"Say, what would you think of meeting her in person? Face-to-face. Maybe, if we got the two of you in the same room… I don't know, it might shake something loose."
He knew the moment she figured out he'd been playing her, because her body went perfectly still. Her face shut down, her eyes becoming hooded. He waited for an outburst, more swearing, possibly even physical violence. Instead, she just stood there, untouchable in her silence.
"You don't have to like a system," she murmured. "You just have to understand it. Then you can always survive." Her dark brown eyes flickered up, held his. "Where does Catherine live?"
"Arizona."
"Are we going there or is she coming here?"
"For several reasons, it would be best if we go there."
"When?"
"How about tomorrow?"
"Good. That will give us plenty of time."
"For?"
"For you to escort me to the crime scene. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Isn't that how the saying goes, Detective?"
She had him, fair and square. He nodded once, admitting his defeat. It still didn't soften the rigid set of her shoulders, the stubborn tilt of her chin. He realized, belatedly, that his deceit had hurt her. That for a moment there, they had been conversing almost like real people, possibly she had even liked him.
He thought he should say something; couldn't think of what. Policing often involved lying, and there was no sense in apologizing for something he'd do again if he needed to.
He headed for the door. Bella had risen from her dog bed. She licked his hand while Annabelle unlocked the fortress. Door opened. Annabelle gazed at him expectantly "Are you afraid?" he asked abruptly, gesturing to the locks.
"Chance favors the prepared mind," she murmured.
"That doesn't answer my question."
She was quiet for a moment. "Sometimes."
"You live in the city. Locks are smart."
She studied him a moment longer. "Why do you keep asking why my family fled so many times?"
"I think you know."
"Because perpetrators don't magically stop. An UNSUB doesn't spend years stalking and abducting six girls, then suddenly decide one day to get a new hobby You think my father knew something. You think he had a reason to keep us on the run."
"Locks are smart," he said again.
She simply smiled, stoic this time, and for some reason that made him sad. "What time?" she asked.
He considered his watch, the phone call to D.D. he was gonna have to make, the temper tantrum he was about to endure. "Pick you up at two."
She nodded.
He exited, starting back down the stairs, as up above the bolt locks once again fired home.
Chapter 12
I'D NEVER RIDDEN in a police car before. I didn't really know what to expect. Hard plastic seats? The stench of vomit and urine? Like my experience with the Boston police station, reality was a letdown. The dark blue Crown Vic looked like any other four-door sedan. Inside was just as prosaic. Plain blue cloth seats. Navy blue carpet. The dash had a two-way radio and a few extra toggle switches, but that was it.
The vehicle appeared recently cleaned—floor freshly vacuumed, air scented by Febreze. A small consideration for me? I didn't know if I was supposed to say "Thank you" or not.
I belted myself in the passenger's seat. I was nervous, hands shaking. It took me three times to work the metal clasp. Detective Dodge didn't try to help or make any comment. I appreciated that more than the car's freshened hygiene.
I'd spent the time since the detective's departure trying to complete an elaborate window valance for a client in Back Bay. Mostly, however, I'd held the watered silk fabric beneath the needle of my sewing machine, foot off the pedal, eyes glued to the TV. Coverage of the Mattapan case was easy to find, every major news station giving it round-the-clock attention. Few, unfortunately, had anything new to say.
They had confirmation that six remains had been found in a subterranean chamber, located on the grounds of the former lunatic asylum. The remains were believed to be those of young girls and had possibly been in the chamber for some time. Police were pursuing several avenues of investigation at this time (Is that what I was? An avenue of investigation?). Reports diverted quickly into wild speculation from there. No mention of the locket. No mention of Dori. No mention of Richard Umbrio.
I'd abandoned my sewing and looked up Umbrio on the Internet. I had found the story under "Fatal Shooting in Back Bay," an account of how the survivor of a midnight police shooting, Catherine Gagnon, had endured tragedy once before: As a child, she'd been held captive by convicted pedophile Richard Umbrio until rescued by hunters shortly before Thanksgiving.
Umbrio, however, was merely a sidebar. The big story—how Jimmy Gagnon, Catherine's husband and the only child of a wealthy Boston judge, had been fatally shot by a police sniper during a tense hostage situation. The officer who had made the kill: Robert G. Dodge.