by Lisa Gardner
When I was a little girl, I believed in God. Every morning when I woke up and my father was still alive, I considered it a sign of His work. It wasn’t until I grew older that I started to truly understand Sunday mornings in my parents’ house. My father’s survival had nothing to do with God’s will, I came to see. It was a sign of my mama’s will. She never killed my father, because she didn’t want him to die.
No, my mama’s goal was to torture my father. To make every living moment of his life feel like an eternity in hell.
My father lived, because in my mama’s mind, death would’ve been too good for him.
“Did you find Mr. Smith?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you find Mr. Smith? My cat. Mommy went to look for him this morning, but she hasn’t come back yet.”
D.D. blinked her eyes several times rapidly. She had just opened the door at the top of the basement steps, to find herself confronted by a very solemn, curly-headed four-year-old. Apparently, Clarissa Jones was now awake and running the investigation.
“I see.”
“Ree?” A male baritone broke through the silence. Ree obediently turned around, and D.D. glanced up to find Jason Jones standing in the foyer, studying both of them.
“I want Mr. Smith,” Ree said plaintively.
Jason held out his hand and his daughter crossed to him. He didn’t utter a word to D.D., simply vanished back into the family room, his daughter at his side.
D.D. and Miller followed suit, Miller giving a faint nod of his head to excuse the uniformed officer who’d been standing guard.
The family room was small. A tiny love seat, two wooden chairs, a hope chest covered in lace doilies, which served double duty as a coffee table. A modest TV was propped on a fake-oak microwave stand in the corner. The rest of the room was occupied by a child-sized craft table, and a row of bins that housed everything from a hundred crayons to two dozen Barbies. To judge by the toys, four-year-old Ree liked the color pink.
D.D. took her time. She surveyed the room, pausing at the grainy photos framed on the mantel, the picture of a newborn baby girl, that same baby girl in an annual procession of first food, first steps, first tricycle. No other family members in the photos. No obvious signs of grandmas, grandpas, aunts, uncles. Just Jason, Sandra, and Ree.
She noted a small shot of a toddler clutching a very tolerant orange cat, and supposed that must be the infamous Mr. Smith.
She worked her way to the toy cubbies, glancing at the table-top and noting a half-finished coloring project featuring Cinderella with two mice. Normal things, D.D. thought. Normal toys, normal items, normal furniture for a normal family in a normal South Boston home.
Except this family wasn’t normal, or she wouldn’t be here.
She passed by the cubbies one more time, trying to get a bead on the father without turning to look at him. Most men would be agitated by now. A missing wife. Law enforcement officers encroaching on his home, intruding into his private sanctuary, picking up and handling personal photos of his family while his four-year-old daughter was present.
She felt nothing from him. Nothing at all.
It was almost as if he weren’t in the room.
She turned at last. Jason Jones was sitting on the love seat, his arm around his complacent daughter, his gaze fixed upon the empty TV screen. Up close and personal, he was everything Miller had advertised. Thick rumpled hair, masculine five o’clock shadow, nicely toned chest accentuated by a simple navy blue cotton shirt. He was sex and fatherhood and mysterious boy-next-door all rolled into one. He was an anchorwoman’s wet dream, and Miller was right—if they didn’t find Sandra Jones before the first news van found them, they were screwed.
D.D. picked up one of the wooden chairs, placed it in front of the sofa, and took a seat. Miller, for his part, had faded into the backdrop. Better for approaching the kid. Two cops could pressure a reluctant husband. For an anxious child, however, it would be too much.
Jason Jones’s gaze finally flickered to her, resting upon her face, and in spite of herself, she nearly shivered.
His eyes were empty, like staring into pools of starless night. She had only seen such a gaze twice before. Once when interviewing a psychopath who’d resolved an unhappy business relationship by executing his partner and the man’s entire family with a crossbow. Secondly when interviewing a twenty-seven-year-old Portuguese woman who had been held as a sex slave for fifteen years by a wealthy couple in their elite Boston brownstone. The woman had died two years later. She’d walked into oncoming traffic on Storrow Drive. Never hesitated, witnesses said. Just stepped off the curb straight into the path of a Toyota Highlander.
“I want my cat,” Ree said. She had straightened on the sofa, pushing slightly away from her father. He didn’t try to pull her back.
“When did you last see Mr. Smith?” D.D. asked her.
“Last night. When I went to bed. Mr. Smith always sleeps with me. He likes my room best.”
D.D. smiled. “I like your room, too. All the flowers and the pretty butterflies. Did you help decorate it?”
“No. I can’t draw. My mommy and daddy did it. I’m four and three-quarters, you know.” Ree puffed out her chest. “I’m a big girl now, so I got a big girl’s room for my fourth birthday.”
“You’re four? No way, I would’ve said you’re five, six, easy. What have they been feeding you, ’cause you’re awfully tall for four.”
Ree giggled. Her father said nothing.
“I like macaroni and cheese. That’s my favorite food in the whole world. Mommy lets me eat it if I have turkey franks, too. Need protein, she says. If I have enough protein, I can have Oreos for dessert.”
“Is that what you ate last night?”
“I had mac-n-cheese and apples. No Oreos. Daddy didn’t have time to make it to the grocery store.”
She gave her father a look, and for the first time Jason Jones fired to life. He ruffled his daughter’s hair, while his gaze filled with a mixture of love and protectiveness. Then he turned away from her and, as if a switch had been thrown, resumed his dead man’s stare.
“Who fed you dinner last night, Ree?”
“Mommy feeds me dinner, Daddy feeds me lunch. I have PB and J for lunch, but no cookies. Can’t have cookies all the time.” Ree sounded faintly mournful.
“Does Mr. Smith like Oreos?”
Ree rolled her eyes. “Mr. Smith likes everything! That’s why he’s so fat. He eats and eats and eats. Mommy and Daddy say no people food for Mr. Smith, but he does not like that.”
“Did Mr. Smith help you eat dinner last night?”
“He tried to jump on the counter. Mommy told him to scat.”
“I see. And after dinner?”
“Bath time.”
“Mr. Smith takes a bath?” D.D. tried to sound incredulous.
Ree giggled again. “No, Mr. Smith is a cat. Cats don’t take baths. They groom themselves.”
“Ooh. That makes much more sense. So who took a bath?”
“Mommy and me.”
“Does your mom hog all the hot water? Use up all the soap?”
“No. But she won’t let me have the soap. Once I poured the whole bottle into the tub. You should’ve seen the bubbles!”
“That must’ve been most impressive.”
“I like bubbles.”
“So do I. And after the bath?”
“Well, we took a shower.”
“My apologies. After your shower …”
“Went to bed. I get to pick two stories. I like Fancy Nancy and Pinkalicious books. I also get to pick a song. Mommy likes to sing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,’ but I’m too old for that, so I made her sing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’ ”
“Your mother sang ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’?” D.D. didn’t have to fake her surprise this time.
“I like dragons,” Ree said.
“Umm, I see. And Mr. Smith, what did he think of this?”
“Mr. Smith doesn’t sing.”
<
br /> “But does he like songs?”
Ree shrugged. “He likes stories. He always curls up with me during story time.”
“Then your mother turns out the light?”
“I get a nightlight. I know I’m four and three-quarters, but I like having a nightlight. Maybe … I don’t know. Maybe when I’m five … or maybe thirty, then I won’t have a nightlight.”
“Okay, so you’re in bed. Mr. Smith is with you—”
“He sleeps at my feet.”
“Okay, he’s at your feet. Nightlight is glowing. Your mom turns off the light, closes the door, and then …”
Ree stared at her.
Jason Jones was staring at her now, too, his gaze faintly hostile.
“Anything happen in the middle of the night, Ree?” D.D. asked quietly.
Ree stared at her.
“Other noises. People talking. Your door opening? When did Mr. Smith leave you?”
Ree shook her head. She wasn’t looking at D.D. anymore. After another second, she curled back into her father’s side, her skinny arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Jason put both arms around her shoulders and regarded D.D. flatly.
“Done,” he said.
“Mr. Jones—”
“Done,” he repeated.
D.D. took a deep breath, counted to ten, and debated her options. “Perhaps there is a family member or neighbor who could watch Clarissa for a bit, Mr. Jones.”
“No.”
“No, there is no one who can watch her, or no, you won’t do it?”
“We look after our daughter, Detective …”
“Sergeant. Sergeant D.D. Warren.”
He didn’t blink at the mention of her title. “We look after our daughter, Sergeant Warren. No point in having a child if you’re simply going to let others raise her.”
“Mr. Jones, surely you understand that if we’re going to help find … Mr. Smith … we’re going to need more information, and more cooperation, from you.”
He didn’t say anything, just held his daughter close.
“We require the keys to your truck.”
He said nothing.
“Mr. Jones,” D.D. urged impatiently. “The sooner we establish where Mr. Smith isn’t, the sooner we can establish where she is.”
“He,” came Ree’s muffled voice from against her father’s chest. “Mr. Smith is a boy.”
D.D. didn’t respond, simply continued to study Jason Jones.
“Mr. Smith is not in the cab of my pickup truck,” Jason said quietly.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he was already gone when I came home. And just to be safe, I checked the vehicle myself.”
“With all due respect, sir, that would be our job.”
“Mr. Smith is not in my truck,” Jason repeated quietly. “And until you get a search warrant, you’ll get to take my word for it.”
“There are judges who would grant us a warrant based on your lack of cooperation alone.”
“Then I guess you’ll be back shortly, won’t you?”
“I want access to your computer,” D.D. said.
“Talk to the same judge.”
“Mr. Jones. Your … cat has been missing for seven hours now. No sign of her—”
“Him,” Ree’s muffled voice.
“Him, in the neighborhood or at the usual … cat haunts. The matter is growing serious. I would think you’d want to help.”
“I love my cat,” Jones said quietly.
“Then give us access to your computer. Cooperate with us, so we can resolve this matter safely and expediently.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t?” D.D. pounced. “Or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
“And why can’t you, Mr. Jones?”
He looked at her. “Because I love my daughter more.”
Thirty minutes later, D.D. walked with Detective Miller back to her car. They had printed Jason Jones and Clarissa Jones as a matter of protocol; in order to determine if there were any strange fingerprints in the house, they had to start by identifying the prints of the known occupants. Jones had volunteered his hands, then assisted with Ree’s, who thought the whole thing was a grand adventure. Most likely, Jason had realized that one act of cooperation cost him very little-after all, there was nothing suspicious about his prints being in his own home.
Jason Jones had washed his hands. Jason Jones had washed Ree’s hands. Then he’d basically kicked the police officers out. His daughter needed to rest, he announced, and that had been that. He escorted each and every one of them to the door. No What are you doing to find my wife? No Please, please please I’ll do whatever I can to help. No Let’s organize a search party and tackle the entire neighborhood until we find my beautiful, beloved spouse.
Not Mr. Jones. His daughter needed a nap. And that was that.
“Cold?” D.D. muttered now. “Arctic is more like it. Clearly, Mr. Jones has never heard of global warming.”
Miller let her rant.
“Kid knows something. Notice the way she shut down the moment we got past bedtime? She heard something, saw something, I don’t know. But we need a forensic interviewer, someone who specializes in children. Quick, too. More time that girl spends around dear old Dad, harder it’s going to be for her to recall any inconvenient truths.”
Miller nodded his head.
“ ’Course, we’re also gonna need doting Dad’s permission to interview his child, and somehow, I don’t think he’s gonna grant us access. Fascinating, don’t you think? I mean, his wife vanished in the middle of the night, leaving their daughter all alone in the house, and far from cooperating with us, or asking us any logical questions about what we’re doing to find his wife, Jason Jones sits on that sofa as mute as a mime. Where’s his shock, his disbelief, his panicked need for information? He should be calling friends and relatives. He should be digging out recent photos of his wife for us to canvass the neighborhood. He should, at the very least, be arranging for someone to watch his daughter so he can personally assist with our efforts. This guy—it’s like a switch has been thrown. He’s not even home.”
“Denial,” Miller offered up, trudging along beside her.
“We’re gonna have to do this the hard way,” D.D. declared. “Get a search warrant for Jason Jones’s truck, get an affidavit permitting us to seize the computer, as well as requesting printouts of the wife’s cell phone records. Hell, we should probably just have the entire house frozen as a crime scene. That’d give Jason Jones something to think about.”
“Tough on the kid.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the kicker.” If the house was declared a crime scene, Jason and his daughter would be forced to evacuate. Pack a bag, move into a motel under escort from a police cruiser kind of thing. D.D. wondered what little Ree would think, giving up her garden oasis for a cheap hotel room with brown carpets and the stale scent of a decade’s worth of cigarettes. It didn’t make D.D. feel too good about things, but then she had another thought.
She stopped walking, pivoting toward Miller so abruptly, he nearly ran into her.
“If we move Jason and Ree out of the house, we’ll have to assign officers to cover them twenty-four/seven. Meaning there’ll be fewer officers actively searching for Sandra Jones, meaning our investigation will slow down during a time when it’s critical to ramp up. You know that. I know that. But Jason doesn’t know that.”
Miller frowned at her, stroked his mustache.
“Judge Banyan,” D.D. said, resuming walking at a much brisker pace. “We can prepare the affidavits now, and get ’em to her chamber right after lunch. We’ll get warrants for the computer, the truck, and dammit, we’ll have the house declared a crime scene. We’ll knock Mr. Arctic right out on his ass.”
“Wait, I thought you just said—”
“And we’ll hope,” D.D. interjected forcefully, “that when Jason Jones is given a choice between vacating his own home, or letting a certified forensic specialist t
alk to his child, he’ll opt for the interview.”
D.D. glanced at her watch. It was just after twelve now, and on cue, her stomach rumbled for lunch. She remembered her early-morning fantasy of an all-you-can-eat buffet, and felt just plain pissy.
“We’ll need more manpower to execute the warrants,” she added.
“All right.”
“And we’re gonna have to think of a way to broaden our search without alerting the media yet.”
“All right.”
They were at her car. D.D. paused long enough to look Miller in the eye and sigh heavily.
“This case sucks,” she declared.
“I know,” Miller said affably. “Aren’t you glad I called?”
| CHAPTER FIVE |
At 11:59, Jason finally got the last law enforcement officer out of the house. The sergeant retreated, then the lead detective, the evidence technicians, and the uniformed officers. Only a plainclothes detective remained behind, sitting obtrusively in a brown Ford Taurus parked in front. Jason could watch him from the kitchen window, the officer sitting with his gaze straight ahead, alternately yawning and taking sips of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
After another minute, Jason moved away from the window, realized that his house was all his again, and nearly staggered under the weight of what to do next.
Ree was staring at him, her big brown eyes so much like her mother’s.
“Lunch,” Jason said out loud, slightly startled by the hoarse sound of his own voice. “Let’s have lunch.”
“Daddy, did you buy Oreo cookies?”
“No.”
She exhaled heavily, turning toward the kitchen anyway. “Maybe you should call Mommy. Maybe, if she’s near a grocery store looking for Mr. Smith, she can bring home some cookies.”
“Maybe,” Jason said, and managed to get the refrigerator door open even though his hand had started to shake violently.
He made it through lunch on autopilot. Found the bread, pulled out whole wheat slices. Mixed the natural peanut butter, spread the jelly. Counted out four carrots, picked out some green grapes. Arranged it all on a flowered daisy plate with the sandwich cut on the requisite diagonal.
Ree prattled about Mr. Smith’s great escape, how no doubt he would be meeting up with Peter Rabbit and maybe they’d both come home with Alice in Wonderland. Ree was at the age where she easily blended fact and fantasy. Santa was real, the Easter Bunny was best friends with the Tooth Fairy, and there was no reason Clifford the Big Red Dog couldn’t have a play date with Mr. Smith.