Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

Clemente sighed, picked up the manila file folder in front him, tapped it a few times on the table. “Cable shows are gonna love this one.”

“We’ll need a dedicated public affairs officer,” D.D. commented.

“Ninety-five percent of ‘tips and inquiries’ are gonna be from lonely men with tinfoil hats and tales of alien abductions.”

“It’s been a while since we’ve gotten to hear from them,” D.D. said, straight-faced. “Maybe we can assign a second officer just to update their addresses.”

Clemente snorted. “Like I got the budget and they’re ever moving out of their mothers’ basements.” He clutched the file in two hands. “Press is gonna ask you about the husband. What do you plan on saying?”

“We are pursuing all leads at this time.”

“They’ll ask if he’s cooperating with the investigation.”

“Meaning I’m gonna call him at eight-thirty A.M. and suggest he let us interview his daughter, just so I can answer yes to that question and save him some grief.”

“And the registered sex offender?”

D.D. hesitated. “We’re pursuing all leads at this time.”

Clemente nodded sagely. “That’s my girl. I don’t want to hear any deviation from that party line. Last thing we need leaked is that we have two equally viable persons of interest. Next thing you know, they’ll point the finger at each other, providing instant reasonable doubt to the defense attorney of choice.”

D.D. nodded, without feeling the need to volunteer that Jason Jones was already going down that path. That was the problem with profiling two suspects, and why they had written everything on an erasable white board instead of in an official police report. Because once an arrest was made, all police reports became subject to disclosure to the defense attorney, who could then take suspect B and dangle him in front of the jury as the real mastermind. Ta-da , one dose of reasonable doubt, delivered by the earnest detective’s own thorough investigation. Sometimes you were the windshield. Sometimes you were the bug.

“Nine A.M. press conference, you say?” Clemente glanced at his watch, stood from the table. “Better get cracking.”

He tapped the file one last time, like a judge adjourning the trial. Then, he was out the door, while D.D. and Miller, finally officially empowered to assemble a taskforce and pressure a suspect, scrambled to get to work.

The phone rang shortly after 8 A.M. Jason turned his head slightly, eyed it ringing across the room on the little table by the window. He should get up, answer it. He couldn’t find the energy to move.

Ree sat on the carpet in front of him, half-eaten bowl of Cheerios sitting in front of her, her eyes glued to the TV. She was watching Dragon Tales , which had followed Clifford the Big Red Dog , which had followed Curious George. She had never been allowed to watch as much TV as she had watched in the past twenty-four hours. Last night, the promise of a movie had excited her. This morning, she simply appeared as glassy-eyed as he.

She had not come skipping down the hall at six-thirty A.M. to pounce on top of his prone form and shriek with four-year-old glee, “Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up! Daaaaa-dddeeeee. Wake. Up!”

Instead, he had appeared in her room at seven, to find her lying wide-eyed in bed, staring up at her ceiling as if memorizing the pattern of birds and butterflies floating across the painted eaves. He had opened her blinds to another chilly March day. Got out her fleecy pink bathrobe.

She climbed out of bed without a word, took the bathrobe, found her slippers, and followed him downstairs. The cereal sounded uncommonly loud pouring from the box. The milk made a positive racket, sloshing into the daisy-patterned bowl. He hadn’t been sure they’d be able to survive the sound of the silverware, but somehow, they had made it through.

She had carried her bowl into the family room and snapped on the TV without even asking. As if she’d known he wouldn’t deny her this. And he hadn’t. He couldn’t find the heart to say, Sit at the counter, young lady. TV will rot your brain, child. Come on, let’s have a real meal.

Somehow, brain rot seemed a minor inconvenience compared to what they were facing this morning-the second day without Sandra. The second day without Ree’s mom, and his wife, a woman who thirty-six hours ago had intentionally purged her own Internet account. A woman who had possibly left them.

Phone rang again. This time, Ree turned to stare at him. Her gaze was slightly accusing. Like, as the adult, he should know better.

So he finally slung himself off the sofa and crossed to the phone.

It was Sergeant Warren, of course. “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”

“Not really,” he replied.

“I trust you had a productive night at work.”

“Did what I had to do.” He shrugged.

“How is your daughter this morning?”

“Have you found my wife, Sergeant?”

“Well, no-”

“Then let’s cut to the chase.”

He heard her take a deep breath. “Well, as it has been more than twenty-four hours, you should know that your wife’s status has been upgraded to an official missing person.”

“How lucky for her,” he murmured.

“In a way, it is. Now we can open an active case file, and bring more resources to bear. Including which, we will be holding a press conference at nine A.M. to announce your wife’s disappearance.”

He stiffened. Felt her words hit him between the eyes, a sharp, stinging blow. He opened his mouth to protest, then caught himself. He clutched the bridge of his nose and pretended the stinging in his eyes was something other than tears. “All right,” he said quietly. He needed to start making phone calls, he realized. Get a lawyer. Start planning for Ree. He tucked the cordless phone more tightly between his shoulder and ear and headed into the kitchen, away from his child’s acute hearing.

He opened the refrigerator door, found himself staring at Sandra’s precious Dr Pepper, and closed the door again.

“Of course,” Sergeant Warren was saying, “it would be excellent if you were available to make your own appeal to the public. Personalize the case and all that. We could hold the conference in your front yard. You and Ree could both be present,” she concluded pleasantly.

“No thank you.”

“No thank you?” She sounded stunned, but they both knew she was faking it.

“My primary concern is for my daughter. I don’t think involving her in a media circus is to her benefit. I also think having reporters traipse across our yard and intrude in our private lives would be very traumatizing for her. Therefore, I think it’s best if I stay home, preparing her for what will come next.”

“And what do you think will come next?” Sergeant Warren asked, clearly baiting him.

“You will broadcast my wife’s photo on the TV and the newspaper. Copies will be made. It will be distributed and stapled up all over the city. Search parties will be organized. People from Sandy’s school will volunteer. The neighbors will stop by with offers of casseroles and hopes for the inside scoop. You will request clothing for canine teams. You will request hair for DNA tests, should you discover human remains. You will request a family photo, because the media will like that better than a lone shot of Sandy. Then the media vans will park outside my house with klieg lights that will power on every morning at four A.M. And you will have to assign uniforms simply to hold the hordes at the perimeter of my property line, where they will stand eighteen out of every twenty-four hours, screaming questions they hope I will magically appear to answer. If I serve as my own spokesman, everything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. On the other hand, if I hire an attorney to serve as a spokesperson, I will look like I’m hiding something.