by Lisa Gardner
And knowing the whole story now, all I wanted to do was go back in time to tell him I was sorry, to give him a grateful hug, to tell him I finally understood. Then again, niceness was never what my father had wanted for me. We fought, constantly, incessantly, partly because my father had enjoyed a good battle. He’d raised a fighter. And he liked to test my skills.
Amy Marie Grayson. Amy Marie.
And just for a moment, I could almost hear it. My mother’s voice, crooning softly, “There’s my little angel…Good morning, Amy, bobamey, mamey.”
I was crying. I didn’t want to. But the enormity of it hit me all at once. My mother’s sacrifice. My father’s loss. And I was sobbing hard and ugly, only vaguely aware of Bobby’s hand upon my shoulder. Then the car was slowing down, pulling over. My seat belt retracted. He pulled me onto his lap, an awkward motion, given the hard intrusion of the steering wheel. But I didn’t care. I buried my face against his shoulder. Clung to him like a child. And sobbed because my parents had given everything to save my life and I’d been furious at them for doing so.
“Shhhh,” he was saying over and over again.
“Dori is dead because of me.”
“Shhhhhhh.”
“And my mother and father. And five other girls. And for what? What about me is so damn special? I can’t even hold down a job and my only friend is a dog.”
On cue, Bella whined anxiously from the backseat. I had forgotten about her. Now she bounded over the top of the seat to get to the front. I could feel her pawing at my leg. Bobby didn’t push her away. He just murmured more low words of comfort. I could feel the strength of his arms around me. The hard band of his muscles.
It made me a little crazy. That he could feel so real, so strong, when I felt as if everything in my life was disintegrating, torn into shreds and drifting away like confetti. And I was grateful at that moment that we were in a car, parked along a busy freeway, because if we’d been at my apartment, I would’ve stripped him naked. I would’ve removed every piece of his clothing, bit by bit, just so I could touch his skin, run my tongue along the ridges of his stomach, taste the salt of my own tears upon his chest, because I needed so badly to outrun my own thoughts, to feel only the intensity of one frantic moment, to feel alive.
Amy Marie Grayson. Amy. Marie. Grayson.
Oh Dori, I am so sorry. Oh Dori.
Bobby kissed me. Tilted up my chin, covered my lips with his own. And it was so gentle, so giving, that it made me cry all over again, until I took his hand and pressed it against my breast, hard, because I didn’t want to feel like glass and I didn’t want him viewing me as someone who would break.
Amy Marie Grayson. Whose uncle had destroyed her entire family.
And found her again last night.
I pulled away, hitting my elbow on the steering wheel. Bella whined again. I slid from Bobby’s lap, back onto the seat, and pulled Bella close.
Bobby didn’t try to stop me. Didn’t say a word. I could hear him breathing heavily.
I scrubbed at my cheeks. Bella helped with a few enthusiastic licks.
“I should get back to work,” I said brusquely.
Bobby regarded me strangely. “Doing what?”
“I have a project due. Back Bay. My client is going to wonder.”
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—”
“Already heard.”
“Naturally, he’ll be out for a few days.”
“ ’Course.”
“Meaning…”
“Hey, hard work is good for us. Builds character.”
“So,” she said.
“So Russell Granger’s real name is Roger Grayson. He, his wife—Lucille Grayson—and their newborn daughter, Amy Grayson, were stalked by Roger’s deranged brother, Tommy Grayson, while living in Philadelphia. Roger believed Tommy went so far as to murder Lucy’s parents one afternoon when they took Amy to the park. Shortly thereafter, Roger made arrangements to move his entire family to Arlington and live under the assumed name Granger. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to get fake ID, so all financial records remained under their original identities. According to Paul Schuepp, former head of mathematics at MIT, Roger became convinced in ’82 that Tommy had found them. That’s when he arranged for the family to run a second time, this time doing the job right.”
“Holy crap,” D.D. said.
“Got a friend running down Roger’s name, Lucille’s name, Tommy’s name, and a few others. Tommy has a criminal history, so it should be in the system. Million-dollar question is, once Tommy realized Annabelle’s family had slipped away from him, did he hang in Massachusetts or hit the road? Oh, and where is he now?”
D.D. rubbed her temples. “Our prime suspect is Tommy Grayson?”
“Yeah. Sorry to disappoint you, but I think Annabelle’s father is dead.”
“But the whole posing as an FBI agent—”
“Russell made the same connection we did—that Catherine looked remarkably like Annabelle. He worried the attack on Catherine was Tommy’s work. Given his desire to remain under the radar, he couldn’t go to the police, so he handled the matter himself.”
“But Tommy wasn’t Catherine’s attacker.”
“No, Catherine’s resemblance to Annabelle is pure coincidence. Umbrio’s methodology, however, probably inspired Tommy’s use of an underground chamber two years later. So the cases have a relationship, but a distant one.”
“And Christopher Eola?”
“Most likely a murderer, just not our murderer.”
“Charlie Marvin?”
“An honest-to-goodness retired minister who works at the Pine Street Inn. According to witnesses, he was there last night.”
“Adam Schmidt?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. You’d have to ask Sinkus.”
“He’s been looking for you,” D.D. supplied. “He spent the afternoon with Jill Cochran from Boston State Mental. You two need to catch up.”
Bobby stared at her. “That’s it? I nail down the real identity of Annabelle’s father, crack the case wide open, and you’re on my ass because I haven’t magically debriefed with my fellow detectives yet?”
“I’m not on your ass,” she retorted crankily. “But I am thinking all your brilliance has still left us with an obvious hole.”
“Which is?”
“Where the hell is Tommy Grayson right now, other than skulking around Annabelle’s apartment and leaving trained attack dogs in the woods?”
“Well, next time I’ll deliver the suspect on a silver platter.”
“Seems to me,” D.D. continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “that if the rest of the Grayson family adopted new identities, why not Tommy? And our best chance of penetrating this identity and finding the SOB sooner rather than later is to probe the other piece of the puzzle we know.”
“Other piece of the puzzle?”
“Boston State Mental.”
“Oh,” Bobby said rather stupidly. Then, in the next instant, as the light went on: “Okay. Yeah. All right. We’re back to our original theory—the killer must have had some kind of association with Boston State Mental to be comfortable burying six bodies on the grounds. Meaning, if our killer is Tommy Grayson—”
“Who according to you has a troubled background—”
“He’s a certifiable whacko.”
“Then Tommy Grayson probably has a history at Boston State Mental.”
“And,” Bobby managed to fill in the rest all by himself, “Sinkus has that information.”
“You’ll make it as a detective yet,” D.D. said dryly. “Anything else I need to know?”
“I’m working on finding a hotel for Annabelle.”
D.D. arched a brow.
“And I’m thinking, though perhaps I didn’t mention it to her, that as long as she’s tucked away at said hotel, we could staff her apartment with a decoy.”
D.D. pursed her
lips. “Expensive.”
Bobby shrugged. “Your problem, not mine. I don’t think the situation will drag on, though. Given the level of activity in the past twenty-four hours alone, seems to me that Tommy’s patience is just about used up.”
“I’ll float it by the deputy,” D.D. said.
“Okeydokey.”
Bobby turned to leave. D.D. stopped him one last time.
“Bobby,” she said quietly. “Not bad.”
WHEN I WAS twelve years old, I came down with an extremely aggressive viral infection. I remember complaining of feeling hot and nauseous. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital. Six days had passed. By the looks of it, my mother hadn’t slept for any of them.
I was weak and groggy, too exhausted to lift my hand, too confused to sort out the maze of lines and wires attached to my body. My mother had been sitting in a chair beside my hospital bed. When my eyes opened, however, she came flying out of it.
“Oh, thank God!”
“Mommy?” I hadn’t called her mommy in years.
“I’m here, love. Everything is okay. I’m with you.”
I remember closing my eyes again. The cool feel of her fingers brushing back my hair from my sweaty face. I dozed off gripping her other hand. And in that instant, I did feel safe and I did feel secure, because my mother was by my side, and when you are twelve years old you believe your parents can save you from anything.
TWO WEEKS LATER, my father announced we were leaving. Even I had seen this one coming. I’d spent an entire week in the hospital, poked and prodded by top medical experts. Anonymous people couldn’t afford that kind of attention.
I packed my lone suitcase on my own. It wasn’t hard. A few pairs of jeans, shirts, socks, underwear, my one nice dress. Had blankie, had Boomer. The rest I already knew how to leave behind.
My father had departed to take care of miscellaneous errands—settle up with the landlord, gas up the car, quit yet another job. He always left my mother to do the packing. Apparently, condensing your entire adult life into four suitcases was women’s work.
I had watched my mother perform this drill countless times. Generally, she hummed a mindless tune, moving on autopilot. Open drawer, fold, pack. Open new drawer, fold, pack. Open closet, fold, pack. Done.
