After a matter of minutes, D.D. was already getting there. The cellar reminded her of the kitchen, not too dirty, not too clean. Just about right for a family of three.
Just for kicks she checked the washer and the dryer. Then, her heart stopped in her throat.
“Oh crap,” she said, washer lid still open, one blue-and-green quilt staring her in the face.
Miller came hustling over, evidence techs on his heels. “Is that …? You’ve got to be kidding me. When I get my hands on the two yokels who first searched this space—”
“Hey, isn’t that the quilt?” Nick said, rather stupidly.
Marge was already hunched over, pulling out the comforter from the top-loading machine while being careful not to drag it on the floor.
“He washed it?” D.D. was thinking out loud. “The husband washed the quilt, but didn’t have time to dry it before calling the police? Or the wife had it in the wash all along and we’ve been chasing our tails for the past few hours?”
Marge was carefully spreading the quilt out, handing Nick one end, while holding the other. The comforter bore the deep wrinkles of a wet item that had been left in a washing machine for a bit. It smelled vaguely of detergent—fresh, clean. They fluffed it once, and a wet purple ball fell splat on the floor.
D.D. still had on latex gloves, so she did the honors. “Sandra Jones’s nightshirt, I presume,” she said, unrolling the sodden purple T-shirt, which did have a crowned chick on the front.
They studied both items for a bit, looking for faded pink stains, like the kind left behind by blood, or maybe jagged tears that might indicate a struggle. Signs of something.
D.D. had that uncomfortable feeling again. As if she was seeing something obvious but not quite getting it.
Who took the time to wash a quilt and nightshirt, but left a broken lamp in plain sight? What kind of woman disappeared, but left behind her child, her wallet, her car?
And what kind of husband came home to discover his wife missing, but waited three hours before calling the police?
“Attic, crawl space?” D.D. asked Miller out loud. Nick and Margie were folding up the quilt to take back to the lab. If the subject hadn’t used bleach, the comforter might still yield some evidence. They took the purple nightshirt from D.D., put it in a second bag for processing.
“No crawl space. Attic is small and mostly filled with Christmas decorations,” Miller reported.
“Closets, refrigerators, freezers, outbuildings, barbecue pits?”
“Nope, nope, nope, nope, and nope.”
“Of course, there is that big, blue harbor.”
“Yep.”
D.D. sighed heavily. Tried one last theory: “Husband’s vehicle?”
“Pickup truck. He walked out with us to peer in the back. He refused, however, to open the doors of the front cab.”
“Cautious son of a bitch.”
“Cold,” Miller corrected. “Wife’s been missing for hours now, and he hasn’t even picked up the phone to call any family or friends.”
That decided the matter for her. “All right,” D.D. said. “Let’s go meet Mr. Jones.”
| CHAPTER FOUR |
When I was a little girl, I believed in God. My father would take me to church every Sunday. I would sit in Sunday school and listen to stories of His work. Afterward, we would gather in the churchyard for a potluck of fried chicken, broccoli casserole, and peach cobbler.
Then we would return home, where my mother would chase my father around the house with a meat cleaver, screaming, “I know what you’re up to, mister! Like those church hussies sit next to you just to share a hymnal!”
Round and round they would go, my parents racing around the house, myself curled up small in the front coat closet, where I could hear every word they said without having to see what would happen if my father ever lost his footing, missed a corner, tripped on a stair.
When I was a little girl, I believed in God. Every morning when I woke up and my father was still alive, I considered it a sign of His work. It wasn’t until I grew older that I started to truly understand Sunday mornings in my parents’ house. My father’s survival had nothing to do with God’s will, I came to see. It was a sign of my mama’s will. She never killed my father, because she didn’t want him to die.
No, my mama’s goal was to torture my father. To make every living moment of his life feel like an eternity in hell.
My father lived, because in my mama’s mind, death would’ve been too good for him.
“Did you find Mr. Smith?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you find Mr. Smith? My cat. Mommy went to look for him this morning, but she hasn’t come back yet.”
D.D. blinked her eyes several times rapidly. She had just opened the door at the top of the basement steps, to find herself confronted by a very solemn, curly-headed four-year-old. Apparently, Clarissa Jones was now awake and running the investigation.
“I see.”
“Ree?” A male baritone broke through the silence. Ree obediently turned around, and D.D. glanced up to find Jason Jones standing in the foyer, studying both of them.
“I want Mr. Smith,” Ree said plaintively.
Jason held out his hand and his daughter crossed to him. He didn’t utter a word to D.D., simply vanished back into the family room, his daughter at his side.
D.D. and Miller followed suit, Miller giving a faint nod of his head to excuse the uniformed officer who’d been standing guard.
The family room was small. A tiny love seat, two wooden chairs, a hope chest covered in lace doilies, which served double duty as a coffee table. A modest TV was propped on a fake-oak microwave stand in the corner. The rest of the room was occupied by a child-sized craft table, and a row of bins that housed everything from a hundred crayons to two dozen Barbies. To judge by the toys, four-year-old Ree liked the color pink.
D.D. took her time. She surveyed the room, pausing at the grainy photos framed on the mantel, the picture of a newborn baby girl, that same baby girl in an annual procession of first food, first steps, first tricycle. No other family members in the photos. No obvious signs of grandmas, grandpas, aunts, uncles. Just Jason, Sandra, and Ree.
She noted a small shot of a toddler clutching a very tolerant orange cat, and supposed that must be the infamous Mr. Smith.
She worked her way to the toy cubbies, glancing at the table-top and noting a half-finished coloring project featuring Cinderella with two mice. Normal things, D.D. thought. Normal toys, normal items, normal furniture for a normal family in a normal South Boston home.
Except this family wasn’t normal, or she wouldn’t be here.
She passed by the cubbies one more time, trying to get a bead on the father without turning to look at him. Most men would be agitated by now. A missing wife. Law enforcement officers encroaching on his home, intruding into his private sanctuary, picking up and handling personal photos of his family while his four-year-old daughter was present.
She felt nothing from him. Nothing at all.
It was almost as if he weren’t in the room.
She turned at last. Jason Jones was sitting on the love seat, his arm around his complacent daughter, his gaze fixed upon the empty TV screen. Up close and personal, he was everything Miller had advertised. Thick rumpled hair, masculine five o’clock shadow, nicely toned chest accentuated by a simple navy blue cotton shirt. He was sex and fatherhood and mysterious boy-next-door all rolled into one. He was an anchorwoman’s wet dream, and Miller was right—if they didn’t find Sandra Jones before the first news van found them, they were screwed.
D.D. picked up one of the wooden chairs, placed it in front of the sofa, and took a seat. Miller, for his part, had faded into the backdrop. Better for approaching the kid. Two cops could pressure a reluctant husband. For an anxious child, however, it would be too much.
Jason Jones’s gaze finally flickered to her, resting upon her face, and in spite of herself, she nearly shivered.
His
eyes were empty, like staring into pools of starless night. She had only seen such a gaze twice before. Once when interviewing a psychopath who’d resolved an unhappy business relationship by executing his partner and the man’s entire family with a crossbow. Secondly when interviewing a twenty-seven-year-old Portuguese woman who had been held as a sex slave for fifteen years by a wealthy couple in their elite Boston brownstone. The woman had died two years later. She’d walked into oncoming traffic on Storrow Drive. Never hesitated, witnesses said. Just stepped off the curb straight into the path of a Toyota Highlander.
“I want my cat,” Ree said. She had straightened on the sofa, pushing slightly away from her father. He didn’t try to pull her back.
“When did you last see Mr. Smith?” D.D. asked her.
“Last night. When I went to bed. Mr. Smith always sleeps with me. He likes my room best.”
D.D. smiled. “I like your room, too. All the flowers and the pretty butterflies. Did you help decorate it?”
“No. I can’t draw. My mommy and daddy did it. I’m four and three-quarters, you know.” Ree puffed out her chest. “I’m a big girl now, so I got a big girl’s room for my fourth birthday.”
“You’re four? No way, I would’ve said you’re five, six, easy. What have they been feeding you, ’cause you’re awfully tall for four.”
Ree giggled. Her father said nothing.
“I like macaroni and cheese. That’s my favorite food in the whole world. Mommy lets me eat it if I have turkey franks, too. Need protein, she says. If I have enough protein, I can have Oreos for dessert.”
“Is that what you ate last night?”
“I had mac-n-cheese and apples. No Oreos. Daddy didn’t have time to make it to the grocery store.”
She gave her father a look, and for the first time Jason Jones fired to life. He ruffled his daughter’s hair, while his gaze filled with a mixture of love and protectiveness. Then he turned away from her and, as if a switch had been thrown, resumed his dead man’s stare.
“Who fed you dinner last night, Ree?”
“Mommy feeds me dinner, Daddy feeds me lunch. I have PB and J for lunch, but no cookies. Can’t have cookies all the time.” Ree sounded faintly mournful.
“Does Mr. Smith like Oreos?”
Ree rolled her eyes. “Mr. Smith likes everything! That’s why he’s so fat. He eats and eats and eats. Mommy and Daddy say no people food for Mr. Smith, but he does not like that.”
“Did Mr. Smith help you eat dinner last night?”
“He tried to jump on the counter. Mommy told him to scat.”
“I see. And after dinner?”
“Bath time.”
“Mr. Smith takes a bath?” D.D. tried to sound incredulous.
Ree giggled again. “No, Mr. Smith is a cat. Cats don’t take baths. They groom themselves.”
“Ooh. That makes much more sense. So who took a bath?”
“Mommy and me.”
“Does your mom hog all the hot water? Use up all the soap?”
“No. But she won’t let me have the soap. Once I poured the whole bottle into the tub. You should’ve seen the bubbles!”
“That must’ve been most impressive.”
“I like bubbles.”
“So do I. And after the bath?”
“Well, we took a shower.”
“My apologies. After your shower …”
“Went to bed. I get to pick two stories. I like Fancy Nancy and Pinkalicious books. I also get to pick a song. Mommy likes to sing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,’ but I’m too old for that, so I made her sing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’”
“Your mother sang ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’?” D.D. didn’t have to fake her surprise this time.
“I like dragons,” Ree said.
“Umm, I see. And Mr. Smith, what did he think of this?”
“Mr. Smith doesn’t sing.”
“But does he like songs?”
Ree shrugged. “He likes stories. He always curls up with me during story time.”
“Then your mother turns out the light?”
“I get a nightlight. I know I’m four and three-quarters, but I like having a nightlight. Maybe … I don’t know. Maybe when I’m five … or maybe thirty, then I won’t have a nightlight.”
“Okay, so you’re in bed. Mr. Smith is with you—”
“He sleeps at my feet.”
“Okay, he’s at your feet. Nightlight is glowing. Your mom turns off the light, closes the door, and then …”
Ree stared at her.
Jason Jones was staring at her now, too, his gaze faintly hostile.
“Anything happen in the middle of the night, Ree?” D.D. asked quietly.
Ree stared at her.
“Other noises. People talking. Your door opening? When did Mr. Smith leave you?”
Ree shook her head. She wasn’t looking at D.D. anymore. After another second, she curled back into her father’s side, her skinny arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Jason put both arms around her shoulders and regarded D.D. flatly.
“Done,” he said.
“Mr. Jones—”
“Done,” he repeated.
D.D. took a deep breath, counted to ten, and debated her options. “Perhaps there is a family member or neighbor who could watch Clarissa for a bit, Mr. Jones.”
“No.”
“No, there is no one who can watch her, or no, you won’t do it?”
“We look after our daughter, Detective …”
“Sergeant. Sergeant D.D. Warren.”
He didn’t blink at the mention of her title. “We look after our daughter, Sergeant Warren. No point in having a child if you’re simply going to let others raise her.”
“Mr. Jones, surely you understand that if we’re going to help find … Mr. Smith … we’re going to need more information, and more cooperation, from you.”
He didn’t say anything, just held his daughter close.
“We require the keys to your truck.”
He said nothing.
“Mr. Jones,” D.D. urged impatiently. “The sooner we establish where Mr. Smith isn’t, the sooner we can establish where she is.”
“He,” came Ree’s muffled voice from against her father’s chest. “Mr. Smith is a boy.”
D.D. didn’t respond, simply continued to study Jason Jones.
“Mr. Smith is not in the cab of my pickup truck,” Jason said quietly.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he was already gone when I came home. And just to be safe, I checked the vehicle myself.”
“With all due respect, sir, that would be our job.”
“Mr. Smith is not in my truck,” Jason repeated quietly. “And until you get a search warrant, you’ll get to take my word for it.”
“There are judges who would grant us a warrant based on your lack of cooperation alone.”
“Then I guess you’ll be back shortly, won’t you?”
“I want access to your computer,” D.D. said.
“Talk to the same judge.”
“Mr. Jones. Your … cat has been missing for seven hours now. No sign of her—”
“Him,” Ree’s muffled voice.
“Him, in the neighborhood or at the usual … cat haunts. The matter is growing serious. I would think you’d want to help.”
“I love my cat,” Jones said quietly.
“Then give us access to your computer. Cooperate with us, so we can resolve this matter safely and expediently.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t?” D.D. pounced. “Or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
“And why can’t you, Mr. Jones?”
He looked at her. “Because I love my daughter more.”
Thirty minutes later, D.D. walked with Detective Miller back to her car. They had printed Jason Jones and Clarissa Jones as a matter of protocol; in order to determine if there were any strange fingerprints in the house, they had to start by identifying the prints of the k
nown occupants. Jones had volunteered his hands, then assisted with Ree’s, who thought the whole thing was a grand adventure. Most likely, Jason had realized that one act of cooperation cost him very little-after all, there was nothing suspicious about his prints being in his own home.
Jason Jones had washed his hands. Jason Jones had washed Ree’s hands. Then he’d basically kicked the police officers out. His daughter needed to rest, he announced, and that had been that. He escorted each and every one of them to the door. No What are you doing to find my wife? No Please, please please I’ll do whatever I can to help. No Let’s organize a search party and tackle the entire neighborhood until we find my beautiful, beloved spouse.
Not Mr. Jones. His daughter needed a nap. And that was that.
“Cold?” D.D. muttered now. “Arctic is more like it. Clearly, Mr. Jones has never heard of global warming.”
Miller let her rant.
“Kid knows something. Notice the way she shut down the moment we got past bedtime? She heard something, saw something, I don’t know. But we need a forensic interviewer, someone who specializes in children. Quick, too. More time that girl spends around dear old Dad, harder it’s going to be for her to recall any inconvenient truths.”
Miller nodded his head.
“’Course, we’re also gonna need doting Dad’s permission to interview his child, and somehow, I don’t think he’s gonna grant us access. Fascinating, don’t you think? I mean, his wife vanished in the middle of the night, leaving their daughter all alone in the house, and far from cooperating with us, or asking us any logical questions about what we’re doing to find his wife, Jason Jones sits on that sofa as mute as a mime. Where’s his shock, his disbelief, his panicked need for information? He should be calling friends and relatives. He should be digging out recent photos of his wife for us to canvass the neighborhood. He should, at the very least, be arranging for someone to watch his daughter so he can personally assist with our efforts. This guy—it’s like a switch has been thrown. He’s not even home.”