Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

D.D. jerked awake in her bedroom. Her hands were fisting her covers, her body covered in a light sheen of sweat as she worked to slow her breathing. For the longest time, she simply stared at her gray-washed walls, morning coming hard in the rainy gloom.

She released the sheets. Pushed back the covers. Stabilized her legs enough to walk to the bathroom, where she regarded herself in the mirror above the sink.

“That,” she told her reflection firmly, “never happened.”

Five-thirty A.M., she brushed her teeth and got ready for the day ahead.

D.D. was a realist. You didn’t last twenty years in the biz without realizing some hard truths about human nature. First twenty-four hours of a missing persons case, she gave them even odds of finding the person alive. Adults did take off. Couples argued. Some individuals could stick it out, others needed to bolt for a day or two. So first twenty-four hours, maybe even the first thirty-six, she’d been willing to believe that Sandra Jones was alive and they, the fine detectives of the BPD, might bring her home again.

Fifty-two hours later, D.D. was not thinking of locating a missing mother. She was thinking of recovering a body, and even with that in mind, she understood that time remained of the essence.

Crime, and investigations, had a certain rhythm. First twenty-four hours, not only was there hope of the victim surviving, but also of the criminal screwing up. Abduction, assault, homicide, all involved high emotion. Individuals held in the sway of high emotion had a tendency to make mistakes. Flushed on adrenaline, overloaded by anxiety or even remorse, the perpetrator was in panic mode. Did something bad. How to get away, get away, get away ?

Unfortunately, as each day went by without the cops closing in, the subject had time to calm down, settle in. Start thinking more rationally about next steps, form a more concrete plan for cover up. The criminal became entrenched, disposing of evidence, polishing his story, even perhaps swaying key witnesses, such as his four-year-old daughter. In other words, the perpetrator transitioned from bungling amateur to criminal mastermind.

D.D. didn’t want to be dealing with any criminal masterminds. She wanted a body and an arrest, all in time for the five o’clock news. Close in, apply the thumb screws, and crack the case wide open. That was the kind of thing that made her day.

Unfortunately, she had a few too many people to pressure. Take Ethan Hastings. Thirteen years old, frighteningly brilliant, and hopelessly in love with his missing teacher. Budding Lothario? Or freaky teenmonster?

Then came Aidan Brewster. Bona fide felon with a history of choosing inappropriate sexual relationships. Claimed not to know Sandra Jones, but lived just down the street from the crime. Reformed sex offender or escalating perpetrator with a fresh appetite for violence?

Sandy’s father, the honorable Maxwell Black, had to be included in the mix. Estranged father, who magically showed up when his daughter disappeared. According to Officer Hawkes, Black seemed to be threatening Jones, and clearly planned to see his granddaughter one way or the other. Grieving father, or opportunistic grandfather who’d do anything to get his hands on Ree?

Finally, she returned to Jason Jones, the cold-blooded husband who had yet to engage in a single activity to find his missing wife. The guy claimed not to be the jealous type. Then again, he had no paper trail prior to marrying Sandy five years ago. A definite assumed identity.

D.D. went round and round, and she still came back to Jones. His daughter’s own assessment of Wednesday night, Jones’s disengaged behavior since his wife vanished, the obvious use of an alias. Jones was hiding something-ergo, he was the most likely suspect in his pregnant wife’s disappearance.

That was it. D.D. was bringing little Ree in for more questioning as soon as possible. She would arrange for two officers to track each of their other subjects, building history and establishing alibis. Better yet, she was assigning two of her best white-collar investigators to trace Jones’s bank accounts. Follow the money, find Jones’s real name, real history, real past.

Break the alias. Break the man.

Satisfied, D.D. pulled out her notepad and jotted down one major to-do for the day: Squeeze Jason Jones.

D.D.’s cell rang ten minutes later. It was barely seven, but she didn’t lead one of those lives where people called during normal operating hours. She took another sip of coffee, flipped open her phone, and announced, “Talk to me.”

“Sergeant D. D. Warren?”

“Last I checked.”

The caller paused. She took another sip of cappuccino.

“This, uh, is Wayne Reynolds. I work for the Massachusetts State Police. I’m also Ethan Hastings’s uncle.”

D.D. thought about it. The number on her display screen looked familiar. Then it came to her: “Didn’t you buzz me yesterday morning?”

“I tried your pager. I saw the press conference and figured we’d better talk.”

“Because of Ethan?”

Another pause. “I think it would be best if we could meet in person. What do you say? I could buy you breakfast.”

“You think we’re gonna arrest Ethan?”

“I think if you did, it would be a huge mistake.”

“So, you’re gonna throw your state weight around, ask me to back off? ’cause you should know up front, I don’t take those kinds of conversations well, and buying me a bagel with cream cheese isn’t gonna make a difference.”

“How about we meet first, and you can be hostile and indifferent second?”

“It’s your funeral,” D.D. said. She rattled off the name of a coffee shop just around the corner, then went to fetch an umbrella.

Mario’s was a locals’ establishment. Tiny, with the original Formica countertop from 1949 and an enormous glass jar of fresh biscotti next to the ancient cash register. Mario II, the son, currently ran the joint. He served up eggs, toast, pancetta, and the best coffee you could buy outside of Italy.

D.D. had to wrestle for a tiny round corner table next to the front window. She got there early, mostly so she could enjoy a second cup of coffee in peace, while working her cell phone. She found the uncle’s outreach to be fascinating. Here she was thinking she needed to push harder on the husband, and the family of the teenage wannabe lover entered the fray. Were they feeling overprotective, or guilt-stricken? Interesting.

D.D. hit speed dial, holding the tiny phone to her ear. Just because she had a sex dream last night was not the reason she was calling Bobby Dodge.

“Hello,” a female voice answered.

“Morning, Annabelle,” D.D. said, without a trace of the anxiety she immediately felt. Other women didn’t intimidate her. It was a hard-and-fast rule she’d developed years ago when she’d realized she was prettier than ninety percent of the female population, and a hundred percent better with a loaded handgun. Annabelle, of course, would be the exception to that rule, and Annabelle had snagged Bobby Dodge. That made her D.D.’s personal nemesis, even if they were both properly civil to each other. “Is Bobby awake?”

“Didn’t you call him in the middle of the night?” Annabelle asked.

“Yep. Hey, I understand congratulations are in order. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“You, um, feeling okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“When are you due?”

“August.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Waiting to be surprised.”

“Nice. So is Bobby around?”

“He’s only going to hang up on you again.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm.”

There was a distant shuffle as Annabelle handed the phone over to her husband, then some male grunting as Bobby was no doubt prodded awake.