Hide by Lisa Gardner Page B

was walking out as he was walking up. The thirty-something male took in Bobby’s olive khakis, collared shirt, blue tweed sports coat, and politely held the door. Bobby jogged up the front stairs, grabbed the heavy outer door, and waved his thanks. Gotta love urban professionals; they automatically trusted anyone who dressed like them.
    Bobby skimmed the mailboxes until he found the right name. Top floor of a walk-up. Wouldn’t you know it? Then again, hiking up the narrow staircase was probably as close to real exercise as he was going to get. He hit the stairs, thinking about the good old days when he’d been part of an elite tactical unit who knew how to make an entrance. They could crawl through smoke, drop from choppers, belly-slide through swamps. Only thing you saw was the target in front of you. Only thing you heard was the grunt of the teammate beside you.
    Around the third floor, the lack of sleep caught up with him. His stride slowed. He started panting. At the fourth floor, he had to wipe his brow. Definitely time to get his sorry ass to a gym.
    At the fifth floor, he spotted the apartment door, saving himself the humiliation of passing out. He paused on the last step, catching his breath. When he finally moved down the hallway, he heard a dog whine excitedly from the other side of the door even before he knocked. He went with a light knuckle rap. The dog promptly hurtled itself at the door, growling and scratching furiously.
    A woman’s voice from inside: “Bella, down! Bella, stop that. Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
    The door didn’t magically open. He didn’t think it would. Instead, he listened to the metal covering scrape back from an ancient peephole. The woman’s greeting was almost as warm and friendly as the dog’s.
    “Ah shit!” Annabelle Granger said.
    “Detective Bobby Dodge,” he answered politely. “I have a few follow-up questions—”
    “What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t give you my address!”
    “Well, I am a detective.”
    That reply earned him only silence. He finally held up her phone number. “Reverse directory. I put in your number and, voilà, I got a name and address. Technology is a wonderful thing, yes?”
    “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the pit,” she called out from the other side of the door. “How could you sit right across from me, relentlessly milking me for information, and still withhold those kinds of details? Particularly once you realized one of those girls might be my best friend.”
    “I see you’ve been watching the news.”
    “Me and all of Boston. Jerk.”
    Bobby spread his hands. He found it difficult to negotiate with a solid wood door, but he did his best. “Look, we’re all on the same page. We want to know what happened to your friend and find the sorry son of a bitch who did it. Given that, do you think I can come in?”
    “No.”
    “Suit yourself.” He reached inside his jacket pocket, withdrew his audio mini-recorder, a spiral notepad, his pen. “So—”
    “What do you think you’re doing?”
    “I’m asking my questions.”
    “In an open stairway? Whatever happened to privacy?”
    “Whatever happened to hospitality?” He shrugged. “You set the ground rules, I’m just playing by them.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Two sharp metal thunks as steel bolt locks drew back. The rasp of a chain being temperamentally released. A third, more resonant thunk from the vicinity of the floor. Annabelle Granger took her home security seriously. He was curious to see how a professional curtain seamstress had managed to reconcile ambience with the iron bars that no doubt guarded her windows.
    She flung the door open. There was a flash of white, then a long-legged dog hurtled itself at Bobby’s kneecaps, barking shrilly. Annabelle made no move to rein in the animal. Just watched him through narrowly slit eyes, as if this was the ultimate test.
    Bobby stuck out a hand. The dog didn’t bite it off. Instead, it ran