Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(13)

Both detectives leaned forward; I could feel their sudden tension. And I knew that they now understood where this was going.

"Dori Petracelli. I handed the locket to Dori. Told her she could borrow it. I figured I would get it back later, maybe wear it when my father wasn't around. Except there was no later. In a matter of weeks, we packed our bags. I haven't seen Dori since."

'Annabelle," Detective Dodge asked quietly, "who gave you the locket?"

"I don't know." My fingers were on my temples, rubbing. 'A gift. On the front porch. Wrapped in the Peanuts comic strip. Just for me. But without a tag. I liked it. But my father… he was mad. I don't know… I don't remember. There had been other items, small, inconsequential. But nothing made my father as angry as the locket."

Another pause, then Detective Dodge again: "Does the name Richard Umbrio mean anything to you?"

"No."

"What about Mr. Bosu?"

"No."

"Catherine Gagnon?"

Warren flashed him a sudden, hostile glance. But the significance was lost on me. I didn't know that name either.

"Did you… Did you find this locket on a body? Is that why you thought it was me?"

"We can't comment on an active investigation," Sergeant Warren said crisply.

I ignored her, my gaze going to Detective Dodge. "Is it Dori? Is that who you found? Did something happen to her? Please…"

"We don't know," he said gently Warren frowned again, but then she shrugged.

"It will take weeks to identify the bodies," she volunteered abruptly "We don't know much of anything at this point."

"So it's possible."

"It's possible."

I tried to absorb this news. It left me feeling cold and shaky I squeezed my left hand into a fist and pressed it into my stomach. "Can you look her up?" I said. "Run her name. "You'll see if she has an address, a driver's license. The bodies are children, right, that's what the news says. So if she has a driver's license…"

"You can be sure we'll look into it," Sergeant Warren said.

I didn't like that answer. My gaze went to Detective Dodge again. I knew I was pleading, but I couldn't help myself.

"Why don't you give us your number," he said. "We'll be in touch."

"Don't call me, I'll call you," I murmured.

"Not at all. You're welcome to contact us at any time."

"And if you remember anything more about the locket…" Sergeant Warren prodded.

"I'll sell my story to the cable news."

She gave me a look, but I waved it away "They wouldn't believe me any more than you do, and I can't afford to come back from the dead."

I rose, grabbed my bag, then provided my home phone number when it became clear that some form of contact information was mandatory

At the last minute, standing in the door, I hesitated. "Can you tell me what happened to them? To the girls?"

"We're still waiting for that report." Sergeant Warren, sounding as official as always.

"But it's murder, right? Six bodies, all in one grave…"

"You ever been to the Boston State Mental Hospital?" Detective Dodge interjected evenly "What about your father?"

I shook my head. All I knew about the site were the development wars I'd been hearing on the local news. If I'd ever known the lunatic asylum as a child, it didn't mean anything to me now.

Sergeant Warren escorted me back downstairs. We walked in silence, the heels of our boots making sharp staccato beats that rang up the stairwell.

At the bottom, she held open the heavy metal door to the lobby, extending her business card with her other hand.

"We'll be in touch."

"Sure," I said without a trace of conviction.

She looked at me sharply "And Annabelle—"

I shook my head immediately "Tanya. I go by Tanya Nelson; it's safer."

Another raised brow. "And Tanya, if you remember anything more about the locket, or the days before you left town…"

I had to smile again. "Don't worry," I told her. "I learned how to run away with the best of them."

I exited the glass doors into the brisk fall air and started my journey home.



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Chapter 6


BOBBY WOULD like to believe he'd been asked to help with the Boston State Mental Hospital investigation because of his natural brilliance and solid work ethic. He'd even settle for being welcomed aboard for his good looks and charming smile. But he knew the truth: D.D. needed him. He was the trump card she had tucked away in her back pocket. D.D. had always been good at looking ahead.

Not that he was complaining. Being the only state detective on a city team was awkward at best, filled with daily shots of resentment at worst. But such arrangements had precedent. D.D. declared him a source of "local knowledge" and, voila, hijacked him for her purposes. The fact that he was new and not embroiled in any major state investigations made the transition swift and relatively painless. One day he'd reported to the state offices, the next he was working out of a teeny tiny interrogation room in Roxbury, Mass. Such was the glamorous life of a detective.