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Mr. Petracelli knew when the first call had been placed to 911. He knew the name of the officer who had responded, what questions were asked, how they were answered. He had notes on the search parties formed, lists of the volunteers who showed up—some of whom he’d asterisked for never giving a satisfactory alibi for what they were doing between 12:15 and 12:35 that afternoon. He knew the dog handlers who volunteered their services. The divers who eventually tended to the nearby ponds. He had seven days’ worth of police and local activity distilled into elaborate chronological graphs and comprehensive lists of names.

Then he had the information from my father.

I couldn’t tell from Bobby’s face what he thought of Mr. Petracelli’s presentation. Mr. Petracelli’s voice raised and lowered with various stages of intensity, sometimes even spitting words as he hashed out obvious failings in what seemed to be a thorough search for a missing girl. Bobby’s expression remained impassive. Mr. Petracelli talked. From time to time, Bobby took notes. But mostly Bobby listened, his face betraying nothing.

Personally, I wanted to see the sketch. I wanted to gaze at the face of the man I believed had targeted me, sentenced my family to a lifetime on the run, then killed my best friend.

The reality was disappointing.

I had expected an angrier-looking man. A black-and-white sketch with dark, shifty eyes, the tattoo of a teardrop topping the right cheek. Instead, the artfully rendered drawing, my father’s work most certainly, appeared almost pedantic. The subject was young—early twenties, I would guess. Short dark hair. Dark eyes. Small, almost refined-looking jawline. Not a thug at all. In fact, the picture reminded me of the kid who used to work in the neighborhood pizza parlor.

I studied the drawing for a long time, waiting for it to speak to me, tell me all its secrets. It remained a crude sketch of a young man who, frankly, could be any one of tens of thousands of twenty-year-old, dark-haired males who’d passed through Boston.

I didn’t get it. My father had run from this?

Bobby asked Mr. Petracelli if he had a fax machine. In fact, we could both see one standing on the desk behind Mr. Petracelli. Bobby explained it might be faster if he faxed the notes, etc., into the office right away, for the other detectives to get started. Mr. Petracelli was overjoyed to have someone finally take his file seriously.

I watched Bobby punch in the fax number. He included an area code, which wouldn’t have been necessary for a Boston exchange. And the only piece of paper he fed into the machine was the sketch.

Bobby sent the rest of the pages through the fax on copy function, helping himself to the duplicates. Mr. Petracelli was rocking back and forth on the edge of his chair, his face unnaturally red, his smile beaming. The excitement of the moment had obviously spiked his blood pressure. I wondered how soon before the next heart attack. I wondered if he’d make his goal of living long enough to see his daughter’s body recovered.

We drained our coffee cups, just to be polite. Mr. Petracelli seemed reluctant for us to depart, shaking our hands again and again.

When we finally made it out to the car, Mr. Petracelli stood on the front porch, waving, waving, waving.

My last glance of him was as we drove down the street. He became a small, hunch-shouldered old man, face too red, smile too bright, still waving determinedly at the police detective he firmly believed would finally bring his daughter home.

Y
OU FAXED THE
sketch to Catherine Gagnon,” I said the moment we hit the highway. “Why?”

“Your father showed Catherine a sketch when she was in the hospital,” he said abruptly.

“He did?”

“I want to see if it’s the same drawing.”

“But that’s not possible! Catherine was in the hospital in ’80, and that sketch wasn’t done until two years later.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the stalker dude didn’t start delivering gifts until August of 1982. And you can’t have a sketch of the stalker dude without any stalker.”

“There’s only one problem with that.”

“There is?”

“According to the police reports, no one ever saw the face of the ‘stalker dude.’ Not your father or mother, not Mrs. Watts, and not any of your neighbors. In theory, therefore, stalker dude could not have served as the basis for that drawing.”

Well, that was a stumper. I stewed on it, telling myself there was a logical explanation, while realizing I was using that line a lot lately. My father had known something in 1980, I decided. Something serious enough to drive him to masquerade as an FBI agent and visit Catherine with a sketch in hand. But what?

I tried searching my memory banks. I’d been only five in 1980. Living in Arlington and…

I couldn’t get anything to come to mind. Not even the memory of a comic-strip-wrapped gift. I was certain those started arriving two years later, when I was seven.

The silence was finally broken by the chirping of the cell phone clipped to Bobby’s waist. He retrieved it, exchanged a few terse words, slid a look at me sideways. He flipped it shut, seemed about to speak, then the phone rang again.

This time, his voice was different. Polite, professional. The voice of a detective addressing a stranger. He seemed to be trying to work out a meeting, and it wasn’t going his way.

“When do you leave for the conference? I’ll be honest, sir, I need to meet with you as soon as possible. It involves one of your former professors. Russell Granger—”

Even I could hear the sudden squawk on the other end of the line. And then, that quickly, Bobby was nodding.

“Where do you live again? Lexington. As a matter of fact, I happen to be right around the corner.”

He glanced at me. I answered with a shrug, grateful that I didn’t have to elaborate. Obviously, Bobby was trying to set up an interview with my father’s former boss and obviously it needed to happen now.

I didn’t mind. Of course, there was no way in hell I was waiting in the car.

T
IME TO TAKE
Bella for a walk,” Bobby announced as he drove through a winding side street just north of the Minuteman Statue in Lexington Center. Paul Schuepp had given his house number as 58. Bobby spotted 26, then 32, so he was moving in the right direction. “Looks like a nice area to stretch your legs.”

Annabelle took it about as well as he expected. “Ha ha ha. Very funny.”

“I mean it. This is an official police investigation.”

“Then you’d better start deputizing me, because I’m going in.”

House number 48…There, the white colonial with the red brick façade. “You know, it’s not exactly the Wild Wild West anymore.”

“Have you read the latest accounts of shootings in the city? Could’ve fooled me.”

Bobby pulled into the driveway. He had a decision to make. Spend ten minutes of the thirty Schuepp had agreed to spare arguing with Annabelle, or let her tag along and receive another lecture on proper policing techniques from D.D. He was still annoyed from his last conversation with the sergeant, which, frankly, didn’t work in D.D.’s favor.

Bobby popped his door and didn’t say a word as Annabelle followed suit.

“Detective Sinkus tracked down Charlie Marvin,” he filled her in as they headed for the front door. “Marvin spent the night at the Pine Street Inn, from midnight to eight a.m. Nine homeless and three staff members vouched for him. So whoever came to your building with that gift, it wasn’t him.”

Annabelle merely grunted. No doubt Charlie Marvin made a good suspect in her mind. On the one hand, he was an urban cross between a priest and Santa Claus. On the other hand, he wasn’t her father.

Bobby would like to say he didn’t believe Annabelle’s father had returned from the dead either. Except he was growing more and more puzzled by the hour. Mr. Petracelli had been a poignant lesson in the power of obsession. Bobby would have an officer follow up on Mr. Petracelli’s whereabouts late last night, though, in all honesty, delivering comic-strip-wrapped presents was probably a shade too subtle for someone who was obviously mad as a hatter.

The sketch was the key, Bobby decided. Who had Russell Granger known, and why had he felt threatened nearly two years before filing that first police report?

It had become clear to Bobby within the first five minutes of meeting Walter Petracelli that Annabelle’s former neighbor didn’t hold the key to those answers. Perhaps Bobby would get luckier with Russell’s former boss, whom Bobby had first buzzed at seven this morning from outside Annabelle’s apartment. Seemed lately all he did was work his cell phone. Yet, still the
demands
on his time had D.D. operating behind his back. Reaching out to the ME in a thinly veiled attempt to bolster her own theory of the case…just thinking about it pissed him off all over again.

Bobby found the brass knocker, strategically located in the middle of a giant wreath of red berries. Three knocks and half a dozen berry droppings later, the door swung open.

Bobby’s first impression of Paul Schuepp: about two inches taller than Yoda and two years younger than dirt. The small, wizened former head of MIT’s mathematics department had sparse gray hair, an age-spotted scalp, and rheumy blue eyes that peered out from beneath bushy white eyebrows. Schuepp’s face was sinking down with the years, revealing red-rimmed eyelids, shaky jowls, and extra folds of skin flapping around his neck.

Schuepp stuck out a gnarled hand, catching Bobby’s arm in an unexpectedly firm grip. “Come in, come in. Good to see you, Detective. And this is…?”

Schuepp suddenly stopped, droopy eyes widening. “I’ll be damned. If you’re not the spitting image of your mother. Annabelle, isn’t it? All grown up. I’ll be damned. Please, please, come in. Now, this is an honor. I’m going to fetch us some coffee. Oh hell, it’s gotta be noon somewhere. I’m fetching us some scotch!”

Schuepp set off at a brisk shuffle, heading through the arched foyer into the formal living room. There, another arched doorway led into the dining room, where a right-hand turn took him into the kitchen.

Bobby and Annabelle followed the man through his house, Bobby taking in the heavy floral furniture, the delicate crocheted doilies, the eucalyptus swags gracing the tops of floor-length mauve drapes. He was hoping there was a Mrs. Schuepp somewhere, because life was too scary if Mr. Schuepp had done the decorating.

The kitchen was country-style, with oak cabinets and a massive oval walnut table. A lazy Susan in the middle of the table boasted sugar, salt, and a small pharmacy of drugs. Schuepp fiddled with the coffeemaker, then moved on to the pantry, where after much clinking of glass, he withdrew a bottle of Chivas Regal.

“Coffee’s probably gonna taste like crap,” he announced. “The missus passed away last year. Now,
she
could brew a cup of coffee. Personally,” he added, dropping the Chivas in the middle of the table, “I recommend the scotch.”

Annabelle was gazing at the man wide-eyed. He produced three glasses. When Annabelle and Bobby begged off, he shrugged, poured himself two fingers, and tossed it down. For a moment, Schuepp’s scalp turned bright red. He wheezed and started to cough, and Bobby had images of his interview subject suddenly dropping dead. But then the former professor recovered, thumping his shrunken chest.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Schuepp told them. “Given the occasion, however, I could use a belt.”

“Do you know why we’re here?” Annabelle inquired softly.

“Let me ask you this, young lady: When did your dear father die?”

“Nearly ten years ago.”

“Made it that long? Good for him. Where?”

“Actually, we’d returned to Boston.”

“Really? Hmmm, interesting. And if you don’t mind me asking, how?”

“Hit by a taxicab while crossing the street.”

Schuepp arched a bushy white brow, nodding to himself. “And your mother?”

Annabelle hesitated. “Eighteen years ago. Kansas City.”

“How?”

“Overdosed. Booze mixed with painkillers. She, um, she’d developed a drinking problem along the way. I found her when I returned home from school.”

Bobby shot her a glance. She’d already volunteered more details for Schuepp than she’d ever given him.

“Collateral damage,” Schuepp observed matter-of-factly. “Makes some sense. Shall we?” He gestured toward the table. “Coffee’s ready, though I insist you should try the scotch.”

He returned to the kitchen, loading the coffeepot, cups, and creamer on a tray. Bobby took it from him without asking, mostly because he couldn’t picture a hundred-pound man lifting a ten-pound tray. Schuepp smiled his appreciation.

They made it to the table, Bobby’s mind whirling, Annabelle looking paler by the second.

“You knew my father,” she stated.

“I had the honor to serve as head of the department of mathematics for nearly twenty years. Your father was there for five of them. Not nearly long enough, but he left his mark. He was into applied mathematics, you know, not pure mathematics. Had an excellent rapport with students, and a brilliant mind for strategy. I used to tell him he should give up teaching and work for the Department of Defense.”

“You were his boss?” Bobby clarified for the record.

“I hired him, based upon the glowing recommendation of my good friend Dr. Gregory Badington, at the University of Pennsylvania. It was the only way it could’ve been done, given the circumstances.”

“Wait a minute.” Bobby knew that name. “Gregory Badington from Philadelphia?”

“Yes, sir. Greg headed up Penn’s math program from ’72 to ’89, I believe. Passed away a few years back. Aneurysm. I pray I should be so lucky.” Schuepp nodded vigorously, without a trace of sarcasm.

“So Gregory Badington was Russell Granger’s former boss,” Bobby said slowly. “He recommended Russell for your program and at the same time he allowed Russell to move his family into Gregory’s home in Arlington. Now, why would Dr. Badington do that?”

“Greg did his graduate work at Harvard,” Schuepp filled in. “Never lost his love for Boston. When it became clear Russell’s family needed to leave Philadelphia, Gregory was only too happy to lend a helping hand.” The old professor turned to Annabelle. He pressed her palm between his own age-spotted digits. “How much did your father tell you, dear?”

“Nothing. He never wanted me to worry; then it was too late.”

“Until they discovered the grave in Mattapan,” Schuepp finished for her. “I saw it on the news, even debated calling the police myself once I read your name. I was fairly certain it couldn’t be your remains that were recovered. I was guessing it was that other young girl, the one from your street.”

“Dori Petracelli.”

“Yes, that’s right. She went missing a few weeks after you left. Nearly killed your father. For all his planning, Russell never saw that coming. What a terrible burden to bear. After that, I can imagine why he never told you a thing. What kind of father wants his daughter to discover he saved her life by sacrificing her best friend? Such terrible, terrible choices, for such terrible, terrible days.”

“Mr. Schuepp—” Annabelle started.

“Mr. Schuepp,” Bobby interrupted, fumbling with his pen now, frantic to get it all written down.

The wizened old man smiled. “Guess I’m not going to make my conference,” he said. He picked up the scotch, splashed it in his glass, and gulped it down.

And started his story from the beginning.

Y
OUR FATHER—ROGER
Grayson was how he was known back then—lost his parents when he was twelve. It’s not something he liked to talk about. I never heard the details from him, only from Greg, who picked up the tale from scuttlebutt around the department. It was a domestic violence case, I’m afraid. Russell, well, Roger, I guess—”

“Russell, call him Russell,” Annabelle spoke up. “That’s how I think of him.” Her lips twisted, she seemed to be trying out the words. “Roger Grayson.
Roger, please don’t go….
” She frowned, grimaced, and stated more emphatically, “Russell.”

“Russell it is. So Russell’s mother tried to leave Russell’s father. The father didn’t take the news so well, returning to the house one night with a gun. He shot and killed them both. Russell was in the house that night. His younger brother, too.”

“Brother?” Annabelle exclaimed, bewildered.

Bobby’s pen paused over his notebook. “Two male Graysons?” He pictured the sketch again, the resemblance to the description they had of Annabelle’s father, and suddenly everything started to make sense.

Schuepp nodded. “Brother. You have an uncle, my dear, though I’m sure you’ve never heard of him.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s what your father wanted. For good reason. After the shooting, Russell and his brother—Tommy—were fortunate to be admitted into the Milton Hershey School for disadvantaged children. Even back then, both boys showed great academic promise, and the Hershey boarding-school program was an excellent fit. Academic rigor in a lovely, pastoral setting.

“Your father did exceptionally well. Tommy, seven years your father’s junior, did not. From the beginning, there were signs of mental health issues. Rage/impulse control problems. ADHD. Reactive attachment disorder. I have an interest in the field; been working to develop a statistical model to assist evaluators examining young children. But that’s neither here nor there.”

Schuepp waved away his own conversational tangent with his hand, then continued more briskly. “Your father graduated early and was accepted at Penn. He was an incredibly gifted student, and Gregory took a shine to him. Under his guidance, Russell submatriculated into the master’s program and began to think seriously about pursuing his Ph.D. in mathematics. Along the way, he fell in love with a beautiful nursing student and halfway through his doctorate program, Russell married your mother.

“It was about this time that Tommy quit the Hershey school. With no other family, Tommy sought out your father. And not knowing what else to do, your father took him in. Not an ideal situation for a newly married man juggling a young wife and demanding studies, but these are the things families do.

“Tommy took a job as a dishwasher in a local restaurant. He worked as a bouncer at night and engaged in general mayhem during the day. Russell bailed him out of jail three times, for minor infractions involving brawling, drugs, alcohol. It was always the other guy’s fault, according to Tommy. The other guy started it.

“Finally, your mother sat Russell down one night and told him that she was scared. Twice she’d caught Tommy peeking into the bedroom when she was changing. And once when she was in the shower, she was pretty sure he’d entered the bathroom. When she called out his name, he’d panicked and run.

“That was enough for your father. He’d pulled himself up by his own bootstraps; Tommy could do the same. So Russell kicked out his younger brother. Just in time, apparently, because a few weeks later, your mother discovered she was pregnant.

“Tommy, unfortunately, never really went away. He’d arrive unannounced at odd hours. Sometimes Russell was there. Often he wasn’t. Your mother, Leslie—Lucy, as she was known back then—”