Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(90)

"Mr. Petracelli never thought the Lawrence police took his daughter's case seriously enough," I volunteered as we got out of the car. Bella whined. I told her to stay. "If you mention you're looking into a connection between Dori's disappearance and my stalker, I think Mr. Petracelli will open up."

"I talk, you listen," Bobby informed me coldly.

Badass, I mouthed behind his back, but didn't say a word as we headed up the flagstone walk.

Bobby rang the doorbell. Mrs. Petracelli opened the door. She sighed when she saw the two of us. Gave me a look I can only describe as deeply apologetic.

"Walter," she said calmly, "your guests are here."

Mr. Petracelli came bounding down the stairs with far more energy than I remembered from my previous visit. He had an accordion-style file folder tucked under his right arm and a bright, almost surreal gleam in his eyes.

"Come in, come in," he said jovially. He shook Bobby's hand, mine, too, then glanced around as if searching for my attack dog. "I was excited to hear you were coming, Detective. And so soon! I have the information, absolutely, it's all right here. Oh, but wait, look at us, standing in the foyer. How rude of me. Let's make ourselves comfortable in the study. Lana dear—some coffee?"

Lana sighed again, headed for the kitchen. Bobby and I trailed after Mr. Petracelli as he went skipping to the study. Once there, he plopped himself on the edge of a leather wingback chair, eagerly opening up his file folder, spreading out sheets of paper. Compared to his ominous, brooding approach last night, he was practically whistling as he pulled out page after page bearing the grim details of his daughter's abduction.

"So you're with the Boston PD?" he asked Bobby.

"Detective Robert Dodge, sir, Massachusetts State Police."

"Excellent! I always said the state should be involved. The locals just don't have enough resources. Small towns equal small cops equal small minds." Mr. Petracelli seemed to finally have all his paperwork arranged just so. He glanced up, happened to notice that Bobby and I both still lingered in the doorway

"Sit, sit, please, make yourselves at home. I've been keeping detailed notes for years. We have quite a bit to cover."

I sat on the edge of a green plaid love seat, Bobby wedged beside me. Mrs. Petracelli appeared, depositing coffee cups, cream, sugar. She departed as quickly as possible. I didn't blame her.

"Now, about November twelve, 1982…"

Mr. Petracelli had indeed kept scrupulous notes. Over the years, he'd developed an elaborate time line of the last day of Dori's life. He knew when she got up. What she ate for breakfast. What clothes she selected, what toys she had in the yard. At approximately noon, her grandmother told her it was time for lunch. Dori had wanted a tea party instead, with her collection of stuffed bears on the picnic table. Not seeing the harm, Dori's grandmother had delivered a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, crusts cut off, plus a sliced apple. Last she had seen, Dori was passing out treats among her plush guests. Dori's grandmother went inside to tidy up the kitchen, then got caught up talking to a neighbor on the phone. When she returned out front twenty minutes later, the bears were still sitting, each with a bite of sandwich and apple in front of its nose. Dori was nowhere to be found.

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.