Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(23)

D.D. was actually stunned into silence. "Well, hell, Roger, that's a brilliant idea."

He smiled sheepishly, hands still in his pockets. "Honestly, it was my wife's. Good news about having a newborn, my wife's always awake now when I go home, so what the hell, we talk. She remembered me saying once that the clerks are the real brains of any police station. We all come and go. The clerks stay forever."

That was true. A cop spent maybe three or four years at a single station. The police clerks, on the other hand, might serve for decades.

"Okay," D.D. said briskly "I like it. Those are the kinds of ideas we need. In fact, I'll even forgive your lack of paperwork right now, as long as you deliver a transcript of tomorrow's interview the second it's completed. I've heard good things about Robbards. And given that six bodies in one location implies a subject who operated in the area for years, yeah, I'd like to hear Robbards's thoughts. Interesting."

D.D. picked up her copies of the reports. Pounded them into a neat pile.

"Okay, people. So this is where we're at: We're manning a machine-gun investigation, spraying the area with bullets and hoping like hell we'll hit something. I know it's tiring, it's messy, it's painful, but this is why we get paid the big bucks. Now, we have"—she glanced at her watch again—"seven hours and counting. So go forth, discover something brilliant, and report back by oh-seven-hundred. First person who tells me something we can use in the press briefing gets to go home to sleep."

She started to push back from the table, half rising out of her chair. But then, at the last moment, she paused, regarded them more gravely.

"We all saw those girls," she said gruffly. "What happened to them…" She shook her head, unable to continue, and around the table, guys looked away uncomfortably. Homicide detectives saw a lot of shit, but the cases that involved children always touched a nerve.

D.D. cleared her throat. "I want to send them home. It's been thirty years. That's too long. That's… too sad for all of us. So let's do this, okay? I know everyone's tired, everyone's stressed. But we gotta push ahead. We're gonna make this happen. We're gonna get these girls home to their families. And then we're gonna stalk the son of a bitch who did this to the bitter ends of the earth, and nail his ass to the floor. Sound like a plan? I thought as much."

D.D. pushed away from the table, strode for the door.

A full minute passed in silence. Then one by one the detectives headed back to work.



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Chapter 10


BOBBY CAUGHT D.D. in her office. She was hunched over her computer screen, skimming a list of names with a pencil clenched in her fist. She was flying down the list so fast, Bobby wasn't sure she could honestly be reading anything. Maybe she just wanted to look busy, in case someone, such as him, wandered by.

"What?" she asked presently

"Got a call."

She stopped reading, straightened, looked at him. "Thought you weren't my lackey."

"Thought you were my friend."

"Oh Bobby. You're such a jerk."

The insult made him smile. "I never realized until now just how much I missed you. Can I come in yet, or am I supposed to be bearing roses?"

"Fuck roses," she said. "I still want a decent roast beef sandwich." But her voice had lost its edge. She waved to the empty desk chair across from her. He took that as an invitation, plopping down in the high-backed executive chair. D.D. pushed away from the computer. She really did look like hell, purple bags under her eyes, fingernails bitten down to the nubs. Minute she saw herself on TV, she was gonna be pissed.

"Catherine send her regards?" D.D. asked dryly

"Not in so many words, but I'm sure she was thinking of her love for the Boston police the entire time we talked."

"So what'd she say?"

"In a minute."

An arched brow. "In a minute?"

"I have other news to report first. Come on, D.D, give a guy a break. Working these hours, I could use some foreplay."

The corner of her mouth twitched up in an unexpected smile. For a moment, Bobby found himself thinking about the good old days again—in particular, the area they had gotten right. . . He caught himself, straightening quickly, flipping through his spiral notebook.

"I, um… looked up Russell Granger. Started checking on Annabelle's story."

DD.'s smile disappeared. She sighed, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. They were back to business. "Am I going to like this report? More important, can I use it for the press conference?"

"Possibly. So: Russell Granger filed a police report in August of '82, one of three reports he would file leading up to October. First report was trespassing. Granger heard someone in his yard in the middle of the night. Went out himself, swore he heard someone running away. When he checked again in the morning, he found muddy footprints all around the perimeter. Couple of uniforms went out, jotted down his story, but not much to do: no real crime, no description of the subject. Report got filed, 'Call us again if you have any trouble, Mr. Granger,' yada, yada, yada.

"Second report was a Peeping Tom, filed September eight. Also called in by Mr. Granger, but on behalf of his elderly neighbor, Geraldine Watts, who swore she saw a young man 'skulking' around the Granger residence and peering into one of the windows. Two uniformed officers were dispatched once again, Stan Jezukawicz and Dan Davis, known more affectionately as Stan-n-Dan. They interviewed Mrs. Watts, who provided a description of a white male, between five nine and six two, dark hair, 'disheveled' in appearance, wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans. She never got a look at his face. As she was picking up the phone to dial Mr. Granger, the subject took off running down the street."