James Patterson - 10th Anniversary

“I shouldn’t have come,” said the girl in black, scrambling out of the chair, swinging her backpack over her shoulder. “I don’t know anything. I have to get out of here.”

I hadn’t been subtle. I’d hammered the kid and threatened her, and now she was done. I wished for the thousandth time that I had even 10 percent of Conklin’s tact. I offered Willy a lift back to school, but she said, “I’ll get a taxi. Don’t mention me to anyone, please.”

“I have to use my judgment, Willy.”

She looked at me like I was going to sink my fangs into her neck and then left the squad room without closing out her Facebook account.

Sergeant Nardone swooped in like a condor. I told him to keep his pants on, then took the opportunity to pry.

I tapped on the keyboard, did a search for photo tags for Ritter, and found more pictures of the English teacher on Willy’s home pages and on those of her friends.

According to the Web chat and notes written on virtual walls, Ritter was frequently discussed by the girls in Willy’s circle. Many of them commented on his good looks and his manner in class and speculated about what he’d be like in bed.

I clicked on the link to Avis Richardson’s home page. I’d seen her page when Joe suggested it, but now I was looking with a specific purpose. I scrutinized photos of Avis mugging with Larry Foster, doing shots with girlfriends at parties, and cheering at sporting events — but there was not one picture of her with Jordan Ritter.

I cut and pasted what I might need later into an e-mail that I then sent to myself. After that, I closed down the computer and gave Nardone back his chair.

“You’re a gent, Nardone.”

“Don’t mention it, Boxer. By the way, I ate your Cheetos in the bottom drawer.”

“I knew that,” I said, pointing to the orange prints on a drawer pull. Nardone laughed. “You’re good,” he said.

I called Richie twice on my way out to my car. Both times I got his voice mail, and after the second time, I left a message. “I’ve got a lead, Rich. Good one. Call me.”

Next, I called Jordan Ritter. I told Ritter I was working the abduction of Avis Richardson and hoped he could give me some insights into her personality.

Ritter said, “I don’t know her all that well, but sure, I’ll be happy to help.”

Jordan Ritter lived only a few blocks from Brighton Academy. I drove Martha home, then headed east along California to Broderick.

It was still early on Sunday afternoon when I parked my car on the pretty residential block near the corner of Broderick and Pine. The building where Ritter lived was a three-story apartment house, Italianate, clay-colored, trimmed in white, with two columns of bay windows.

He lived on the ground floor.

I rang the bell in the alcove and said my name into the speaker. Ritter’s footsteps got louder as he came to the door.

JORDAN RITTER OPENED THE DOOR of his apartment, placed one palm on the doorjamb, and, taking his time, looked me over.

I was doing the same to him.

Ritter was in his early thirties, fit, unshaven, good hair, good teeth, and was wearing a T-shirt and Burberry pajama bottoms. I’d seen Avis Richardson wearing pajamas just like those.

A trend? A coincidence? Or had Avis been wearing her boyfriend’s pj’s?

“Well, look at you,” he said.

The nervy bastard was hitting on me.

“Mr. Ritter? I’m Sergeant Boxer,” I snapped. I also flashed my badge.

“Come in. Can I get you some coffee? I just made it.”

I said, “Sure,” and walked around him into the apartment.

The place had a prepackaged look, as if it had been rented furnished or bought all in one day in a department store. I followed Ritter through the living room, noticing the Sunday paper on the floor and a couple of coffee mugs on the low table in front of the couch.

Anyone with an online degree in Forensics for Dummies could’ve figured out that Ritter had had a sleepover guest. Or else he was cagey and had staged a red herring for my benefit.

In the kitchen Ritter said, “Cream and sugar, Sergeant?”

“Black will be fine.”

“Like I said on the phone,” Ritter said, “I hardly know Avis. She’s in my class this year, but apart from her grades — which were excellent — I don’t know much about her.”

I followed Ritter back into the living room and took a chair opposite the one he sprawled in.

“I think we both know that’s not true,” I said.

Ritter laughed.

“You’re saying I’m lying? Golly. That’s bold.”

“Mr. Ritter, let’s just get to the point, okay? So I can get out of here and you can have your weekend back. How well did you know Avis Richardson? I have witnesses who say the two of you were very close.”

“Aw, come on. A lot of girls like me. It’s a cliché for schoolgirls to get crushes on their teachers. I didn’t even notice Avis. That’s the truth.”

“I have photos that show otherwise.”

“Photos. Of what? Oh, now I get it. Willy Steihl has been talking to you. Don’t you know, Sergeant, how jealous these girls can get? Willy has been stalking me for most of the year.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so. There are no incriminating photos of me and Avis because I hardly know her. Is there anything else?”

“Yes. In case the baby shows up, I’d like to prove that it isn’t yours.” I pulled a buccal swab kit from my pocket and said, “It’s a cheek swab. Takes less than a second.”

“I can’t do something like that, Sergeant. I mean, if I’m a suspect, you should talk to my dad. He’s listed in the phone book under attorneys-at-law.”

“I’ll note that you didn’t want to cooperate. That’s all for now.”

“Well, thanks for stopping by, Sergeant.”

I put my card on his coffee table between the two coffee cups and left Ritter’s apartment. My phone rang as soon as I strapped into my car. Rich.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey-hey,” he sang into the phone.

“Congratulations, partner,” I said. “Don’t screw it up.”

He thanked me, told me that he was the happiest guy in the world. When I could get a couple of words in, I told him about my morning.

“You’re saying that you suspect Ritter of getting Avis pregnant?”

“I’ve got a picture on Facebook of Avis and Ritter holding hands. All that means is that he’s a liar, which is something and nothing at the same time. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

“You bet,” he said.

It was now a week since Avis had gotten into a black or dark blue sedan driven by a French-speaking man, taken a drive to somewhere or nowhere, and had her baby in a field by the lake or in a bed lit by an aluminum lamp.

It would be a miracle if her baby was still alive.

“AVIS ISN’T HERE,” Paul Richardson said when he let me into their suite. He invited me in and offered me a drink, which I turned down. It was only three in the afternoon, but he was swaying on his feet as he made his way around the coffee table to an armchair.

“Avis wanted to go out and see her friends,” Sonja told me. “She was feeling better and said she wanted to ‘hang out.’”

I wondered if she’d been hanging out with Jordan Ritter just before I arrived at his door.

“She’ll be back here for dinner,” her father said to me. “And she wants to go back to class tomorrow. I guess there’s no reason to say no.”

“Is there any news, Sergeant? Please give me some hope,” Sonja Richardson said. Avis’s mother looked wrung out and had her arms wrapped tightly around her body as if to hold herself together.

“We have almost nothing to go on,” I told her. “There was no ad on Prattslist that matched the one your daughter said she answered. I can’t explain that, can you?”