"But Tommy wasn't Catherine's attacker."
"No, Catherine's resemblance to Annabelle is pure coincidence. Umbrio's methodology, however, probably inspired Tommy's use of an underground chamber two years later. So the cases have a relationship, but a distant one."
"And Christopher Eola?"
"Most likely a murderer, just not our murderer."
"Charlie Marvin?"
"An honest-to-goodness retired minister who works at the Pine Street Inn. According to witnesses, he was there last night."
"Adam Schmidt?"
"Haven't the foggiest. You'd have to ask Sinkus."
"He's been looking for you," D.D. supplied. "He spent the afternoon with Jill Cochran from Boston State Mental. You two need to catch up."
Bobby stared at her. "That's it? I nail down the real identity of Annabelle's father, crack the case wide open, and you're on my ass because I haven't magically debriefed with my fellow detectives yet?"
"I'm not on your ass," she retorted crankily. "But I am thinking all your brilliance has still left us with an obvious hole."
"Which is?"
"Where the hell is Tommy Grayson right now, other than skulking around Annabelle's apartment and leaving trained attack dogs in the woods?"
"Well, next time I'll deliver the suspect on a silver platter."
"Seems to me," D.D. continued as if she hadn't heard him, "that if the rest of the Grayson family adopted new identities, why not Tommy? And our best chance of penetrating this identity and finding the SOB sooner rather than later is to probe the other piece of the puzzle we know."
"Other piece of the puzzle?"
"Boston State Mental."
"Oh," Bobby said rather stupidly. Then, in the next instant, as the light went on: "Okay Yeah. All right. We're back to our original theory—the killer must have had some kind of association with Boston State Mental to be comfortable burying six bodies on the grounds. Meaning, if our killer is Tommy Grayson—"
"Who according to you has a troubled background—"
"He's a certifiable whacko."
"Then Tommy Grayson probably has a history at Boston State Mental."
"And," Bobby managed to fill in the rest all by himself, "Sinkus has that information."
"You'll make it as a detective yet," D.D. said dryly. "Anything else I need to know?"
"I'm working on finding a hotel for Annabelle."
D.D. arched a brow.
"And I'm thinking, though perhaps I didn't mention it to her, that as long as she's tucked away at said hotel, we could staff her apartment with a decoy."
D.D. pursed her lips. "Expensive."
Bobby shrugged. "Your problem, not mine. I don't think the situation will drag on, though. Given the level of activity in the past twenty-four hours alone, seems to me that Tommy's patience is just about used up."
"I'll float it by the deputy," D.D. said.
"Okeydokey"
Bobby turned to leave. D.D. stopped him one last time.
"Bobby," she said quietly. "Not bad."
Chapter 34
WHEN I WAS twelve years old, I came down with an extremely aggressive viral infection. I remember complaining of feeling hot and nauseous. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital. Six days had passed. By the looks of it, my mother hadn't slept for any of them.
I was weak and groggy, too exhausted to lift my hand, too confused to sort out the maze of lines and wires attached to my body My mother had been sitting in a chair beside my hospital bed. When my eyes opened, however, she came flying out of it.
"Oh, thank God!"
"Mommy?" I hadn't called her mommy in years.
"I'm here, love. Everything is okay I'm with you."
I remember closing my eyes again. The cool feel of her fingers brushing back my hair from my sweaty face. I dozed off gripping her other hand. And in that instant, I did feel safe and I did feel secure, because my mother was by my side, and when you are twelve years old you believe your parents can save you from anything.
TWO WEEKS LATER, my father announced we were leaving. Even I had seen this one coming. I'd spent an entire week in the hospital, poked and prodded by top medical experts. Anonymous people couldn't afford that kind of attention.
I packed my lone suitcase on my own. It wasn't hard. A few pairs of jeans, shirts, socks, underwear, my one nice dress. Had blankie, had Boomer. The rest I already knew how to leave behind.
My father had departed to take care of miscellaneous errands— settle up with the landlord, gas up the car, quit yet another job. He always left my mother to do the packing. Apparently, condensing your entire adult life into four suitcases was women's work.
I had watched my mother perform this drill countless times. Generally, she hummed a mindless tune, moving on autopilot. Open drawer, fold, pack. Open new drawer, fold, pack. Open closet, fold, pack. Done.