Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

Because the longer Sandy remained missing, the worse this was going to get. The police would keep digging, asking harder questions. And inevitably, the word would leak out, the media would descend. Jason’s own peers would turn on him like cannibals, beaming his image all over the free world. Jason Jones, husband of the missing woman and person of interest in an ongoing investigation.

Sooner or later, someone was going to recognize that image. Someone was going to start to connect dots.

Especially if the police got their hands on his computer.

Jason careened around the table too fast, catching his knee on the corner of the washing machine. The pain lanced up his thigh and finally forced him to stop. For an instant, the world spun, so he clung to the top of the washer, breathless with pain.

When he could finally focus again, the first thing he noticed was the spider, the tiny little brown garden spider hanging right in front of him by a thread.

Jason jumped back, clipping the edge of the beat-up table with his shin and nearly yelping from the pain. But that was okay. He could take the pain. He didn’t mind the pain, just so long as he didn’t see that spider again.

And for a moment, it was too much. For a moment, one tiny little cellar spider had him spinning back to a place where it was always dark except for the eyes that glowed from the dozens of terrariums edging the room. A place where screams started in the basement and worked their way up through the walls. A place that smelled routinely of death and decay and no amount of ammonia was ever going to make a difference.

A place little boys and big girls went to die.

Jason placed a fist in his mouth. He bit his own knuckle until he tasted blood and he used that pain to ground himself again.

“I will not lose control,” he murmured. “I will not lose control, I will not lose control, I will not lose control.”

The phone rang upstairs. He gratefully left the basement and went to answer it.

The caller was Phil Stewart, the principal from Sandy’s school, and he sounded uncharacteristically flummoxed.

“Is Sandra there?” Phil started.

“She’s not available,” Jason said automatically. “May I take a message?”

There was a long pause. “Jason?”

“Yes.”

“Is she home? I mean, have the police located her yet?”

So the police had interviewed people where Sandra worked. Of course they had. That was a logical next step. After checking here, they might as well check there. Of course. Jason needed something intelligent to say. A statement of fact, a party line that summed up the current state of affairs without delving into personal territory.

He couldn’t think of a single damn word.

“Jason?”

Jason cleared his throat, glanced at the clock. It was 7:05 P.M., meaning Sandy had now been gone for what, eighteen, twenty hours? Day one nearly done, day two nearly beginning. “Umm… she’s… she’s… she’s not home, Phil.”

“She’s still missing,” the principal stated.

“Yes.”

“Do you have any ideas? Do the police have a lead? What’s going on, Jason?”

“I went to work last night,” Jason said simply. “When I came home, she was gone.”

“Oh my God,” Phil expelled as a long sigh. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

“No.”

“Do you think she’s coming home? I mean, maybe she just needed to take a break or something.” This was delving into personal territory, and Jason could practically hear Phil’s blush over the phone lines.

“Maybe,” Jason said quietly.

“Well.” Phil seemed to pull himself together. “Sounds like I should arrange a sub for tomorrow.”

“I would think so.”

“Will the search begin in the morning? I imagine much of the staff would like to assist. Probably some parents of the students, as well. Of course you’ll need help distributing flyers, canvassing neighborhoods, that sort of thing. Who will be leading the charge?”

Jason faltered again, feeling the edge of panic. He caught it this time, stiffened his backbone, forced himself to sound firm. “I will get that information to you.”

“We’ll need to think of what to tell the children,” Phil stated, “preferably before they catch it on the news. Perhaps a public statement for the parents, as well. Nothing like this has happened around here before. We need to start preparing the kids.”

“I will get that information to you,” Jason repeated.

“How is Clarissa holding up?” Phil asked abruptly.

“About as well as can be expected.”

“If you need any help on that front, just let us know. I’m sure some of the teachers would be happy to assist. These things can all be managed, of course. All it takes is a plan.”

“Absolutely,” Jason assured him. “All it takes is a plan.”

At 5:59 P.M. Sergeant D.D. Warren was a happy camper. She had a warrant to search Jason Jones’s truck. She had an appointment with a registered sex offender’s parole officer. And better yet, it was trash night in the neighborhood.

She drove around South Boston with Detective Miller, getting the lay of the land while they plotted next steps.

“According to Detective Rober,” Miller was reporting, “Jones kept a low profile for the afternoon. No guests, no errands, no activities. He seems to be hanging out at home with his daughter, doing his thing.”

“Has he been out to the truck?” D.D. wanted to know.

“Nope, hasn’t even cracked open the front door.”

“Huh,” D.D. said. “Working on the computer? Your guy should be able to see him sitting there in the kitchen window.”

“I asked that question, and the answer is uncertain. Afternoon sun made the view into the kitchen window unclear. But in the officer’s professional assessment, Jones spent most of the day entertaining his kid.”

“Interesting,” D.D. said, and meant it. What a spouse did after a loved one went missing was always a source of fodder for the inquisitive detective. Did the spouse go about business as usual? Suddenly invite over a new female friend for “comfort”? Or run around purchasing accelerants and/or unusual power tools?

In Jason’s case, his behavior seemed to be mostly defined by what he didn’t do. No relatives or friends coming over to help him cope, maybe assist with childcare. No trips to the local office supply store to blow up photos of his missing wife. No quick visits to his neighbor’s house for standard inquiries: Hey, have you happened to see my wife? Or maybe hear anything unusual last night? Oh, and by the way, catch any sign of an orange cat ?

Jason Jones’s wife disappeared and he did nothing at all.

It’s almost as if he didn’t expect her to be found. D.D. found that fascinating.

“Okay,” she said now, “given that Jason is holding tight, I think our first stop should be with Aidan Brewster’s PO. We got Suspicious Husband under our thumb. Now it’s time to learn more about Felonious Neighbor.”

“Works for me,” Detective Miller said. “You know, tomorrow morning happens to be trash day for the neighborhood.” He nodded his head toward the collection of trash cans starting to proliferate on the curb. Trash in a house was private property and required a warrant. Trash on the curb, on the other hand… “Say two or three A.M., I have an officer swing by and pick up Jones’s garbage? Give us something to sort through in the morning.”

“Ah, Detective, you read my mind.”

“I try,” he said modestly.

D.D. winked at him, and they swung back into the city.

Colleen Pickler agreed to meet with them in the nondescript space that passed for her office. The floor was light gray linoleum, the walls were covered in battleship gray paint, and her filing cabinets sported a dull gray finish. In contrast, Colleen was a six-foot athletically built Amazon, sporting a head of shocking red hair and wearing a deep red blazer over a kaleidoscope T-shirt of oranges, yellows, and reds. When she first stood up from her desk, it looked like a torch had suddenly been lit in the middle of a fog bank.