by Lisa Gardner
She walks down the cramped hallway to the back of the house, where my thrifty landlord, Mrs. Houlihan, has converted a sitting room and screened-in porch into a five-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom apartment. I pay eight hundred bucks a month for use of this magnificent space. In return, Mrs. H. can make the property tax payments on the home she’s owned for fifty-odd years, and doesn’t want to lose just because some yuppies finally discovered the neighborhood and sent property values sky high.
Truth is, I kind of like Mrs. H., even if she did hang lace over every damn window, as well as place crocheted doilies on all pieces of upholstered furniture (which she pins into place, as I know because I get pricked by the pins at least every other day). For starters, Mrs. H. knows I’m a registered sex offender, and she still lets me stay, even though her own kids yelled at her for it (I heard them from my apartment; it’s not like the house is that big). For another, I catch her in my room all the time.
“Forgot something,” she barks at me, playing to her age. Mrs. H. is eighty years old and built like a garden gnome. There is nothing fragile, absentminded, or remotely forgetful about her. She’s checking up on me, of course, and we both know it. But we don’t talk about it, and I like that, too.
Just for her, I half tuck my porn magazines underneath my mattress, where she’s sure to find them. I figure it makes her feel better to know that her “young man” renter is catching up on adult titty magazines. Otherwise, she might worry about me, and I don’t want that.
Maybe I could’ve used a mother growing up. Maybe that would’ve helped me. I don’t know.
Now, I lead Colleen into my little slice of paradise. She peruses the tiny kitchenette, the sparse sitting area with a pink floral love seat graciously supplied by Mrs. H. Colleen spends about sixty seconds in the main room, then moves on to the bedroom. I watch her crinkle her nose as she enters the room, and it reminds me that it’s been a while since I washed the sheets.
Well shit, I think. Can’t do anything about that now. Fresh laundering of bedding will be interpreted as a sign of guilt for sure.
Colleen wanders back into the family room, takes a seat on the pink sofa. A doily scratches her behind the neck. She straightens for a minute, stares at the crocheted Kleenex, then shrugs and leans back.
“Whatch’ya been up to, Aidan?”
“Work, walking, support group.” I shrug, remain standing. I can’t help myself. I’m too antsy to sit. I snap the green rubber band on my wrist. Colleen watches me do it, but doesn’t say anything.
“How’s the job?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Got any new friends, new hobbies?”
“Nope.”
“Catch any movies lately?”
“Nope.”
“Check any books out at the library?”
“Nope.”
She cocks her head to the side. “How about attending any neighborhood barbecues?”
“In March?”
She grins at me. “Sounds like your life is quieter than a church mouse’s.”
“Oh, it is,” I assure her. “It really, really is.”
She finally cuts to the chase, leaning forward, away from the doily, and planting her elbows on her knees. “I heard there was some excitement in the neighborhood.”
“I saw the cops,” I tell her. “Going door to door this morning.”
“You talk to them, Aidan?”
I shake my head. “Had to get to work. Vito tans my hide if I’m late. ’Sides,” I throw in defensively “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’.”
She smiles, and I can almost hear her thinking, Oh, if only I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one.
I start pacing, quick, agitated steps. “I’m writing a letter,” I say abruptly, because she’s staring at me with that knowing PO sort of way, and you just have to say something when an authority figure stares at you that way.
“Yeah?”
“To Rachel,” I say. She won’t know who Rachel is, since it’s an alias and all, but that doesn’t stop her from nodding understandingly. “Gotta put into words how it feels to be helpless. Been tough to do, you know. Nobody likes to feel helpless. But I think I’m getting pretty good at it now. Think I’m gonna get a lot of quality time to know just what helpless feels like.”
“Talk to me, Aidan.”
“I didn’t do it! Okay? I didn’t do it. But this woman is gone, and I live five houses away, and I’m in the friggin’ sex offenders database, and that’s just it. Game over. Got pervert, will make arrest. Not like anyone’s gonna believe anything I say.”
“Did you know the woman, Aidan?”
“Not really. Just saw her around and all. But they got a kid. Saw that, too. And I’m following the rules. Don’t need no more trouble, not me. They have kids, I stay away.”
“I understand she’s very pretty.”
“Got a kid,” I say firmly, almost like a mantra, which hell, maybe it is.
“You’re nice-looking.” Colleen tilts her head as she says this, almost as if she’s appraising me, but I’m not fooled. “Living a quiet life, not getting out much. I can imagine how frustrating that must be for you.”
“Trust me, I whack off every day. Just ask my support counselor. She makes us tell her all about it.”
Colleen doesn’t flinch at my vulgarity. “What’s her name?” she asks abruptly.
“Whose name?”
“The woman.”
“Jones, I think. Something Jones.”
She’s watching me shrewdly, trying to figure out how much I know, or how much she can trick me into giving away. For example, will I confess that I met with the husband of the missing woman, even though the child was at home? I figure this is a detail I should keep to myself. Rule of thumb once you’re a felon—volunteer nothing, make the law enforcement officer do all the work.
“I believe it’s Sandra Jones,” she muses at last. “She teaches over at the middle school. Husband works nights. Tough gig, that. Her working days, the hubby working nights. I imagine she might have been feeling frustrated, too.”
I snap the elastic at my wrist. She hasn’t asked a question, so I’ll be damned if I answer.
“Kid’s pretty cute.”
I don’t say a word.
“Precocious, I understand. Loves to ride her trike all over the neighborhood. Maybe you’ve seen her a time or two?”
“See child, cross street,” I report. Snap, snap, snap.
“What were you doing last night, Aidan?”
“Already told you: nothin’.”
“Got an alibi for the nothing you were doing?”
“Sure, call Jerry Seinfeld. I hang out with him every night, seven P.M.”
“And after that?”
“Went to bed. Mechanics have an early start.”
“You went to bed alone?”
“Believe I already answered that, too.”
Now she arches a brow. “Really, Aidan, don’t dazzle me with your charm. Keep up this attitude, police are gonna toss you behind bars for sure.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Then convince me of it. Talk to me. Tell me all about this nothing you’ve been doing, because you’re right, Aidan—you’re a registered sex offender living five houses from where a woman has gone missing, and so far you’re looking pretty good for this.”
I lick my lips. Snap my band. Lick my lips. Snap my band.
I want to tell her about the car, but I don’t. Volunteering the car tidbit will bring the police to my house for sure. Better to wait, use the information as barter once they’ve hauled in my sorry ass for questioning and have me locked up in a holding cell. Better to talk when I can trade the information for freedom. Never give somethin’ for nothin’, another rule of thumb for the convicted felon.
“If I had done something,” I say at last, “then I damn well woulda put together a better story, don’t you think?”
“The lack of alibi is your alibi,” Colleen sta
tes drolly.
“Yeah, something like that.”
She rises off the sofa, and I have one second where I honestly feel relieved. I’m gonna survive after all.
Then she asks: “Can we walk outside?”
And I feel my good mood disappear just like that. “Why?”
“Nice night. I want to get some fresh air.”
I can’t think of a thing to say, so we walk outside, her, six feet high in some crazy platform boots, me, all hunched up in jeans and a white T-shirt. I’ve stopped snapping the rubber band at least. My wrist has gone numb and turned bright red. I look like a suicide victim. It’s something to consider.
She walks around the house, to the back yard. I can see her, intently checking the grounds. Any bloody power tools lying around? Perhaps some fresh-turned earth?
I want to say Fuck you. Of course, I say nothing at all. I keep my head down. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want to give anything away.
Later, she will tell me she’s doing this for my own good. She is looking out for me, trying to protect me. She only wants to help me.
And I can suddenly picture myself, sitting down on my stupid pink floral sofa, writing full force:
Dear Rachel:
I am sorry for what I did. Sorry for all the times I told you I only wanted to talk, when we both knew I just wanted to get you naked. Sorry for all the times I got you in bed, then said I only wanted what was best for you.
I’m sorry I fucked you, then told you it was all your fault. You wanted it. You needed it. I did it for you.
And I’m sorry that I still think about you every single goddamn day. How much I want you. How much I need you. How you did it just for me.
Then, just as I’m really on a roll, writing away in my head, Colleen’s voice suddenly cuts through the gloom.
“Hey, Aidan,” she calls out. “Is that your cat?”
| CHAPTER TWELVE |
The meeting started at six A.M. sharp. They began with the board. They had Person of Interest A: Mr. Jason Jones, relation—spouse. They had Person of Interest B: Aidan Brewster, relation—registered sex offender living on same block. From there, they outlined means, motives, and opportunity.
Means was left blank, as they lacked information on what exactly had happened to Sandra Jones. Killed, kidnapped? Ran away? Never good to make assumptions at such an early stage in an investigation, so they moved on.
Motives. Jones stood to gain millions of dollars he might otherwise lose in divorce, plus custody of his daughter. Brewster was a known sexual predator, perhaps acting out long-festering impulses.
Opportunity. Jones had an alibi for the night and time in question, but the alibi was hardly airtight. Brewster—no alibi, but could they connect Brewster to Sandra Jones? At this time, they had no phone messages, e-mails, or text messages linking the two. But geography remained in their favor. Suspect and victim lived only five houses apart. A jury could reasonably assume that Brewster and the victim had known each other in some capacity. Plus, there was the matter of the garage where Brewster worked. Perhaps Sandra Jones had serviced her car there—they planned on asking first thing this morning.
They moved on to background. Jones was a freelance reporter and “devoted” father, who’d married a very young pregnant bride and transplanted her to South Boston from Atlanta, Georgia. He had millions of dollars in assets from sources unknown. He was deemed “uncooperative” by both Detective Miller and Sergeant Warren, which was not in his favor. He also appeared to have a fetish for bolt locks and steel doors.
Brewster, on the other hand, was a registered sex offender, having engaged in sexual relations with a fourteen-year-old. Worked the same job for the past two years, lived at the same address. His PO liked him and had called in at nine P.M. to report she’d found nothing suspicious at his apartment. So a plus in his favor.
Victim herself was not considered high-risk. A devoted mom and new schoolteacher, she had no history of drugs, alcohol, or sexual wantonness. Principal of the middle school described her as punctual, reliable, and conscientious. Husband claimed she’d never willingly leave her daughter. On the flip side, victim was young, living in a relatively strange city, and seemed to lack a support network of close friends and/or relatives. So they had early-twenties, socially isolated beautiful mom who spent most nights alone with her small child.
Crime scene: no sign of forced entry. No blood spatter or overt signs of violence. They had one broken lamp in the master bedroom, but no evidence it had been used as a weapon or destroyed as part of a larger struggle. They had a blue-and-green quilt that used to be on the master bed, but someone had stuffed it in the washing machine along with a purple nightshirt. They had the wife’s purse, cell phone, car keys, and vehicle all accounted for at the scene. No missing clothes, jewelry, or luggage. Husband’s truck was searched, but came up clean. Crime lab was currently searching the family’s trash. BRIC—Boston Regional Intelligence Center—would really like to search family’s computer.
At the last minute, D.D. added: 1 missing orange cat.
She stepped back from the white board. They all studied it.
When no one had anything new to add, she capped her pen and turned to the deputy superintendent of homicide.
“Sandra Jones has now been missing over twenty-four hours,” D.D. concluded. “She has not turned up at any local hospital or morgue. Nor has there been any activity on her credit cards or bank accounts during this time period. We have searched her house, her yard, the two vehicles, and her neighborhood. As of this time, we do not have a single lead on her whereabouts.”
“Cell phone?” the deputy superintendent barked.
“We are working with her cellular provider to procure a complete log of all deleted voice messages and text messages, as well as a list of all incoming and outgoing calls. In the past twenty-four hours, the activity on her cell phone has mostly been limited to her teaching position, with various staff members and students trying to track her down.”
“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.”
