Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(67)

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 a l'or-ange, 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?