by Lisa Gardner
“I … I don’t know. I don’t remember a before.”
“It’s something to ask the neighbors,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose.”
He had straightened again, seemed to be pulling himself together. “I can’t promise you where this will go,” he said abruptly. “Six bodies are six bodies. We have an obligation to ask every question, to pursue every lead. Already this case has a life of its own.”
“I know.”
“Maybe, for the near term, you should keep a low profile.”
I had to smile, but it came out lopsided. “Bobby, I live under an assumed name. I have no friends, never speak to my neighbors, and belong to no social organizations. The closest thing I’ve got to a long-term relationship is the UPS man. Frankly, if I fall much lower on the social ladder, I’ll be an amoeba.”
“I don’t like you working at night,” Bobby continued as if I hadn’t spoken. His eyes narrowed, he looked from me to Bella then back to me. “Or running after dark.”
I shook my head. The worst of the shock was wearing off, my defenses shoring up. “I’m a grown woman, Bobby. I’m not hiding anymore.”
“Annabelle—”
“I understand you gotta do your job, Bobby. You might as well understand that I’m going to do mine.”
Clearly, he was not happy. But to give him credit, he stopped arguing. Bella seemed to sense the lowering tension. She wandered over to Bobby and shamelessly pressed her nose into the palm of his hand.
“I gotta go,” Bobby said, but he still wasn’t moving.
“Task-force meeting about the note.”
He refused to take the bait, so finally I followed his lead and let it go. “I need to get ready for work as well,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as tired as I felt.
“Annabelle …”
“Bobby.”
“I can’t. You and me. There are ethics involved. I can’t.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
He suddenly scowled. “I know, and it’s pissing me off.”
I smiled, and this time it was softer, honest, a genuine step forward for me. I crossed to him. Placed my hand on his cheek. Felt the rasp of his five o’clock shadow, the strong line of his jaw. We stood just inches apart, so that I could sense the heat of his body, but nothing more.
He felt like promise, and for one moment, I let myself believe that such things were possible. That I did have a future. That the woman Annabelle Granger had grown up to be had a chance at happiness in her life.
“Do you like barbecues?” I whispered.
I could feel his lips curve against the palm of my hand. “Been known to flip a few burgers in my day.”
“Ever dream of white picket fences, two-point-two kids, perhaps an incredibly hyper white dog?”
“My dreams generally include a finished basement, pool table, and plasma-screen TV.”
“Fair enough.” I pulled my hand away, sighing over the loss of contact, the cool reality that settled in the space between us. “You never know,” I said lightly.
“You never know,” he acknowledged.
He exited down the stairs. Bella took it the hardest, whimpering pathetically as I locked the door behind him.
My phone rang. I picked it up.
And a male voice whispered, “Annabelle.”
Bobby wove his way through Boston traffic, grill lights flashing as he worked his way south to Roxbury. He had spent longer than he’d intended in Annabelle’s apartment. Done more than he’d intended in Annabelle’s apartment. Hell, came damn close to behaving like a total ass in Annabelle’s apartment.
But he was back in his car, in control, and reacquainting himself with cold, hard reality. He was a detective. He was working a major case. And things were sliding from bad to worse.
Someone knew about the locket. According to the note, that person would meet only with Sergeant D.D. Warren, who was supposed to bring the necklace to the deserted grounds of Boston State Mental at 3:33 a.m. tonight.
Failure to comply would result in immediate repercussions. Another young girl would die.
Bobby’s reaction to the note had been instinctive and informed by nearly a decade of tactical team training: clusterfuck.
Someone was playing with them. But that did not mean the consequences of disobeying wouldn’t be real.
He hit Ruggles Street driving with one hand, working his cell phone with the other. He had a call back from MIT with the contact info for one Paul Schuepp, former head of mathematics. Another call from a rental agency that had handled Annabelle’s former home on Oak Street. More people to call here, more leads to chase there. He did the best he could in the ten minutes he had before reaching HQ.
Dusk had descended, the low ceiling of gray clouds making the hour seem later than it was. Commuters trudged along either side of the street, hidden beneath umbrellas or shrouded in dark raincoats. Living so close to police headquarters had made them oblivious to sirens, and not a single person bothered to look up as he passed.
Finally, up ahead, lights blazing; the glass-and-steel monstrosity of police headquarters firing to life for another long night. Bobby punched End on his cell phone and prepared to get serious: Parking in Roxbury was no laughing matter. At first pass, the street-side spaces were filled. Bobby still didn’t turn into Central Parking—and not just because the police parking lot was a notorious spot for getting mugged. Like most of the detectives, he wanted to be properly positioned for a quick getaway should something unexpected occur. That meant parking as close to the building as possible.
Third time was the charm. A fellow officer pulled out, and Bobby ducked into the vacated space.
He already had his ID in hand as he trotted for the building. Six-oh-seven p.m. D.D. probably had the rest of the team in place by now, discussing strategy for the 3:33 a.m. rendezvous. Should they bring the original locket? Risk reprisals by producing a substitute?
They would attempt the handoff. Bobby had no doubt about that. It was too good an opportunity to flush their quarry into the open. Plus, D.D. didn’t have enough sense to be afraid.
Bobby cruised through security, swiped his ID through the reader, and hit the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. He needed the exercise. It allowed him to work off the worst of his adrenaline and the buzz he was still feeling from kissing a woman he never should’ve kissed.
Don’t go there. Have a mission. Stay on task.
He’d just cleared the stairwell door, was debating sprinting down the long corridor toward the Homicide unit in a mad dash against himself, when the door directly across from him opened up and D.D. stuck her head out.
He jumped self-consciously. “The task-force meeting’s in there?” he asked in confusion, trying to figure out why they had moved.
D.D., however, was shaking her head. “Team’s meeting in thirty minutes. Eola’s parents just arrived. Join the party. Don’t say a word.”
Bobby’s brows shot up. He joined the party. He didn’t say a word.
Bobby had never been in this central conference room before. Much nicer digs than the glorified walk-in closets the Homicide suite had to offer. One glance, and Bobby understood the upscale room choice. The Eolas hadn’t just brought themselves, but their people, and their people’s people, to judge from the crowd.
It took him five minutes to sort it out. Across from him to his left sat a gentleman, age anywhere between eighty and a hundred, in a dark gray suit, with a sparse, horseshoe head of hair, parchment-thin skin, and a hooked patrician’s nose—Christopher Eola’s father, Christopher Senior. To his right sat a frail, liver-spotted female in navy-blue Chanel and golf-ball-size pearls. Christopher Eola’s mother, Pauline.
Next to her, another older gentleman in an expensive double-breasted suit, this time with thicker hair and a softer middle, the proverbial fat cat, otherwise known as the Eolas’ lawyer, John J. Barron. To his left, a younger, thinner copycat, the up-and-coming partner, Robert Anderson. Then the token female
attorney, complete with her no-nonsense Brooks Brothers suit, sharply pulled-back hair, and angular wire-rim glasses, going by the name Helene Niaru. She sat next to the last female in the row, a young, strikingly beautiful woman who took copious notes and was never referred to by any name at all, the secretary.
Lot of billable hours, Bobby thought, for a son the Eolas supposedly hadn’t heard from in decades.
“I want the record to show how much I resent this meeting,” Eola Sr. was stating now, his voice shaky with age, but still containing the uncompromising note of someone accustomed to having his orders obeyed instantly. “I find it premature, not to mention highly irresponsible, to be pointing fingers at my son.”
“No one is pointing anything at anyone,” Detective Sinkus soothed. The Eolas had been his assignment, so he was running the show. “I assure you, this is a routine inquiry. Given the discovery in Mattapan, we’re naturally trying to learn as much as we can about all of the patients who resided at the Boston State Mental Hospital, including, but not limited to,” he added dryly, “your son.”
Eola Sr. quirked a thin gray eyebrow, still suspicious. His hunch-shouldered wife sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. Apparently, just thinking about her son had brought her to tears.
Bobby wondered where their daughter was, the one with whom Christopher had allegedly had an “inappropriate” relationship. Thirty years later, she was a middle-aged adult. Didn’t she have an opinion in all this?
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Naturally, my clients intend to cooperate. We’re here after all. Of course, the events of thirty years ago remain highly sensitive for everyone involved. I trust you will take that into consideration.”
“I will use only my nice voice,” Sinkus assured him. “Shall we?”
Grudging nods from the assembled suits. Sinkus started the recorder. They got to it.
“For the record, sir, can you please verify that Christopher Walker Eola is your son, born April sixteen, 1954, with the following Social Security number.” Sinkus rattled off the number. Eola Sr. grunted his grudging consent.
“And Christopher Walker Eola resided with you and your wife in your residence on Tremont Street during April of ’74?”
Another grumbled yes.
“Also in residence was your daughter, Natalie Jane Eola?”
At the mention of the daughter, hackles rose, nervous glances were exchanged.
“Yes,” said Eola Sr. finally, biting off the word and spitting it out.
Sinkus made a note. “Other people in the residence? Relatives, housekeepers, guests?”
Eola Sr. turned to his wife, who was apparently in charge of staff. Pauline stopped dabbing at her eyes long enough to dredge up four names—the cook, the housekeeper, Pauline’s personal secretary, and a full-time driver. Her words were whispery and hard to catch. Her chin rested close to her chest, as if her body had caved in on itself. Advanced osteoporosis, Bobby guessed. Not even big money could stave off age.
Sinkus moved the tape recorder closer to Mrs. Eola. Preliminaries established, he got down to business.
“It is our understanding that in 1974, you, Mr. Christopher Eola, and your wife, Mrs. Pauline Eola, admitted your son, Christopher Junior, to the Boston State Mental Hospital.”
“Correct,” Eola Sr. granted.
“Exact date, please?”
“April nineteen, 1974.”
Sinkus looked up. “Three days after Christopher’s twentieth birthday?”
“We had had a small party,” Mrs. Eola spoke up suddenly. “Nothing fancy. A few close friends. The cook made duck à l’orange, Christopher’s favorite. Afterwards, we had trifle. Christopher loved trifle.” Her voice sounded wistful and Bobby pegged her as the weak link. Mr. Eola was resentful—of the police, the interview, the unwanted memory of his son. But Mrs. Eola was mournful. If the stories were true, had she been forced to incarcerate one child to protect another? And even if you thought your child was a monster, did you still miss him, or at least the idea of who he could’ve been?
Sinkus turned ever so slightly in Mrs. Eola’s direction, bringing her more fully into the open line of his body, the encouraging contact of his gaze. “It sounds like a very nice party, Mrs. Eola.”
“Oh yes. Christopher had only been back home a few months from his travels. We wanted to do something special, both to mark his birthday and his homecoming. I invited his friends from school, many of our associates. It was a lovely evening.”
“His travels, Mrs. Eola?”
“Oh well, he went abroad, of course. He’d taken time off after high school to see the world, sow a few wild oats. Boys. You can’t expect them to settle down too quickly. They need to experience a few things first.” She smiled weakly, as if she realized how frivolous it sounded now. She picked up more briskly. “But he had returned around Christmas to start working on his college applications. Christopher had an interest in theater. But he didn’t think he was quite that talented. He thought maybe he’d pursue a degree in psychology instead.”
“After spending over a year on the road? Can you be more precise, Mrs. Eola? What countries did he visit, for how long?”
Mrs. Eola waved her hand in a fluttery, birdlike motion. “Oh, Europe. The usual sort of places. France, London, Vienna, Italy. He had an interest in Asia, but we didn’t feel it was safe back then. You know”—she leaned forward to confide—“given the war and all.”
Ah yes, the Vietnam conflict, which Christopher had conveniently managed to dodge. Conscientious objector, Daddy’s money, his college aspirations? The possibilities were endless.
“Did he travel alone? Or with friends?” Sinkus asked now.
“Oh, a little of both.” Another vague flutter of the hand.
Sinkus changed strategy. “Do you have any notes from that time? Maybe postcards Christopher sent you, even a line or two you might have entered in your diary—”
“Objection—” Barron started.
“Not asking for the diary,” Sinkus clarified hurriedly. “Just want to get a more detailed picture of Christopher’s global adventures. Dates, locations, people. When you get a chance.”
Meaning it could provide a list of places where Christopher might have gone to hide after leaving Bridgewater in ’78. Why hide out in a seedy hotel in the U.S. if you could run to Paris instead?
Mr. Eola grunted his consent. Sinkus moved on.
“So Christopher finished high school, did some traveling, then returned home to work on his college applications—”
“Target universities?” Bobby spoke up. He got a warning glance from Sinkus, but ignored the look. He had his reasons.
“Oh, the usual.” Once again, Mrs. Eola was vague. “Harvard, Yale, Princeton. He wanted to stay on the East Coast, not go too far from home. Though, come to think of it, he also applied at MIT. Funny choice, that one. MIT for fine arts? Well, one never knew with Christopher.”
Sinkus resumed the reins of the interview: “Was it nice to have him back?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Eola gushed. Eola Sr. shot her a look. She clammed up.
“Look,” Eola Sr. said impatiently. “I know what you’re trying to ask. Why don’t we just cut to the chase? We committed our son. We personally drove our only boy to a mental hospital. What kind of parents do such a thing?”
“All right, Mr. Eola. What kind of parents do such a thing?”
Eola Sr. had his chin up, his skin looking as if it had been stretched too thin over his skeletal face. “This account cannot leave this room.”
For the first time, Sinkus faltered. “Now, Mr. Eola—”
“I mean it. Turn the recorder off right now, young man, or I won’t say another word.”
Sinkus darted a look at D.D. Slowly, she nodded. “Turn it off. Let’s hear what Mr. Eola has to say.”
Sinkus reached forward, snapped off the recorder. As if on cue, the legal secretary set down her pen and folded her hands in her lap.
“You have to understand,” Mr. Eola started. “
It wasn’t entirely his fault. That girl, the Belgian. She ruined him. If we had understood the situation sooner, been quicker to act …”
“What situation, sir? How did you fail to act?” Sinkus’s voice stayed patient, respectful. Eola was going to give them what they wanted. All in due time.
“An au pair. We hired her when Christopher was nine and Natalie three. We’d had a wonderful woman up until that point, but she left to start a family of her own. We returned to the same agency, and they recommended Gabrielle to us. Given our previous experience, we didn’t think twice. Surely one well-trained au pair was as good as another.
“Gabrielle was younger than we had expected. Twenty-one, fresh out of school. She was a different personality—more festive, more … giggly.” He made a face. Clearly, giggly was not a compliment. “Sometimes, I thought she was too informal with the children. But she was energetic, had a sense of adventure the children seemed to appreciate. Christopher, in particular, was smitten with her.
“When Christopher turned twelve, there was an incident at his school. He was slightly built for his age, more sensitively inclined. Some of the boys started to … take exception. They singled Christopher out. Started picking on him. One day, things went a little too far. Blows were exchanged. Christopher didn’t come out on the winning side.”
Eola Sr.’s lips twisted in distaste. Bobby couldn’t decide if the man was appalled by the thought of violence or that his son had been incapable of dealing with it.
Mrs. Eola was back to dabbing her eyes.
“Naturally,” Eola Sr. picked up briskly, “the appropriate actions were taken and the offending parties punished. But Christopher … He grew withdrawn. Had problems sleeping. Became … secretive. Around this time, I happened to catch Gabrielle leaving Christopher’s room in the early morning hours. When I asked, she said she heard him crying and had gone to check on him. I confess, I didn’t pursue the matter.
“It was the housekeeper who finally spoke to my wife. According to the housekeeper, the bedding in Gabrielle’s room went undisturbed for long periods of time. Whereas the sheets in Christopher’s room now required frequent changing. The linens were often stained. You can fill in the rest.”
