Lisa Gardner: The Neighbor

She blew back a small batch of foam, took several sips, and felt some of her tension unknot a little more.

She never should’ve gone to the wedding. That’s what this was about. A woman her age should boycott all weddings and baby showers.

Damn that Bobby Dodge. He’d actually choked up when saying his vows. And Annabelle had cried, looking impossibly lovely in her strapless white gown. Then, the dog, Bella, walking down the aisle with two gold bands fastened to her collar with a giant bow.

How the hell were you not supposed to get a little emotional about something like that? Especially when the music started and everyone was dancing to Etta James’s “At Last” except you, of course, because you’d been working so damn much you never got around to finding a date?

D.D. sipped more latte, gazed down at busy little lives, and scowled.

Bobby Dodge had gotten married. That’s what this was about. He’d gone and found someone better than her, and now he was married and she was…

Goddammit, she needed to get laid.

She’d just gotten her running shoes laced up when her cell phone rang. She checked the number, frowned, placed the phone to her ear.

“Sergeant Warren,” she announced crisply.

“Morning, Sergeant. Detective Brian Miller, District C-6. Sorry to bother you.”

D.D. shrugged, waited. Then when the detective didn’t immediately continue, “How can I help you this morning, Detective Miller?”

“Well, I got a situation…” Again, Miller’s voice trailed off, and again, D.D. waited.

District C-6 was the BPD field division that covered the South Boston area. As a sergeant with the homicide unit, D.D. didn’t work with the C-6 detectives very often. South Boston wasn’t really known for its murders. Larceny, burglary, robbery, yes. Homicide, not so much.

“Dispatch took a call at five A.M.,” Miller finally spoke up. “A husband, reporting that he’d come home and discovered his wife was missing.”

D.D. arched a brow, sat back in the chair. “He came home at five A.M.?”

“He reported her missing at five A.M. Husband’s name is Jason Jones. Ring any bells?”

“Should it?”

“He’s a reporter for the Boston Daily. Covers the South Boston beat, writes some larger city features. Apparently, he works most nights, covering city council meetings, board meetings, whatever. Wednesday it’s the water precinct, then he got a call to cover a residential fire. Anyhow, he wrapped up around two A.M., and returned home, where his four-year-old daughter was sleeping in her room but his wife was MIA.”

“Okay.”

“First responders did the standard drill,” Miller continued. “Checked ’round the house. Car’s on the street, woman’s purse and keys on the kitchen counter. No sign of forced entry, but in the upstairs bedroom a bedside lamp is broken and a blue-and-green quilt is missing.”

“Okay.”

“Given the circumstances, a mom leaving a kid alone, etc., etc., the first responders called their supervisor, who contacted my boss in the district office. Needless to say, we’ve spent the past few hours combing the neighborhood, checking with local businesses, tracking down friends and families, etc., etc. To make a long story short, I haven’t a clue.”

“Got a body?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Blood spatter? Footprints, collateral damage?”

“Just a busted-up lamp.”

“First responders check the whole house? Attic, basement, crawl space?”

“We’re trying.”

“Trying?”

“Husband… he’s not refusing, but he’s not exactly cooperating.”

“Ah crap.” And suddenly D.D. got it. Why a district detective was calling a homicide sergeant about a missing female. And why the homicide sergeant wouldn’t be going for her run. “Mrs. Jones-she’s young, white, and beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Twenty-three-year-old blond schoolteacher. Has the kind of smile that lights up a TV screen.”

“Please tell me you haven’t talked about this over the radio.”

“Why do you think I called you on your cell phone?”

“What’s the address? Give me ten minutes, Detective Miller. I’ll be right there.”

D.D. left her running shoes in the family room, her running shorts in the hall, and her running shirt in the bedroom. Jeans, white button-down top, a killer pair of boots, and she was ready to go. Clipped her pager to her waist, hung her creds around her neck, slipped her cell phone into her back pocket.

Last pause for her favorite caramel-colored leather jacket, hanging on a hook by the door.

Then Sergeant Warren hit the road, on the job and loving it.

South Boston had a long and colorful history, even by Boston standards. With the bustling financial district on one side, and the bright blue ocean on the other, it functioned as a quaint harbor town with all the perks of big-city living. The area was originally settled by the lower end of the socioeconomic scale. Struggling immigrants, mostly Irish, cramming thirty people to a room in vermin-ridden tenement housing, where a slop bucket served as latrine and a straw pile became a flea-infested mattress. Life was hard, with disease, pests, and poverty being everyone’s closest neighbor.

Fast-forward a hundred and fifty years, and “Southie” was less of a place and more of an attitude. It gave birth to Whitey Bulger, one of Boston’s most notorious crime lords, who spent the seventies turning the local housing projects into his personal playground, addicting one half of the population while employing the other half. And still, the area soldiered on, neighbor looking after neighbor, each generation of tough, wiseass kids producing the next generation of tough, wiseass kids. Outsiders didn’t get it, and by Southie standards, that was just fine.

Unfortunately, all attitudes sooner or later got adjusted. One year, a major harbor event brought droves of city dwellers into the area. They arrived expecting squalid neighborhoods and decrepit streets. They discovered waterfront views, an abundance of green parks, and outstanding Catholic schools. Here was a neighborhood, ten minutes from downtown Boston, where your toughest choice on a Saturday morning was whether to go right and head to the park, or go left and hang out on the beach.

Needless to say, the yuppies found real estate agents, and the next thing you knew, old housing projects became million-dollar waterfront condos, and fourth-generation triple-deckers were sold to developers for five times the money anyone thought they’d ever bring.

The community became both more and less. Different economics and ethnicities. Same great parks and tree-lined streets. Added some coffee bars. Kept the Irish pubs. More upwardly mobile professionals. Still a lot of families and kids. Good place to live, if you’d bought in before the prices went nuts.

D.D. followed her GPS navigator to the address provided by Detective Miller. She found herself close to the water at a quaint little brown-and-cream painted bungalow with a postage-stamp lawn and a nude maple tree. She had two thoughts at once: Someone had built a bungalow in Boston? And two, Detective Miller was good. He was five and a half hours into a call out, and thus far, no ribbons of crime-scene tape, no parking lot of police cruisers, and better yet, no long lines of media vans. House appeared quiet, street appeared quiet. The proverbial calm before the storm.

D.D. drove around the block three times before finally parking several streets down. If Miller had managed this long without advertising, she wasn’t gonna give the game away.

Walking back, hands fisted in her front pockets, shoulders hunched for warmth, she discovered Miller standing in the front yard, waiting for her. He was smaller than she expected, with thinning brown hair and a 1970s mustache. He looked like the kind of cop who would make an excellent undercover officer-so nondescript no one would notice him, let alone realize he was eavesdropping on important conversations. He also had the pale complexion of a man who spent most of his time under fluorescent lights. Desk jockey, D.D. thought, and immediately reserved judgment.