by Lisa Gardner
“A sketch?”
“Yes, a pencil drawing. Black and white. Nicely detailed, like what I imagined a police artist would do. I was hopeful, because no one had made an attempt to identify my attacker yet. But the drawing wasn’t of Richard.”
Bobby blinked a few times. “The sketch wasn’t Richard Umbrio?”
“No, the man pictured was smaller, more refined around the jawline. When I told Mr. Special Agent that, he didn’t take it so well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he started arguing with me. Maybe I didn’t remember quite right, it was dark, I was underground. Honestly, the agent started to piss me off. But then the door opened, a nurse appeared, and he left.”
“Mr. Special Agent left, just like that?”
“Yes. Closed up his notebook, exited stage right.”
“Did the nurse say anything?”
“Not that I remember.”
Bobby frowned, trying to put these pieces together. “Did Mr. Special Agent provide a name, contact information, a business card?”
“No.”
“Did you mention his appearance to anyone else? The police, your parents?”
Catherine shook her head. “Everyone was asking me questions. What was one more suit in the room?”
“But he came a second time?”
“The day I was going to be discharged. A nurse was in the room this time, taking my blood pressure. The door opened, he appeared. He looked the same as before. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Maybe the same suit, now that I think about it.
“This time, he flashed his credentials toward the nurse and said we needed a minute alone. She hustled out. He came over to my bed, got out his notebook. He went over all the questions again. His voice was gentler this time, but I liked him less. Everyone was asking me everything and telling me nothing. Then, of course, he produced the sketch again.”
“Same sketch?”
“Exact same sketch. Except this time, as I watched, he altered it. Thickened the hair, added shadowing to the cheeks. ‘What about now,’ he’d ask. I’d shake my head and he’d tinker with another element.”
“Wait a minute,” Bobby interrupted. “You’re telling me the original sketch was something he’d done himself? Not an official police sketch?”
“I’d originally assumed it was a police artist’s rendering, but to watch Mr. Special Agent go to town, I guess not. His revisions blended into the first picture perfectly. Who knew FBI agents had such skills?” Catherine shrugged.
“So as you watched, he altered the drawing.”
“Sure, but it didn’t change anything. The man in the sketch was not Richard, and no amount of tinkering with hairstyles was going to change that. Which I told Mr. Special Agent. He didn’t take it so well. Insisted I was wrong. Maybe the person in the sketch had gained weight, wore a wig.”
Catherine curled one corner of her mouth with disdain. “Really, I was twelve. What the hell did I know of disguises? Mr. Special Agent had asked me a question, I gave him my answer. The minute he started arguing with me, he pissed me off.”
“So what happened?” Bobby prodded.
“I told him to leave.”
“Did he?”
Catherine hesitated, picking up her coffee cup, holding it in front of her lips. “For a moment … For a moment, I wasn’t sure he would. And I remember, just for an instant, starting to feel uneasy. But then the orderly showed up and Mr. Special Agent bolted from the room. As the saying goes, good-bye and good riddance.” Catherine blew the steam off her coffee and finally took a sip.
“Did you see him again?”
“No.”
“Ever mention his visits to anyone?”
“A few weeks later, when the police finally showed me a photo array. I spotted Richard’s photo immediately, tapped on it, and said, ‘At last you people are listening to me.’ The police didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. But that didn’t surprise me. Even a twelve-year-old can realize that law enforcement types don’t play well with one another.”
Bobby grunted at that. “What about anyone else from the FBI? Ever get interviewed by any other FBI agents?”
“Nope.”
“And that didn’t strike you as odd?”
Another shrug. “Why? I wasn’t lacking for officers taking an interest in my case. Every goddamn man in uniform wanted to hear all the sordid details. Is it interesting for you guys? Do you get a secret thrill? Stay alone in the office, whacking off while reading your notes from the rape interviews?”
Bobby didn’t respond. Catherine had a reason for her rage. Nothing he could do about it all these years later. Not much she could do about it either.
After a moment, Catherine’s gaze relented. She went back to sipping her coffee.
“Was he an imposter?” she asked abruptly.
“Annabelle’s father?”
“Is that why you’re here now? Because he lied?”
“That’s what I’d like to figure out.”
“He took her away. That should mean something. When his daughter was threatened, he kept her safe. Sounds like more than a mathematician to me.”
“Could be.”
Bobby didn’t fool her for a minute. “If he wasn’t actually with the FBI, why come to my hospital room, why ask me so many damn questions?” she exploded. “Why keep showing me the drawing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?” She sounded bitter, then sighed, and seemed simply depressed.
“You have a beautiful house,” he said at last. “Arizona seems to suit you.”
“Ah, money.”
“I’m happy to hear things are going well with Nathan.”
“He is the love of my life,” she said fiercely, and Bobby believed her. He knew better than anyone just how far she’d been willing to go to protect her child. It was the reason their relationship would always be only business.
“Thank you for the coffee,” he said.
“Leaving so soon?” Her smile was wistful, but he could tell she wasn’t surprised.
“Taxi’s waiting.”
He thought she’d fight him a little, at least protest. Instead, she rose from the table without a murmur, walking with him to the front door. He was tempted to feel insulted, but it wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
At the last minute, in the foyer, broad walnut doors looming, she touched his arm, shocking him with the feel of her fingertips grazing his bare skin. “Are you going to help her?”
“Annabelle?” he asked in confusion. “That’s my job.”
“She’s beautiful,” Catherine whispered.
He didn’t say anything.
“I mean that, Bobby, she’s really beautiful. When she smiles, it reaches her eyes. When she talks about fabric, of all things, she gets giddy. I wonder …”
Catherine stopped talking. They both knew what she meant. She wondered what her life might have been like if a blue Chevy had not turned down the street, if a young man had not asked her to help find a lost dog, if a twelve-year-old girl had not gotten lost in an endlessly dark pit.
Bobby took her hand, pressed her fingers with his own.
“You’re beautiful to me,” he told her softly.
He kissed her once, on the cheek. Then he was gone.
Annabelle was at the airport. She sat four chairs down from D.D., eyes staring out the window at the activity on the tarmac, arms around her knees. She glanced up briefly when Bobby appeared, then returned to her intent study of anyone who wasn’t a detective investigating her case. He took that as a hint, and let her be.
D.D. acknowledged him with a wave. Her blonde curls were damp, her clothes fresh. He took that as a good sign while she talked animatedly on her cell phone, unleashing such a long torrent of profanity that a mother traveling with a small child got up and pointedly moved away.
Bobby hit Starbucks. His stomach couldn’t stand the thought of more coffee. He purchased three bot
tles of water, plus yogurt, then returned to the fold. D.D., still on the phone, wrinkled her nose at the yogurt—she’d probably been hoping for a bear claw—but gestured for him to leave the snack on her seat. He then crossed to Annabelle, who, if anything, curled up tighter in her chair.
He held out the treats. She accepted them grudgingly, so he took the seat next to her, digging out two white plastic spoons from the bag.
“How are you feeling?”
She made a face.
“Need more aspirin?”
“Need a new head.”
“Yeah, I’ve been there.”
“Oh, shut up,” she told him, but she leaned a little closer, going to work on the foil lid of the yogurt. The pendant she always wore dangled down. He eyed the vial until she finally looked up, flushing as she noticed the direction of his gaze. Her fingers folded around the glass self-consciously, tucking it back inside her shirt.
“Whose?” he asked quietly, having finally figured out that the contents resembled ash.
“My mother’s and father’s,” she mumbled, clearly not wanting to talk about it.
So of course he pursued the subject. “What did you do with the rest of their remains?”
“Scattered them. No point in burying them under fake names. Seems too disrespectful to the other dead people.”
“What was your mother’s name when she died, Annabelle?”
She regarded him uncertainly. “Why?”
“Because I bet of all her names over all those years, there are two you remember. The one from Arlington, and the one from the day she died.”
Slowly, Annabelle nodded. “My mother lived as Leslie Ann Granger, but died Stella L. Carter. I remember those names. Always.”
“And your father?”
“Lived as Russell Walt Granger. Died Michael W. Nelson.”
“I like the pendant,” he said quietly.
“It’s morbid.”
“It’s sentimental.”
She sighed. “Good cop today, Detective? That must mean D.D.’s really going to work me over on the flight.”
He grinned. “You know we’re all on the same team here, Annabelle. We’re all just trying to find out the truth. I would think you of all people would like to know the truth.”
“Don’t patronize me, Bobby. For you, this is an analytical exercise. For me, it’s my life.”
“What are you so afraid of, Annabelle?”
“Everything,” she replied flatly. She took her yogurt, twisted away, and resumed her study of the planes.
“Father’s last known alias was Michael W. Nelson,” Bobby reported three minutes later, upon returning to D.D.’s side.
D.D. peered around him to Annabelle, who was looking away from them both, oblivious to the conversation.
“Excellent work, Detective.”
“Got a gift,” Bobby said, and pretended he didn’t feel like a total heel.
Their flight hit cruising altitude. Across the aisle, Annabelle reclined her seat, fell asleep. While sitting next to Bobby, D.D. turned to him with bright eyes.
“We found Christopher Eola,” she said excitedly. “Or rather, we’ve confirmed that he’s lost. Get this, Bridgewater released him in ’78.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, some Einstein never actually filed the charges against Eola for leading a patient revolt while in Boston State Mental. So while his patient records contained notes on the alleged ‘incidents,’ and the local PD listed him as a ‘person of interest’ in a young woman’s murder, technically speaking, he had no criminal record. Bridgewater got overcrowded and guess who they offered the door?”
“Ahhh God.”
“According to his patient file, he was a regular choirboy at Bridgewater, so they never thought to follow up with his former institute. In fact, Bridgewater is quite proud of Eola. Considers him to be a real success story.”
Bobby laughed, only because it was that or hit something. Misfiled paperwork, incompetent bureaucracies. The public held the police accountable for the rising crime rate. Little did they know, they should go after the pencil pushers in the world. “All right,” he said, pulling it together. “So in ’78, Eola rejoins the land of the living. Then what?”
“He disappears.”
“Seriously?”
“Never checks into the halfway house, never applies for his benefits, never keeps his follow-up appointment. One day he exists, the next he’s gone.”
“Flew the coop, or disappeared into the black hole of the homeless shelters?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I’m thinking, given his reported level of intelligence, that he assimilated into society under an assumed identity. Think about it—he came from a life of privilege. What rich kid is going to settle for hanging out on the streets? Plus, even in the homeless circuit, people get known. They attend the same soup kitchens, sleep at the same shelters, hang out at the same street corner day after day. Sooner or later, someone like Charlie Marvin, someone who works with both the mentally ill and the homeless, would be bound to recognize him. No one really disappears anymore, not even in the mean streets of Boston.”
“Yes and no. Last I heard, officials listed the city’s homeless at six thousand. Given that even a large shelter such as the Pine Street Inn serves only about seven hundred, there’s a lot of people whose faces aren’t being seen.”
“Yeah, but you’re talking about someone who’s managed to fly under the radar for almost thirty years. That’s a long time to be invisible. Which also raises the possibility that Eola’s simply dead.” D.D. pursed her lips, mulled it over. “We’d never be so lucky. The true sickos always live forever. Have you noticed that, or is it just me?”
“I’ve noticed that, too.” Bobby frowned. “Has Sinkus managed to locate Eola’s family?”
“Paid them a visit yesterday afternoon—at their Back Bay residence,” she added meaningfully. “They wouldn’t even let him in the door, that’s how excited they were to hear about long-lost Christopher.”
“Have you ever noticed that the richest families are always the most fucked up, or is that just me?”
“I’ve noticed that, too. See, there are some advantages of our pitiful wages; we’ll never be rich enough for our families to be that fucked up.”
“Exactly.”
“Wonder of wonders, the Eolas have already lawyered up. They’re not answering questions about their son without a subpoena in hand and their lawyer in the room. So Sinkus is pushing the paperwork through now. I’ll bet you a buck, he’ll have the fine folks, and their overpaid suit, in our offices this afternoon. Couple cups of burnt coffee and they should start talking, if only to preserve their taste buds.”
She paused. “I’m guessing they don’t know where Eola is. Sinkus said it was clear they had nothing but distaste for their son. I’d like to learn a lot more about the incident that got him sent to Boston State Mental, though. Would be good to develop a more robust profile on Mr. Eola, see how his childhood MO matches up with other things we know.”
D.D. nodded to herself, already flipping through her stack of files, cheeks flushed, energy crackling. Nothing like two viable suspects to make the sergeant as giddy as a schoolgirl.
“So,” she asked briskly, “how’d it go with Catherine?”
Bobby recapped the highlights: “Catherine claims to have spoken with Russell Granger twice. He introduced himself as Special Agent, FBI—no name—and his questions were consistent with what the other officers were asking her. Most interesting tidbit—he brought a pencil sketch of her alleged attacker.”
“Really?” D.D.’s eyes widened.
“According to Catherine, the sketch didn’t match Richard Umbrio. Granger’s drawing showed a much smaller man. When she tried to tell Granger that, he argued with her. Maybe she didn’t get a good enough look at her attacker. Or maybe, if the man in the sketch was wearing a disguise, had gained some weight, he would match her description. That sort of thing.”
D.D. remained
wide-eyed. “Huh?”
Bobby sighed, tried to fold his arms behind his head, and promptly whacked his elbow on the window well. He remembered why he hated the tiny confines of airplane seating, and he wasn’t even that large a man.
“Catherine implied that Granger’s main focus was on who attacked her,” Bobby thought out loud. “He wanted a physical description, voice intonations, any distinguishing marks. Then he showed her the sketch. Now, this could’ve been a cover. Lull her defenses by pretending to have a suspect, when really he was mining her for all the nitty-gritty details of how she was abducted and what Umbrio had done. If that was his strategy, it worked, because she never caught on to anything.”
“He gets her focused on one aspect of the interview,” D.D. filled in, “the sketch, when, in fact, ninety percent of his questions have been about her assault. An interview version of sleight of hand.”
Bobby smiled. “Gotta give the guy some credit. The strategy sounds like something we would do.”
“Great, just what we needed, a smart psychopathic son of a bitch.” D.D. rubbed her temples. Sighed. Rubbed her temples again. “Any chance Catherine is making this all up? I mean, she’s supplying a great deal of detail for a random FBI agent she only met twice twenty-seven years ago.”
“True,” Bobby conceded. “I think Mr. Special Agent made a strong impression on her, however. That he brought a sketch of a suspect, then became so adamant that the man in the drawing had to be the person who’d abducted her, even after she told him no. His response was unexpected, thus memorable. Besides, why would she yank our chains?”
“Got you back to her house, didn’t it? Plus, it gives her a stake in an ongoing investigation. She has reason to call you, and an excuse to torment me. That sounds like her style.”
Bobby shrugged. All good possibilities, except … “I think she honestly likes Annabelle.”
“Oh please! Catherine doesn’t have friends. Lovers, maybe, but not friends.”
“I’m a friend,” he countered.
D.D.’s raised eyebrow let him know what she thought of that. The disagreement was old and intractable; he returned to matters at hand.
“I think she was telling the truth. The realization that the man she remembered as a pushy FBI agent was actually Annabelle’s father seemed to shock and confuse her. Yesterday afternoon, she’d been convinced there wasn’t any connection between her case and Annabelle’s. This morning, on the other hand …”