The Detective D. D. Warren Series 5-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  His voice was rougher this time. “True.”

  “Your daughter knows something, Jason. More than she’s willing to say. Marianne Jackson is convinced of it. So am I. And I’m telling you now, that girl gets so much as an unexplained freckle and I will pursue you to hell and back.”

  He didn’t answer anymore. Mostly because he was too shocked to speak. “You mean … you mean …”

  “We’re watching you. Every minute of every hour of every day. You keep that girl safe.”

  He got it then, not just the threat, but more subtly, the detective’s warning. Ree was the last person to see Sandy alive. Ree knew more than she was currently willing or able to say. Ree held the key to the puzzle.

  Meaning whoever harmed Sandy had one helluva incentive.…

  Jason couldn’t finish the thought. His chest had grown too tight. Fear or rage? It was too hard to tell. Maybe, for a man like him, those emotions were one and the same.

  “No one will harm my child,” he heard himself say. “I will keep my daughter safe.”

  D.D. just looked at him. “Yeah? And how many times did you think the same thing about your wife?”

  Jason Jones stalked off. D.D. didn’t follow. She returned to the principal’s office, where she and Miller had another go at Ethan, with pretty much the same results. Ethan Hastings was convinced that Jason Jones was pure evil, yet could not offer a single compelling reason why Sandra Jones might claim her husband was dangerous. The boy had found his heroine, and in Jason Jones, the dragon guarding the keep.

  His parents were distraught, the father going so far as to pull D.D. aside to mention his wife’s brother, Ethan’s uncle, worked for the state police.…

  D.D. didn’t have the heart to tell the man that a family connection with the state police hardly bought you brownie points with the BPD.

  She and Miller jotted down Ethan’s statement, seized his cell phone to search for incriminating messages between him and his twenty-three-year-old teacher, then hunted down Elizabeth Reyes, aka Mrs. Lizbet, who had a more even-handed assessment of things.

  By the time they finished up at the school, it was five o’clock and D.D. was in the mood for lasagna.

  “You’re awfully perky,” Miller informed her.

  “Good day,” she agreed.

  “We still haven’t found Sandra Jones, and now we have a third suspect to consider—a thirteen-year-old Romeo.”

  “I don’t think Sandra Jones was sleeping with Ethan Hastings. Though it’ll be fun to search his cell phone.”

  Miller slanted her a look. “How can you be so sure? You been watching the same national news I have? Seems like all the pretty teachers have eighth grade boyfriends these days.”

  “True.” D.D. wrinkled her nose. “And no, it doesn’t make any sense to me. I mean, hell, it’s not like a woman who looks like Sandra Jones would have a problem attracting male interest.”

  “It’s a dominance thing,” Miller assured her. “These women don’t want an equal relationship. They want a relationship with a male who will do whatever they say. And since those of us with testosterone aren’t known for our cooperation, they skew to the younger crowd.”

  “So the testosterone is to blame?” D.D. arched a brow. “Huh, maybe I should spend more time at the local middle school.” She blew out a puff of air. “I still don’t think Sandy was sleeping with Ethan Hastings. How could she? By all accounts, she always had her child with her.”

  Miller considered the matter. “Maybe it was one of those, what do they call it, ‘emotional affairs.’ Sandy basically seduced Ethan via cell phone, e-mail, etc. Then her husband stumbled across some of the messages, and killed her in a fit of jealous rage.”

  “Or she mentioned it to the local pervert, Aidan Brewster, and he killed her in a fit of jealous rage. You’re right, we do have too many suspects. But look on the bright side.”

  “The bright side?”

  “Sandra Jones’s alleged relationship with a student gives us probable cause to seize her computer.”

  Miller perked up. “Good day,” he agreed.

  | CHAPTER TWENTY |

  People go through their lives gearing up for the big moments. We plan blowout celebrations for key benchmarks—the twenty-first-birthday bash, the engagement party, the wedding celebration, the baby shower. We celebrate and hoot and holler and try to honor the big stuff, because, well, it’s the big stuff.

  Likewise, we steel ourselves for the major blows. The community that rallies behind the survivors of a deadly house fire. The family that comes together for the funeral of the cancer-stricken young father. The best friend who sticks around for your first weekend as a newly divorced mom. We see the big things coming and we prepare ourselves for the lead roles in our own personal dramas. It makes us feel better about things. Stronger. Look at me, I made it.

  Of course, we’re totally missing all the moments in between. The day-to-day life that is what it is. Nothing to celebrate. Nothing to mourn. Just tasks to perform.

  I’m convinced these are the moments that ultimately make us or break us. Like a wave lapping against the same boulder day after day, eroding the stone, shaping the line of the shore, the ordinary minutia of our lives holds the real power, and thus all the hidden danger. The daily things we do, or don’t do, without ever understanding the long-term ramification of such minor acts.

  For example, I ended the world as I knew it on Saturday, August 30, the day I bought Jason an iPod for his birthday.

  Ree and I were shopping together. She needed school clothes, I wanted some supplies to finish setting up my first classroom. We walked into Target, saw the iPods, and I thought immediately of Jason. He loved listening to music, and lately he’d taken up running. With an iPod he could combine two of his favorite activities.

  We smuggled the credit card-sized musical masterpiece home by hiding it in my school supplies. Later, when he and Ree were wrestling together in the family room, I stashed the iPod in a kitchen drawer, beneath the stack of oven mitts, where it would be closer to the computer.

  Ree and I had already plotted the whole thing out in the car. How we’d secretly set up the iPod for him, downloading tons of rock-n-roll, in lieu of Jason’s beloved classical music. Thanks to the movie Flushed Away, Ree was familiar with the works of Billy Idol and Fatboy Slim. On Sunday mornings, when Jason’s insomnia sometimes caught up with him and he slept past nine, Ree’s new favorite way of waking her father was to blast Dancing with Myself throughout the entire house. Because nothing gets a George Winston lover out of bed faster than a British rock star.

  We were very pleased with ourselves.

  Saturday night was family night, so we held tight. Sunday, around five, Jason announced he needed to head for the office. He had to review some sources, get a first draft of a feature piece of Southie’s Irish pub scene together, etc., etc. Ree and I practically ushered him out the door. His birthday was on Tuesday. We wanted to be prepared.

  I started by booting up the family computer. Mr. Smith leapt up to supervise, taking a position next to the warm monitor, where he could watch me smugly through the golden slits of his eyes.

  Like most things electronic, the iPod required special software that had to be installed. I hardly have Jason’s skills with a computer, but most uploads are pretty idiot-proof even for me. Sure enough, the installation wizard appeared and I was off and running, clicking I Agree, Yes, and Next in every dialogue box that appeared.

  “See, I’m smarter than you think,” I informed Mr. Smith. He yawned at me.

  Ree was already sorting through her CD collection. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain Jason needed some Disney music to accompany Billy Idol. Perhaps he’d run faster listening to Elton John from The Lion King. Or, let’s not forget Phil Collins’s industrious work on Tarzan.

  The computer announced that the iTunes software was up and running. Ree scurried over with a fistful of CDs. I read a few instructions, then showed her how we could inser
t her CDs into the computer’s drive, and all the music would be copied onto Daddy’s iPod. She found this magical beyond words. Then of course we had to visit the online music store, and download some classics from Led Zepplin and the Rolling Stones. “Sympathy for the Devil” has always been a personal favorite of mine.

  Next thing I knew, it was already eight o’clock and time to get Ree to bed. I returned the iPod to its hiding place beneath the oven mitts. Ree quickly gathered up her scattered CDs and stuck them back on the shelf. Then it was upstairs for a quick bath, teeth brushing, potty, two stories, one song, a parting scratch to the cat’s ears, and at long last, quiet.

  I returned to the kitchen, brewed a cup of tea. Tomorrow was Labor Day, essentially the last day of summer vacation for myself and Ree. After this would begin the weekly grind of shuttling Ree off to preschool, then getting myself to the middle school. Jason would pick her up by one P.M., then I’d need to be home by five so he could get to work. Lots of hustle and bustle. My husband and me becoming two ships that passed in the night.

  I was nervous. I was excited. I was scared. I’d wanted a job. Something of my own. It had surprised me as much as anyone when I’d picked teaching, but I had enjoyed last year. The kids looked up to me, soaking in knowledge, but also kind words. I liked that moment when something I did made a roomful of tweens smile happily. I liked twenty-five kids calling, “Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones,” probably because it wasn’t my mother’s name, therefore Mrs. Jones sounded like someone highly competent and respectable.

  When I was in front of a classroom, I felt smart, in control. My own childhood fell away, and in the kids’ eyes, I saw the adult I wanted to be. Patient, knowledgeable, resourceful. My daughter loved me. My students liked me.

  And my husband … I was never sure with Jason. He needed me. He respected my desire to get a job, though I knew he would’ve preferred it if I’d stayed home with Ree. He had encouraged me to return to school, even though that had been hard on the whole family. I had told him I needed something of my own, and he had immediately written a check to the online college of my choice.

  He gave me space. He trusted my decisions. He showed me kindness.

  He was a good man, I reminded myself yet again, as I often did on these nights when the shadows grew long and it felt once again like I was all alone.

  So our marriage didn’t involve sex. No marriage was perfect, right? This was adulthood. Understanding that the rosy dreams you had as a kid really weren’t meant to come true. You made trade-offs. You sacrificed for your family.

  You did what was right, even if it wasn’t perfect, and you were grateful for all the nights you went to sleep without smelling the cloying scent of dying roses.

  Thinking of Jason reminded me that Ree and I needed to bake his birthday cake in the morning. Perhaps I should wrap the iPod now, while he was still out. Then my gaze fell upon the computer and I realized the flaw in our plan.

  Jason used the computer every night. Meaning tonight, when he returned from work and booted it up, the first thing he was bound to notice was the brand-new iTunes icon in the middle of the menu bar.

  So much for our surprise.

  I sat down at the computer, trying to figure out my options. I could uninstall the program. We’d already downloaded our favorite songs onto the actual iPod, so temporarily deleting the iTunes software shouldn’t change anything. Or …

  I had this vague memory that you could delete things on the desktop by moving them into the recycle bin. However, the item would remain tucked in the recycle bin until you gave the official command for the bin to empty. Given that, maybe I could drag the iTunes icon into the recycle bin, out of Jason’s sight, and just leave it tucked there. Voila.

  Before I got ahead of myself, I decided to test out my theory on an old teaching document. I found the file name, highlighted it, and dragged it to the trash. Then, I double clicked on the recycle bin icon to see what had happened.

  The bin opened, and sure enough, there sat my teaching doc. As well as one other item, labeled Photo 1.

  So I clicked on it.

  The grainy black-and-white image filled the screen.

  And I stuffed my fist into my mouth so my sleeping daughter wouldn’t hear me scream.

  The distance from South Boston Middle School to Jason and Sandra’s home was approximately four and a half miles long, or an eight-minute drive. The short commute was perfect for the daily scramble, when Ree needed to be dropped off or picked up from location A while Sandra or Jason were scrambling to reach location B.

  Now Jason ticked off each block in his mind, while clutching the steering wheel with both hands and thinking that eight minutes was too short. He could not get composed in eight minutes. He could not understand the impact of Ethan Hastings in eight minutes. He could not recover from Sergeant D.D. Warren’s grim warning about his child in eight minutes. He couldn’t prepare himself for what was about to happen next, in only eight minutes.

  Ree was the last person to see her mother alive on Wednesday night. The cops knew it. He knew it. And by definition, one other person probably knew it.

  The person who had harmed his wife. The person who might return to harm Ree.

  “I’m tired, Daddy,” Ree was whining in the back, rubbing her eyes. “I want to go home.”

  Even Mr. Smith had abandoned his lounging to sit and stare at Jason expectantly. The cat wanted dinner, no doubt, not to mention fresh water and a litter box.

  “Are we going home, Daddy? I want to go home, Daddy.”

  “I know, I know.”

  He didn’t want to. He thought of taking them to a restaurant for dinner, a cheap motel for nighttime. Or hell, filling up with gas and heading to Canada. But in this day and age of Amber Alerts, running wasn’t an impromptu act, especially with a four-year-old girl and an orange cat. Canada? he thought darkly. He’d be lucky if they made it to the Massachusetts border.

  Ree wanted home, and home was probably still the safest bet. He had steel doors, reinforced windows. Forewarned was forearmed. Maybe he hadn’t known everything going on in his wife’s world, hadn’t sensed the threat. Well, he was paying attention now. No way in hell anyone was touching his daughter.

  Or so he told himself.

  Of course, going home also meant facing an empty house without Sandy’s cheerful welcome. Or worse yet, confronting the media that were no doubt camped out in his front yard.

  “How’d you kill your wife, Jason? Knife, gun, garrote? Bet it was easy for you, given all your experience.…”

  He should have a spokesperson, he thought idly. Isn’t that how it worked in this day and age? Become a victim of a crime, hire an entourage. A lawyer to represent your interests, a spokesperson to speak on behalf of your family, and, of course, an entertainment agent to handle the pending book and movie deals. Right to privacy? Solitude for shock and mourning?

  No one gave a rat’s ass anymore. Your pregnant daughter was kidnapped and killed. Your beloved wife was murdered on the subway. Your girlfriend’s body had just been found cut up in a suitcase. Your life suddenly belonged to the cable news. Forget planning a funeral, you needed to appear on Larry King. Forget trying to explain to your child that Mommy wasn’t coming home anymore, you needed to share a couch with Oprah.

  Crime equaled celebrity, whether you liked it or not.

  He was angry. Suddenly, viciously. His knuckles had whitened on the steering wheel, and he was driving too fast, way over the speed limit.

  He didn’t want this life. He didn’t want to miss his wife. And he didn’t want to be so terrified for his only daughter.

  He forced himself to inhale deeply, then exhale slowly, easing off the gas pedal, working out his shoulders. Push it away. Lock it up tight. Let it go. Then smile, because you’re on Candid Camera.

  He turned onto his street. Sure enough, four news vans were stacked bumper to bumper on his block. The police were out, too. The cruiser parked right in front of his house, two uniformed officers standi
ng on the sidewalk, hands on their hips as they surveyed the small huddle of smartly suited reporters and shabbily dressed cameramen. Local stations; story hadn’t launched into national headlines yet.

  Wait till they heard about Ethan Hastings. That would do it.

  Ree’s eyes had widened in the back seat. “Is there a party, Daddy?” she asked excitedly.

  “Maybe they’re happy we found Mr. Smith.”

  He slowed for the driveway, and the first surge of flashes exploded outside his window. He pulled into the driveway, parked the station wagon. The media couldn’t trespass onto private property, so he had plenty of time to unfasten his seatbelt, tend to his child, figure out Mr. Smith.

  Grieving husband, grieving husband. Cameras came with telephoto lenses.

  He would carry Mr. Smith to the house, while holding Ree’s hand. There was a photo op for you—bruised and bandaged husband clutching a pretty orange kitty with one hand and a beautiful little girl with the other. Yep, he’d get fan mail for sure.

  He felt empty again. Not mad, not sad, not angry, not anything. He had found the zone.

  Mr. Smith stood on Jason’s lap, peering out the window at the commotion. The cat’s ears were straight up, its tail twitching nervously. In the back, Ree already had the seatbelt unfastened and was staring at him expectantly.

  “Can you get out of this side of the car, love?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded, staring at the throng of strangers on the sidewalk. “Daddy?”

  “It’s okay, honey. Those are reporters. It’s their job to ask questions, kind of like it’s Daddy’s job to ask questions. Except I write up stuff in the paper, while these reporters talk about it on TV.”

  She looked at him again, the anxiety building in her drawn features.

  He twisted in the driver’s seat, touching her hand. “They have to stay on the sidewalk, honey. It’s the law. So, they can’t come inside our home. However, when we get out of the car, it’s gonna be loud. They’re gonna start asking all sorts of crazy questions all at once, and get this—they don’t raise their hands.”