by Lisa Gardner
D.D. rolled her eyes. The rest of the detectives managed a few chuckles.
“Seriously, folks,” D.D. resumed speaking. “Christie is trying. We’re all trying. She believes she needs one more week. So we can sit on our hands and whine, or, here’s a thought, conduct some good old-fashioned police work.”
She returned her attention to McGahagin. “You said you had a list of twenty-six missing females from Massachusetts? Twenty-six seems like a lot to me.”
“As Tony said, it’s a shitty world.”
“You graph ’em? Do we have, say, a cluster of activity around certain dates?”
“Seventy-nine to eighty-two was not a good time to be a young female in Boston.”
“How bad?”
“Nine cases in four years, all unsolved.”
“Age parameters?”
“Zero to eighteen.”
D.D. considered him. “And if you narrow the age range to, say, between five years old and fifteen?”
“Drops it to seven.”
“Names?”
He did the honors, including Dori Petracelli.
“Locations?”
“All over. Southie, Lawrence, Salem, Waltham, Woburn, Marlborough, Peabody. If we make the assumption same subject was responsible for six of the seven cases…”
“By all means, let’s assume away.”
“You’re talking someone with a vehicle, for one,” McGahagin considered. “Someone who knows his way around the state, is comfortable blending in in a lot of different places. Maybe a utility worker, a repair person. Someone smart. Organized. Ritualized in his approach.”
“Time line fits Eola,” Sinkus commented. “Released in ’78, doesn’t have anything better to do…”
“Except,” D.D. murmured, “incidents wind down in ’82. Eola wouldn’t have any reason to stop. Eola could theoretically go on forever. Which, frankly, would be true of any perpetrator. Predators don’t magically just wake up one day and repent. Something happened. Other events, influences, must have interceded. Which brings us to”—her gaze shifted, found Bobby—“Russell Granger.”
Bobby sighed, tilted back his chair. He’d been so busy since returning to HQ he hadn’t had time to piss, let alone prepare notes. He had all eyes on him now, the city guys sizing up the state game. He did the best he could off the top of his head.
“According to police reports, Russell Granger first reported a Peeping Tom at his Arlington home in August of 1982. This set in motion a chain of events that culminated with Russell packing up his family and disappearing two months later, ostensibly to protect his seven-year-old daughter, Annabelle. So at first blush, we have a targeted victim—Annabelle Granger—and her poor, beleaguered father. Except…”
“Except,” D.D. agreed.
Bobby held up a finger. “One,” he said briskly, “Catherine Gagnon, who was abducted in 1980, recognized a photo of Russell Granger. Except Gagnon knew him as an FBI agent who interviewed her twice in the hospital after her rescue. That would be November of 1980, almost two years before the Peeping Tom report Russell Granger would file in Arlington.”
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?”
I quickly wiped coffee grounds from my shirt, shoved my way through the heavy glass doors, and made a beeline for Bella. She stood, tongue lolling out, ready to go.
She was a little shocked when instead of going for a run, I simply walked her to the other end of Quincy Market, where I hoped Mr. Petracelli was still waiting for me.
I didn’t see him at first, trying to sort through the small crowd that had gathered outside Ned Devine’s. The rain had stopped, meaning the barflies had returned. I had just started to panic, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around. Bella barked madly.
Mr. Petracelli backed way off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, hands up, nervous eyes on my dog.
I forced myself to take a deep breath, to calm Bella now that so many people were staring. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Bella doesn’t like strangers.”
Mr. Petracelli nodded skeptically, his eyes never leaving Bella, as she finally settled down, pressing against my leg.
Mr. Petracelli was dressed for the weather. A long tan trench coat, black umbrella at his side, dark brown fedora capping his head. He reminded me of someone from a spy movie, and I wondered if that’s how he viewed our meeting, some kind of clandestine operation, carried out between professionals.
I didn’t feel very professional at the moment. Mostly, I was grateful for the presence of my dog.
It was Mr. Petracelli’s meeting, so I waited for him to speak first.
He cleared his throat. Once, twice, three times. “Sorry about, um, yesterday,” he said. “I just…When Lana said you were coming over…I wasn’t ready yet.” He paused, then, when I still didn’t say anything, expanded in a rush: “Lana has her Foundation, her cause. For me, it’s not like that. I don’t like to think about those days much. It’s easier to pretend we never lived on Oak Street. Arlington, Dori, our neighbors…it’s almost like a dream. Something very far away. Maybe, if I’m lucky, it only happened in my mind.”
“I’m sorry,” I offered lamely, mostly because I didn’t know what else to say. We had moved around to the other side now, away from the bar crowd, to the other corner of the broad, granite-columned building. Mr. Petracelli still hung back, keeping a wary eye on Bella. I preferred it that way.
“Lana said you gave Dori the locket,” he declared suddenly. “Is it true? Did you give her one of your…presents? Did that pervert who left them for you kill my daughter?” His voice had risen. I saw something move in the shadows of his eyes then. A light that wasn’t quite sane.
“Mr. Petracelli—”
“I told the Lawrence detectives there had to be a connection. I mean, first some Peeping Tom looks in our neighbor’s window, then our seven-year-old daughter goes missing. Two different cities, they said. Two different MOs. Mind your own business is what they meant. Let us do our jobs, crazy kook.”
He was working himself into a state.
“I tried to call your father, thought if he could at least speak to the police, he could convince them. But I didn’t have a phone number. How do you like that? Five years of friendship. Cookouts, New Year’s Eve parties, watching our daughters grow up side by side, and one day your family takes off without so much as a by-your-leave.
“I hated your father for leaving. But maybe it’s just plain old jealousy. Because he left and he saved his little girl. While I did nothing and I lost mine.”
His shrill voice broke off, his bitterness undisguised. I still didn’t know what to say.
“I miss Dori,” I finally ventured.
“Miss her?” he parroted, and that ugly thing flickered in his eyes again. “I haven’t heard from your family in twenty-five years. Pretty funny way to miss someone if you ask me.”
More silence. I shifted uncomfortably from side to side. I felt that he had something important to say, the real reason he had dragged himself out on such a dark and rainy night, but he didn’t know yet how to put it in words.
“I want you to go to the police,” he stated finally, peering up from beneath the brim of his hat. “If you tell them your story, especially about the locket, they’ll take a fresh interest in the case. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, you know. And if they find some new leads…” His voice wobbled. He stiffened, soldiered on.
“I got a heart condition, Annabelle. Quadruple bypass, shunts. Hell, I’m more plastic parts than flesh and blood these days. It’s gonna get me in the end. My father didn’t live much past fifty-five. My brother neither. I don’t mind dying. Some days, frankly, it sounds like a relief. But when I die…I want to be buried next to my daughter. I want to know she’s by my side. I want to know she finally came home. She was only seven. My little girl. God, I miss her so much.”
And then he started crying, giant, heaving sobs that made strangers stop in bewilderment. I put my arms around his shoulders. He grabbed on to me so hard, he almost pulled me to the ground. But I braced myself against his weight, felt the waves of his rough, violent grief.
Bella whined, prancing nervously, pawing at my leg. All I could do was wait.
Eventually he straightened, wiping at his face, tightening the belt o
f his coat, adjusting the brim of his hat. He wouldn’t look at me anymore. I didn’t expect him to.
“I’ll go to the police,” I promised him, an easy pledge, since I’d already done so. “You never know. Forensic science is getting better all the time; maybe they’ve already made an important discovery.”
“Well, there is that pit over in Mattapan,” he mumbled. “Six bodies. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky.” His face spasmed. “Lucky! Do you hear me? Christ, this is no way to live.”
I didn’t comment. I sneaked a quick glance at my watch. I’d been gone twenty minutes. I was probably as good as fired anyway. What were a few minutes more?
“Mr. Petracelli, did you ever see the Peeping Tom?”
He shook his head.
“But you believed the man existed, right? That someone was living in Mrs. Watts’s attic, keeping tabs on me?”
He regarded me strangely. “Well, I don’t think Mrs. Watts and your father would make up something like that. Besides, the police found the man’s camping supplies in Mrs. Watts’s home. That seems real enough to me.”
“So you never got a look at the guy? Saw him for yourself?”
He shook his head. “Nah, but two days after the discovery of the stuff in Mrs. Watts’s attic, we had a neighborhood meeting. Your father circulated a description of the Peeping Tom, along with a list of ‘presents’ you had received and when they had arrived. He told us there wasn’t much the police could do; until something criminal actually happened, their hands were tied. Of course, we were all infuriated, especially those of us with kids. We voted to establish a Neighborhood Watch program. We’d just had our first meeting, in fact, when your dad announced that your family was taking a little vacation. None of us realized we’d never see you again.”
“Do you happen to have those handouts? The description of the Peeping Tom my father circulated? I mean, I know it’s been a long time, but…”
