“E-mail?” Clemente prodded.
“We tried unsuccessfully yesterday to get a warrant to seize the family computer. The judge argued Sandra Jones had not been missing for a sufficient length of time. We will resubmit our affidavit this morning, now that we have passed the twenty-four-hour benchmark for missing persons.”
“Strategy?”
D.D. took a deep breath, eyed Detective Miller. They’d been at this since five this morning, having regrouped after only a few hours of desperately needed sleep. Passing the twenty-four-hour mark was both the best and worst thing to have happened for them. On the one hand, they could officially open a case file for Sandra Jones. On the other hand, the odds of finding said female had just dropped in half. Before, they’d had a window of opportunity. Now, they had an hourly race against time, as each additional minute Sandra Jones remained missing spelled only further doom and gloom.
They needed to find her. Within the next twelve hours, or chances were, they’d be digging up a body.
“We believe we have two logical courses of action,” D.D. reported. “One, we believe the child, Clarissa Jones, may have information on what happened in her home that night. We need to force Jason Jones to consent to a forensic interview so that we can determine what details Clarissa may have to offer.”
“How you gonna do that?”
“We’re going to tell him he either allows us to interview Clarissa, or we will declare the house a crime scene and have him and Clarissa booted from the premises. We believe that in the interest of maintaining a stable environment for his child, he’ll consent to the interview.”
Clemente looked at her. “Not if he believes his daughter may offer details that incriminate him.”
D.D. shrugged. “Either way, we’ll have information we didn’t have before.”
Clemente considered this. “Agreed. Second course of action?”
She took another deep breath. “Given the current lack of leads, we need to make a public appeal for help. It’s been twenty-four hours. We don’t know what happened to Sandra Jones. Our best bet is to get the public involved. To accomplish this mission, we’d like to form an official taskforce to handle the multitude of inquiries that would come our way. We would also need to partner with other law enforcement agencies to identify local search team leaders, as well as other avenues of investigation. Finally, we would hold a press conference by nine A.M. this morning, where we would post pictures of Sandra Jones along with a hotline number for caller information. Of course, a case of this nature could potentially leap straight to national attention, but then again, maybe that will be useful to our efforts.”
Clemente stared at her doubtfully.
D.D. relaxed her formal pose enough to shrug. “Hell, Chuck, media’s gonna catch wind of this sooner or later. Might as well make it on our terms.”
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.
“A memorial will start to form on my front yard. People dropping off flowers, notes, teddy bears, all intended for Sandy. Then there will be the candlelight vigils, where good-intentioned souls will pray for Sandra’s safe return. More likely than not, a few psychics will also volunteer their services. Then there will be the young ladies who will start sending me condolence notes because they find the allure of a single father to be strangely seductive, particularly if I may or may not have harmed my wife. Of course, I will decline their offers of free babysitting.”
There was a long pause. “You seem to know the process very well,” D. D. said.
“I’m a member of the media. Of course I know this process well.”
We’re dancing, he thought idly. It made him picture Sergeant D.D. Warren, whirling around him in some hot pink flamenco dress, while he stood there in solid black, trying to look strong and stoic, when really, he just didn’t know the moves.
“Of course, now that the investigation is ramping up,” the detective was saying, “it’s important that we get as much information to the taskforce team as fast as possible. You understand that with every hour that passes, the odds of successfully finding your wife diminish significantly.”
“I understand that not finding her yesterday means that most likely we won’t find her at all.”
“Got anything you want to add to that?” Sergeant Warren asked it quietly.
“No ma’am,” he said, then immediately wished he hadn’t. He caught the Southern drawl that crept into the words, as it always did when he used phrases from home.
Sergeant Warren was quiet for a bit. He wondered if that meant she caught the Southern-fried inflection, as well.
“I’m going to be honest,” she said abruptly.
He doubted that very much, but didn’t feel the need to say so.
“It’s extremely important that we interview Ree. The clock is ticking, Jason, and it’s possible that your daughter is the only witness to what happened to your wife.”
“I know.”
“Then of course you’ll agree to a ten A.M. appointment with a forensic interviewer. Her name is Marianne Jackson and she is excellent.”
“All right.”
Now there was dead silence. “You agree?”
“Yes.”
He heard a long sigh, then, almost as if the sergeant couldn’t help herself: “Jason, we asked you this yesterday, and you refused. Why the change of heart?”
“Because I’m worried about her.”
“Your wife?”
“No. My daughter. I don’t think she’s doing very well. Perhaps talking to a professional will help her. I’m not really a monster, Sergeant. And I do have my daughter’s best interests at heart.”
“Then ten A.M. it is. At our offices. Neutral territory is better.”
“Daddy?”
“You don’t have to convince me,” he said into the phone, then turned to find Ree standing in the entryway staring at him with that unerring instinct children had when they knew you were talking about them.
“We’re going to talk to a nice lady this morning,” he said, holding the receiver away from his mouth. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’ll be okay.”
“There’s a sound at the door, Daddy.”
“What?”
“There’s a sound. At the door. Can’t you hear it?”
Then he did. The sound of shuffling, scratching, as if someone were trying to get in.
“I have to go,” he told the detective. Then, without waiting for D.D.’s response, he slammed down the receiver. “Into the family room. Now, sweetheart. I mean it.”
He motioned Ree down onto the floor by the love seat, while placing his body between hers and the massive steel weight of the front door. He heard more scratching, and flattened himself against the wall next to the window, trying not to look alarmed when every nerve in his body was jangling with panic. First thing he noticed when he peered outside was that the unmarked police car remained at the curb; the watch officer appeared to be sitting placidly, still sipping his morning coffee. Next thing Jason noticed was that he didn’t see any sign of a human being outside the window at all.
But he heard the sound again. Shuffling, scratching, and then …
“Meow,”
Ree sprang to her feet.
“Meow …”
Ree raced to the door. She moved faster than he could imagine, grabbing at the doorknob with frantic little fingers, and tugging, tugging, tugging while he belatedly worked the locks. Together they got it undone.
Ree threw open the door, and Mr. Smith came sailing into the house. “Mrrrow!”
“Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith!” Ree flung her arms around the copper-orange beast, squeezing so hard, Mr. Smith howled in protest.
Then, just as quickly, she let him go, threw herself to the floor and burst into tears. “But I want Mommy!” she wailed plaintively. “I want Mama!”
Jason lowered himself to the floor. He pulled his daughter onto his lap. He stroked her dark curly hair and held her while she wept.
| CHAPTER THIRTEEN |
I cheated on Jason for the first time when Ree was eleven months old. I couldn’t take it anymore. The sleepless nights, the exhausting ritual of feeding, tending, diapering, feeding, tending, diapering. I’d already registered for online college courses and it seemed any minute I wasn’t tending a baby, I was writing a paper, researching a subject, tr
ying to recall high school math.
I felt both incredibly drained and unbelievably tense. Edgy, like my skin was on too tight, or my scalp was squeezing my brain. I found myself noticing everything from the silky feel of Ree’s pink baby blanket to the needle-sharp pain of hot shower spray stinging my breasts.
Worse, I could feel the darkness growing inside my head. Until I could smell the cloying scent of decaying roses in every corner of my own home, and I dreaded falling asleep because I knew I’d only bolt awake to the sound of my mother’s voice warbling down the hall, “I know something you don’t know. I know something you don’t know….”
One day, I caught myself at the kitchen sink, scrubbing my hands with a wire-bristled brush. I was trying to erase my own fingerprints, trying to scour the DNA right out of my skin. And it occurred to me that’s what the darkness was—my mother, my own mother, taking root inside my head.
There are some people that just killing once will never be enough.
I told Jason I needed to get away. Twenty-four hours. Maybe a hotel where I could crash for a bit, order room service, catch my breath. I produced a brochure for a downtown spa by the Four Seasons and its menu of treatments. Everything was ridiculously expensive, but I knew Jason wouldn’t deny me, and he didn’t.
He took a Friday and Saturday off, to be with Clarissa.
“Don’t rush home,” he told me. “Take your time. Relax. I understand, Sandy. I do.”
So I went off to a four-hundred-a-night hotel room, where I used my spa money to hit Newbury Street and buy one micro mini suede skirt, black Kate Spade stiletto heels, and a silver sequined halter top that did not permit one to wear a bra. Then I hit the Armani Bar, and worked my way from there.
Remember, I was still only nineteen years old. I recalled all the tricks, and believe me, I know a lot of tricks. Girl like me, in a halter top and stiletto heels. I started the night popular and stayed that way until two in the morning, tossing back shots of Grey Goose in between lap dancing dirty old men and fresh-faced boys from BU.