Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(92)

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?"

[page]"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?"