by Lisa Gardner
He thought about it. Then he knew what to do.
He would return the old family computer from the basement to the kitchen table, uploading it with all the current software programs from the new computer. He could transfer over basic files from his memory stick, enough garbage to give the old computer the appearance of an active one.
A good evidence tech would figure it out, eventually. That there were date gaps in the computer’s memory. Perhaps even Sergeant D.D. and Detective Miller would catch the switch. He didn’t think so, however. Most people noticed a person’s monitor, and maybe a person’s keyboard, but they didn’t notice the computer itself, the functional tower that was generally propped under a desk or kitchen table. If anything, perhaps they’d noted that he owned a Dell, in which case his brand loyalty was about to be rewarded.
So the old computer would become his current computer, buying him some precious time.
Which left him with the issue of what to do with his current computer. Couldn’t put it in his house, which was probably destined to be searched a few more times. Equally risky to stash it in his vehicle, for the same reason. Which left him one option. To leave the computer right here, set up just as it was, a computer on a desk, in a room full of computers on desks. He would even connect it to the network, making it a fully functional, completely indistinguishable Boston Daily computer. Hide in plain sight, as it were.
Even if the police thought to search the Boston Daily offices, he sincerely doubted they could obtain a warrant to seize computers from a major news outlet. Why, the breach in confidentiality alone … Besides, in the modern world of “hoteling,” Jason didn’t have an official work space. Meaning there wasn’t a single computer or office space the police could definitively list in a warrant as being his. Technically speaking, all the computers were used by him, and no judge in this day and age was going to let the police carry away every single computer belonging to the Boston Daily. That just wasn’t going to happen.
At least he hoped not.
Jason pushed away from the desk. He crumpled up the duffel bag and stuffed it in the back of a metal filing cabinet. Then he picked up his sleeping daughter and, very gently carried her back out to the car.
Five forty-five A.M. Sun would be coming up soon, he thought. He wondered if Sandra could see it.
| CHAPTER ELEVEN |
I’m working on a letter. In order to graduate from my treatment program, I need to write a letter to the victim, in which I take responsibility for my actions and express my remorse. This letter is never sent; wouldn’t be fair to the victim, we’re told. Dredging up bad business and all that. But we have to write it.
So far, I have two words: Dear Rachel.
Rachel is an alias, of course—no confidentiality in group therapy, remember? So basically, after six weeks of work, I have two words, one of which is a lie.
Tonight, however, I think I can make some progress on my Dear Rachel letter. Tonight, I’m learning what it feels like to be a victim.
I wanted to run. Thought about it. Tried it out in my head. Couldn’t see how it could be done. Running away involves some serious logistics in this post-9/11 world where Big Brother is always watching. Can’t catch a plane or train without a license, and I don’t have a car. What am I supposed to do, walk my way across Massachusetts state lines?
Truth is, I don’t have the cash or the wheels for a hard-core disappearing act. I’ve been paying for polygraphs and support group, not to mention the hundred a week I send straight to Jerry. He calls it restitution. I call it insurance that he doesn’t track me to South Boston and break every goddamn bone in my miserable body.
So the bank account is a little low on exit funds.
What can I do? After support group, I headed home.
Colleen knocked on my door just thirty minutes later.
“Can I come in?” my parole officer asks, very polite, very firm. Her red hair is spiked tonight, but it doesn’t distract from the serious look on her face.
“Sure,” I say, and hold the door wide open. Colleen has visited once before, in the very beginning when she was confirming my address. It’s been two years now, but not much has changed. I’m not exactly big on interior decorating.
She walks down the cramped hallway to the back of the house, where my thrifty landlord, Mrs. Houlihan, has converted a sitting room and screened-in porch into a five-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom apartment. I pay eight hundred bucks a month for use of this magnificent space. In return, Mrs. H. can make the property tax payments on the home she’s owned for fifty-odd years, and doesn’t want to lose just because some yuppies finally discovered the neighborhood and sent property values sky high.
Truth is, I kind of like Mrs. H., even if she did hang lace over every damn window, as well as place crocheted doilies on all pieces of upholstered furniture (which she pins into place, as I know because I get pricked by the pins at least every other day). For starters, Mrs. H. knows I’m a registered sex offender, and she still lets me stay, even though her own kids yelled at her for it (I heard them from my apartment; it’s not like the house is that big). For another, I catch her in my room all the time.
“Forgot something,” she barks at me, playing to her age. Mrs. H. is eighty years old and built like a garden gnome. There is nothing fragile, absentminded, or remotely forgetful about her. She’s checking up on me, of course, and we both know it. But we don’t talk about it, and I like that, too.
Just for her, I half tuck my porn magazines underneath my mattress, where she’s sure to find them. I figure it makes her feel better to know that her “young man” renter is catching up on adult titty magazines. Otherwise, she might worry about me, and I don’t want that.
Maybe I could’ve used a mother growing up. Maybe that would’ve helped me. I don’t know.
Now, I lead Colleen into my little slice of paradise. She peruses the tiny kitchenette, the sparse sitting area with a pink floral love seat graciously supplied by Mrs. H. Colleen spends about sixty seconds in the main room, then moves on to the bedroom. I watch her crinkle her nose as she enters the room, and it reminds me that it’s been a while since I washed the sheets.
Well shit, I think. Can’t do anything about that now. Fresh laundering of bedding will be interpreted as a sign of guilt for sure.
Colleen wanders back into the family room, takes a seat on the pink sofa. A doily scratches her behind the neck. She straightens for a minute, stares at the crocheted Kleenex, then shrugs and leans back.
“Whatch’ya been up to, Aidan?”
“Work, walking, support group.” I shrug, remain standing. I can’t help myself. I’m too antsy to sit. I snap the green rubber band on my wrist. Colleen watches me do it, but doesn’t say anything.
“How’s the job?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Got any new friends, new hobbies?”
“Nope.”
“Catch any movies lately?”
“Nope.”
“Check any books out at the library?”
“Nope.”
She cocks her head to the side. “How about attending any neighborhood barbecues?”
“In March?”
She grins at me. “Sounds like your life is quieter than a church mouse’s.”
“Oh, it is,” I assure her. “It really, really is.”
She finally cuts to the chase, leaning forward, away from the doily, and planting her elbows on her knees. “I heard there was some excitement in the neighborhood.”
“I saw the cops,” I tell her. “Going door to door this morning.”
“You talk to them, Aidan?”
I shake my head. “Had to get to work. Vito tans my hide if I’m late. ’Sides,” I throw in defensively “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’.”
She smiles, and I can almost hear her thinking, Oh, if only I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one.
I start pacing, quick, agitated steps. “I’m writing a letter,” I say abruptly,
because she’s staring at me with that knowing PO sort of way, and you just have to say something when an authority figure stares at you that way.
“Yeah?”
“To Rachel,” I say. She won’t know who Rachel is, since it’s an alias and all, but that doesn’t stop her from nodding understandingly. “Gotta put into words how it feels to be helpless. Been tough to do, you know. Nobody likes to feel helpless. But I think I’m getting pretty good at it now. Think I’m gonna get a lot of quality time to know just what helpless feels like.”
“Talk to me, Aidan.”
“I didn’t do it! Okay? I didn’t do it. But this woman is gone, and I live five houses away, and I’m in the friggin’ sex offenders database, and that’s just it. Game over. Got pervert, will make arrest. Not like anyone’s gonna believe anything I say.”
“Did you know the woman, Aidan?”
“Not really. Just saw her around and all. But they got a kid. Saw that, too. And I’m following the rules. Don’t need no more trouble, not me. They have kids, I stay away.”
“I understand she’s very pretty.”
“Got a kid,” I say firmly, almost like a mantra, which hell, maybe it is.
“You’re nice-looking.” Colleen tilts her head as she says this, almost as if she’s appraising me, but I’m not fooled. “Living a quiet life, not getting out much. I can imagine how frustrating that must be for you.”
“Trust me, I whack off every day. Just ask my support counselor. She makes us tell her all about it.”
Colleen doesn’t flinch at my vulgarity. “What’s her name?” she asks abruptly.
“Whose name?”
“The woman.”
“Jones, I think. Something Jones.”
She’s watching me shrewdly, trying to figure out how much I know, or how much she can trick me into giving away. For example, will I confess that I met with the husband of the missing woman, even though the child was at home? I figure this is a detail I should keep to myself. Rule of thumb once you’re a felon—volunteer nothing, make the law enforcement officer do all the work.
“I believe it’s Sandra Jones,” she muses at last. “She teaches over at the middle school. Husband works nights. Tough gig, that. Her working days, the hubby working nights. I imagine she might have been feeling frustrated, too.”
I snap the elastic at my wrist. She hasn’t asked a question, so I’ll be damned if I answer.
“Kid’s pretty cute.”
I don’t say a word.
“Precocious, I understand. Loves to ride her trike all over the neighborhood. Maybe you’ve seen her a time or two?”
“See child, cross street,” I report. Snap, snap, snap.
“What were you doing last night, Aidan?”
“Already told you: nothin’.”
“Got an alibi for the nothing you were doing?”
“Sure, call Jerry Seinfeld. I hang out with him every night, seven P.M.”
“And after that?”
“Went to bed. Mechanics have an early start.”
“You went to bed alone?”
“Believe I already answered that, too.”
Now she arches a brow. “Really, Aidan, don’t dazzle me with your charm. Keep up this attitude, police are gonna toss you behind bars for sure.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Then convince me of it. Talk to me. Tell me all about this nothing you’ve been doing, because you’re right, Aidan—you’re a registered sex offender living five houses from where a woman has gone missing, and so far you’re looking pretty good for this.”
I lick my lips. Snap my band. Lick my lips. Snap my band.
I want to tell her about the car, but I don’t. Volunteering the car tidbit will bring the police to my house for sure. Better to wait, use the information as barter once they’ve hauled in my sorry ass for questioning and have me locked up in a holding cell. Better to talk when I can trade the information for freedom. Never give somethin’ for nothin’, another rule of thumb for the convicted felon.
“If I had done something,” I say at last, “then I damn well woulda put together a better story, don’t you think?”
“The lack of alibi is your alibi,” Colleen states drolly.
“Yeah, something like that.”
She rises off the sofa, and I have one second where I honestly feel relieved. I’m gonna survive after all.
Then she asks: “Can we walk outside?”
And I feel my good mood disappear just like that. “Why?”
“Nice night. I want to get some fresh air.”
I can’t think of a thing to say, so we walk outside, her, six feet high in some crazy platform boots, me, all hunched up in jeans and a white T-shirt. I’ve stopped snapping the rubber band at least. My wrist has gone numb and turned bright red. I look like a suicide victim. It’s something to consider.
She walks around the house, to the back yard. I can see her, intently checking the grounds. Any bloody power tools lying around? Perhaps some fresh-turned earth?
I want to say Fuck you. Of course, I say nothing at all. I keep my head down. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want to give anything away.
Later, she will tell me she’s doing this for my own good. She is looking out for me, trying to protect me. She only wants to help me.
And I can suddenly picture myself, sitting down on my stupid pink floral sofa, writing full force:
Dear Rachel:
I am sorry for what I did. Sorry for all the times I told you I only wanted to talk, when we both knew I just wanted to get you naked. Sorry for all the times I got you in bed, then said I only wanted what was best for you.
I’m sorry I fucked you, then told you it was all your fault. You wanted it. You needed it. I did it for you.
And I’m sorry that I still think about you every single goddamn day. How much I want you. How much I need you. How you did it just for me.
Then, just as I’m really on a roll, writing away in my head, Colleen’s voice suddenly cuts through the gloom.
“Hey, Aidan,” she calls out. “Is that your cat?”
| CHAPTER TWELVE |
The meeting started at six A.M. sharp. They began with the board. They had Person of Interest A: Mr. Jason Jones, relation—spouse. They had Person of Interest B: Aidan Brewster, relation—registered sex offender living on same block. From there, they outlined means, motives, and opportunity.
Means was left blank, as they lacked information on what exactly had happened to Sandra Jones. Killed, kidnapped? Ran away? Never good to make assumptions at such an early stage in an investigation, so they moved on.
Motives. Jones stood to gain millions of dollars he might otherwise lose in divorce, plus custody of his daughter. Brewster was a known sexual predator, perhaps acting out long-festering impulses.
Opportunity. Jones had an alibi for the night and time in question, but the alibi was hardly airtight. Brewster—no alibi, but could they connect Brewster to Sandra Jones? At this time, they had no phone messages, e-mails, or text messages linking the two. But geography remained in their favor. Suspect and victim lived only five houses apart. A jury could reasonably assume that Brewster and the victim had known each other in some capacity. Plus, there was the matter of the garage where Brewster worked. Perhaps Sandra Jones had serviced her car there—they planned on asking first thing this morning.
They moved on to background. Jones was a freelance reporter and “devoted” father, who’d married a very young pregnant bride and transplanted her to South Boston from Atlanta, Georgia. He had millions of dollars in assets from sources unknown. He was deemed “uncooperative” by both Detective Miller and Sergeant Warren, which was not in his favor. He also appeared to have a fetish for bolt locks and steel doors.
Brewster, on the other hand, was a registered sex offender, having engaged in sexual relations with a fourteen-year-old. Worked the same job for the past two years, lived at the same address. His PO liked him and had called in at nine P.M.
to report she’d found nothing suspicious at his apartment. So a plus in his favor.
Victim herself was not considered high-risk. A devoted mom and new schoolteacher, she had no history of drugs, alcohol, or sexual wantonness. Principal of the middle school described her as punctual, reliable, and conscientious. Husband claimed she’d never willingly leave her daughter. On the flip side, victim was young, living in a relatively strange city, and seemed to lack a support network of close friends and/or relatives. So they had early-twenties, socially isolated beautiful mom who spent most nights alone with her small child.
Crime scene: no sign of forced entry. No blood spatter or overt signs of violence. They had one broken lamp in the master bedroom, but no evidence it had been used as a weapon or destroyed as part of a larger struggle. They had a blue-and-green quilt that used to be on the master bed, but someone had stuffed it in the washing machine along with a purple nightshirt. They had the wife’s purse, cell phone, car keys, and vehicle all accounted for at the scene. No missing clothes, jewelry, or luggage. Husband’s truck was searched, but came up clean. Crime lab was currently searching the family’s trash. BRIC—Boston Regional Intelligence Center—would really like to search family’s computer.
At the last minute, D.D. added: 1 missing orange cat.
She stepped back from the white board. They all studied it.
When no one had anything new to add, she capped her pen and turned to the deputy superintendent of homicide.
“Sandra Jones has now been missing over twenty-four hours,” D.D. concluded. “She has not turned up at any local hospital or morgue. Nor has there been any activity on her credit cards or bank accounts during this time period. We have searched her house, her yard, the two vehicles, and her neighborhood. As of this time, we do not have a single lead on her whereabouts.”
“Cell phone?” the deputy superintendent barked.
“We are working with her cellular provider to procure a complete log of all deleted voice messages and text messages, as well as a list of all incoming and outgoing calls. In the past twenty-four hours, the activity on her cell phone has mostly been limited to her teaching position, with various staff members and students trying to track her down.”