in the North End. He's spent the past twenty-four hours breaking into a police officer's home, arranging an ambush with four attack dogs, and delivering a token of his affection to your front door. In other words, this is not someone you want to mess with. Give us a day or two. Stay in a hotel, keep your head down. There's a difference between playing safe and running scared."

"A hotel won't let me have Bella," I said stubbornly, and tightened my arms around my dog.

"Oh, for heaven's sake… There are dog-friendly establishments. Let me make some calls."

"I gotta work, you know. I can't pay my bills on charm alone."

"Then take your sewing machine."

"I'll also need fabric, my computer, trim pieces, designs-"

"I'll help you load up."

I scowled at him for no good reason, then pressed my head against Bella's fur. "I want it over," I confessed.

His look finally softened. "I know."

"I don't want to be Amy," I murmured. "Being Annabelle is hard enough."

Bobby drove me to my apartment. I got out of the car, just in time to hear a honk. I turned, Bella barked furiously.

Up the street lumbered a giant UPS truck, Ben, my aging knight, aboard his faithful brown steed. He slowed, eyeing me and Bella anxiously. I gave him the thumbs-up, and with a solemn nod he continued on.

"See," I told Bobby "I could, too, stay in my apartment. With an overnight delivery service on my side, who needs the state police?"

Bobby didn't seem amused.

He walked Bella and me upstairs. Someone, the techs, a detective, I don't know, had made some kind of attempt to restore things to their proper place. My apartment had a rumpled look but was otherwise okay.

"Give me an hour," Bobby said. "Two at the most. I need to follow up on a few inquiries, get a couple of things in order-"

"You need to find Tommy," I said. "And tell D.D. to stop suspecting my poor dead father."

Bobby narrowed his eyes at me but didn't push. "I'll give you a buzz when I'm on my way."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

"Pack for a week, just to be safe. I can always pick up something if you forget."

"Really? Like my favorite lacy black bra? A highly necessary hot pink thong?"

His eyes heated dangerously "Sweetheart, I'd be happy to rifle your underwear drawer. But bear in mind, it might be a uniformed officer who ends up taking the call."

"Oh." I shrugged. "Guess I can pack my own panties, then."

"Take what you need, Annabelle. We can fill the whole car if you'd like."

"Won't be necessary I happen to be an expert on traveling light."

My attempt at bravado didn't fool him for a moment. He crossed over, grabbed me before I could protest, kissed me hard.

"Two hours," he repeated. "Tops."

Then he was gone.

Bella cried like a baby at the door. I simply wondered how a grown woman could feel so vulnerable inside her own home.

BOBBY STARTED WORKING his cell phone the minute he hit his car. He had names, now he wanted information. He started with D.D. but got her voice mail. Ditto with Sinkus.

After a brief internal war, Bobby made his decision. Boston PD was maxed out and he needed information fast. Well, hell, he worked for the state, didn't he? He called in a favor with one of his old buddies and got the ball rolling.

He needed to know everything there was to know about A, Tommy Grayson; B, Roger Grayson; C, Lucille Grayson; and D, E, and F, almost as afterthoughts, Gregory Badington, Paul Schuepp, and Walter Petracelli. That'd keep the wheels churning for a bit.

If Schuepp's story was correct, the person stalking Annabelle was most likely her uncle, Tommy Grayson. And it made the most sense that the person who was stalking Annabelle was the same person who had murdered Dori Petracelli and buried her remains in Mattapan.

Which meant that Tommy Grayson had made it from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts.

Then what?

Tommy knew Annabelle's family had fled. If he'd followed them from Philly to Arlington, it made sense that he'd follow them again. Unlike Christopher Eola, Tommy wasn't independently wealthy. Which meant if he'd continued stalking Annabelle's family, then he'd faced basic logistical concerns. How to earn money for rent and transportation. How to find a new job in a new city every few years. Probably meant he'd done some form of menial employment.

Schuepp had mentioned Tommy working as a bouncer in Philly. That was the type of work easy to pick up on the fly. They needed to distribute Tommy's picture to the law enforcement agencies in each city, with recommendations to distribute it to local bars. Perhaps they could pinpoint Tommy's movements, establish a time line for his travels.

Except how did Tommy find Annabelle's family each time? According to Schuepp, Annabelle's father was smart: He'd learned quickly from his mistakes. Yet, as a general rule, the family moved every eighteen months to two years.

Proactive measures on the part of Annabelle's father? Minute word of a missing kid hit the news, he got spooked and packed up his whole family. Or was Tommy that brilliant?

Bobby wanted to know more about Tommy. And Annabelle's father.

Naturally, the good parking spaces at Boston PD were taken. Bobby looped around four times, finally got lucky as someone pulled out. He tucked in, still deeply lost in his own thoughts as he locked up the Crown Vic and headed inside the building.

First thing he noticed when he made it through the glass doors into Homicide was the silence. The receptionist, Gretchen, was staring blankly at her computer screen. A couple of other guys sat at their desks, moving around paperwork, looking subdued.

He tapped the counter in front of Gretchen. She finally looked up.

"What?" he asked softly.

"Tony Rock's mom," the receptionist whispered back.

"Ah jeez."

"He called in about thirty minutes ago. He didn't sound good at all. Sergeant Warren's been trying to reach him since, but he's not answering his phone."

"Ah no."

"Probably just needs some time."

"Sure. That stinks. When you find out about the memorial service…"

"I'll let everyone know," Gretchen promised.

Bobby nodded his thanks and headed straight for D.D.'s office. She was on the phone but held up one finger when she saw him. He leaned against the doorjamb, listening to one side of a conversation that mostly consisted of "Yes, mmmhmmm, that's right." Must be talking to the brass.

Bobby rested his shoulder against the wooden frame. All of sudden, he felt exhausted. The stakeout in the woods. D.D. pinned to the ground, being mauled by a giant Rottweiler. Realizing she was okay, calling Annabelle, only to hear her frightened voice over the phone. Another mad dash across town, wondering what he would find, worrying he would be too late.

Was this how Annabelle's father had felt, once upon a time? As if life was spinning out of his control? As if he could see the train coming but couldn't get off the tracks?

Christ, he needed a good night's sleep.

D.D. finally hung up the phone. "Sorry about that," she said curtly "Rock's-"