Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

“Any word? Gotta say, the police were pretty damn vague.”

“We are hoping the public can provide clues,” Jason filled in dutifully.

“And your daughter? Clarissa? How’s she holding up? Need any help, buddy?”

“Thank you for your offer. We are taking it one day at a time.”

“Jason… Jason, my man.”

“I won’t be able to work tonight, Greg.”

“Of course not! Holy crap, of course we understand. You need to take a week off, maybe a leave of absence. You name it, we’re there for you, man.” Just don’t forget about us, right, buddy? Front-page scoop, the inside skinny straight from the husband’s mouth to our front page, right, buddy ?

“Thank you for your understanding.”

“We’re there for you, Jason. You name it, you got it. We believe in you, man. Why, the thought of you doing anything to harm Sandra…”

“Thank you for your understanding.” Jason hung up the phone.

“Who’s that?” Ree demanded from the back seat.

“Daddy’s former boss,” Jason said, and meant it.

The BPD’s headquarters was a glass-and-granite monstrosity that had been plopped down in the middle of the housing projects of Roxbury. The hope had been that the overwhelming police presence would help jumpstart the gentrification process of this particular inner-city. Mostly, it made both workers and visitors to the building fear for their lives.

Jason eyed his parking options with much trepidation. He did not expect to come out to find his Volvo intact. And honestly, he worried for the cat. Mr. Smith had obviously spent the past thirty-six hours using up at least one of his nine lives. Who knew how many the cat had left?

“We shouldn’t be here, Daddy,” Ree said when she climbed out of the back of the car, clutching her bunny. The parking lot featured a lot of broken asphalt, framed by concrete barriers. Interior decorating by way of Beirut.

Jason thought about it, then reached inside the car for his notebook and Ree’s red Crayola marker. He tore out two sheets of paper and wrote in big block letters: QUARANTINED: Rabid Cat. Warning. Do Not Touch.

He placed one sheet of paper on the front of the car and one on the back. Then he looked in at Mr. Smith, who opened one lazy golden eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.

“Be a good rabid cat,” Jason murmured, then took Ree firmly by the hand and headed for the crosswalk.

As they neared the giant glass building, his footsteps slowed. He couldn’t help himself. He looked down at Ree’s hand, tucked securely in his own, and it seemed like the past five years had been both too fast and too slow. He wanted to call it all back. He wanted to pull every single moment and hold them close because the tornado was coming. The twister was coming, and he couldn’t get out of the way.

He remembered the very first time his daughter had grabbed his finger, only one hour old, her impossibly tiny hand wrapping with determination around his ridiculously large index finger. He remembered those same fingers a year later, receiving their first burn when she grabbed the candle on her birthday cupcake before he or Sandy could warn her that it was hot. And he remembered one afternoon, when he’d thought she was napping, he’d gone online and read too many sad stories about sad children, and he had started to cry, hunched over at the kitchen table. Suddenly, there had been Ree, her little two-year-old hands upon his face, wiping away his tears.

“No sad, Daddy,” she’d whispered to him calmly. “No sad.”

And the sight of his tears on his daughter’s little fingers had almost made him weep all over again.

He wanted to speak to her now. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to tell her to trust him, he would keep her safe. He would figure this out. Somehow, he would make the world be right again.

He wanted to thank her for four beautiful years, for being the best little girl in the world. For being the sun on his face and the glow in his smile and the love of his life.

They hit the glass doors, her fingers twitching nervously in his hand as the police headquarters loomed.

Jason looked down at his daughter.

In the end he told her none of those things. Instead, he gave her the best advice he could.

“Be brave,” he said, and opened the door.

After consulting with Marianne Jackson, the forensic interviewer, D.D. had commandeered a room from white-collar crimes. The space was nicer than anything the homicide unit had to offer, and hopefully less likely to scare the kid. Marianne brought with her two child-sized folding chairs, a bright, flower-shaped rug, and a basket crammed with a collection of trucks, dolls, and art supplies. In ten minutes or less, the child specialist had the place looking like a cool kids’ hangout, versus the fraud squad’s interrogation room of choice. D.D. was impressed.

She’d been happy with the morning’s press conference. She had intentionally kept it brief. Less was more at this point. Fewer innuendos to come back to haunt them later, should they decide the registered sex offender was their suspect of choice, versus the husband, or heaven help them, an unknown subject yet to be identified. Besides, their biggest goal was to increase the number of eyes and ears actively seeking Sandra Jones. Find the wife alive, save them all a headache. Thirty-seven hours into the investigation, D.D. still had hope. Not a lot of it. But some hope.

Now she busily arranged her notepad and two pens on the table of the observation room. Miller was already present, sitting in the chair closest to the door, where he seemed to be lost in thought, given his rhythmic stroking of his mustache. She thought he should shave the mustache. A mustache like that practically cried out for a powder blue leisure suit and she really did not want to see Detective Brian Miller in a powder blue leisure suit. She didn’t say anything, though. Men could be very touchy when it came to facial hair.

D.D. fiddled with her pens again, clicking and unclicking the ballpoints into place. The speakers were already turned on, allowing them to hear what was said in the interrogation room. In turn, Marianne was fitted with a tiny earpiece so she could receive any follow-up questions or additional inquiries they made into a cordless mic. Marianne had already warned them to be tight and focused. The rule of thumb for interviewing children was five minutes per year of child, meaning they had roughly twenty minutes to learn everything there was to know from four-year-old potential witness Clarissa Jones.

They had formulated their strategy in advance: key questions to determine Clarissa’s credibility and capability as a witness, followed by ever more specific questions regarding Sandra Jones’s last known moments on Wednesday night. It was a lot of ground to cover in the time they had, but Marianne had emphasized the need to be thorough-follow-up interviews with a child witness were risky. Next thing you know, a defense attorney was arguing the half a dozen interviews you required for specificity were actually a half a dozen times you badgered, cajoled, and otherwise corrupted your young, impressionable subject. Marianne gave them two shots at talking to the child, max, and for better or worse, D.D. had already used up one, questioning Clarissa at her house on Thursday morning. So this was it.

The downstairs sergeant notified them that Jason and his daughter had arrived. Marianne headed down immediately to hustle them upstairs before Ree became too overwhelmed by the full police headquarters experience. Some kids were enthralled by men and women in uniform. A lot, however, were just plain intimidated. Talking to a stranger was tough enough without Ree starting the process scared witless.