MR. PETRACELLI WAS relieved to hear he wouldn't have to make the dreaded drive into the city. Bella also thought heading out was a grand idea. Which just left Bobby and me, sitting up front, careful not to meet each other's eyes.
Traffic was light. Bobby called into Dispatch, requesting a background check on my old neighbors. It intrigued me not to be the only one who was paranoid, for a change. Generally, I ran the name of everyone I met through Google.
"Where's D.D.?" I finally asked.
"Had to attend to other business."
"Eola?" I fished.
He slanted me a look. "And how would you know that name, Annabelle?"
I went with a bald-faced lie. "The Internet."
He arched a brow, clearly not fooled, but didn't ignore my question. "D.D. is in the process of running a crime scene in her own home. The subject may have left a gift at your door, but he broke into D.D.'s home and stole her underwear."
"It's because she's a blonde," I said, which only earned me another droll gaze.
We pulled into the Petracellis' driveway.
The tiny gray cape seemed to blend into the overcast sky. White shutters. Small green yard. The right home for an elderly couple who would never have grandkids.
"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…"