The Detective D. D. Warren Series 5-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  “Wayne Reynolds?” he repeated.

  D.D. flushed, realizing too late that she’d given away the state computer technician. She clipped out, “You’re lying to us, Jason. You’re lying about your identity, you’re lying about your computer activities, you’re lying about your whole damn life. Then you turn around and claim to love your wife and only want her back. Well, if you really love the woman so badly, start leveling with us. Tell us what’s going on here, Jason. Tell us what the hell happened with your wife.”

  Jason gave the only answer he could. “Honestly, Sergeant, I have no idea.”

  | CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE |

  It began with a single meeting at the basketball game. Ethan had an uncle who was a certified forensic computer examiner; Ethan brought him to the game to meet with me.

  Wayne Reynolds was not what I expected. In my head, computer technicians looked more like Revenge of the Nerds and less like crime show TV stars. Wayne’s burnished red hair was slightly untidy, his tie askew. The rumpledness only added to his appeal, gave him a disheveled charm that made you want to smooth his collar, brush away the loose strands of hair from his forehead. He was tall and athletic while at the same time touchable. Highly touchable.

  I spent the entire forty-five minutes of our first conversation with my hands fisted by my sides so I didn’t do anything that would embarrass me.

  He talked about computers. How to copy hard drives. How to analyze unused data chunks for hidden content. The importance of using the proper forensic tool.

  I watched his long legs eat up the school corridor. I wondered if beneath his tan slacks, his thighs and calves were as elegantly muscled as they appeared. Did he have light reddish hair all over his body, or only on the top of his head? Would it feel as silky as it looked?

  By the time we returned to the gym for the end of the basketball game, I was slightly out of breath and Ethan regarded me suspiciously. I kept my gaze away from his uncle. Ethan was a frighteningly perceptive boy, as I’d already learned the hard way.

  Wayne left me with the name of a hard drive to purchase. I tucked it, along with his business card, in my purse, then took Ree home.

  Later that night, after putting Ree to bed, I memorized Wayne’s e-mail address and phone number. Then I ripped his business card into tiny little pieces and flushed them down the toilet. I did the same with the hard-drive information. At this stage, I couldn’t afford to be careless.

  Jason came home after two A.M. I heard his footsteps in the family room, the creak of the old wooden chair as he pulled it out from the kitchen table and took his customary seat at the family desktop.

  I woke again at four A.M., just as he was coming into the bedroom. He didn’t turn on any lights, but undressed in a corner of darkness. I wondered about my own husband this time. What ripples of lean muscle might lurk beneath the long pants and plain, button-down shirts he always wore? Did he have waves of thick black hair on his chest? Did it form a silky line down to his groin?

  After Brokeback Mountain, I used to pretend that Jason was gay, that’s why he wouldn’t touch me. It wasn’t me, I told myself. He simply preferred men. But from time to time, I’d catch him watching me with a dark, hooded gleam in his eyes. Some part of him responded to me, I was certain of it. Unfortunately, it was only enough to keep me, not enough to love me.

  I closed my eyes as my husband crawled into bed. I feigned sleep.

  Later, four-thirty, five A.M., I rolled over and touched my husband’s shoulder. I spread my fingers upon the warm T-shirt covering his back. I felt the muscles ripple at contact, and I thought he owed me at least that much.

  Then his fingers closed around my wrist. He removed my hand from his shoulder.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Go to sleep, Sandy.”

  “I want a second baby,” I said. Which was partly true. I did yearn for another child, or at least someone else who would love me.

  “We could adopt,” he said.

  “God, Jason. Do you hate me that much?”

  He didn’t answer. I stormed out of bed, stomped downstairs, sat at the computer. Then, just to be childish about things, I checked the empty recycle bin, and the three URLs left in the computer’s web history: New York Times, USA Today, and the Drudge Report.

  At that moment, I despised my husband. I hated him for taking me away, but for never really saving me. I hated him for showing me respect, but for never letting me feel wanted. I hated him for his silences and for his secrets and for a lone black-and-white image of a terrified little boy who still haunted me.

  “Just what kind of monster are you?” I demanded out loud. But the computer had no answers for me.

  So I logged on to my AOL account. Then, working from memory, I wrote: Dear Wayne, thanks for meeting with me. I am working on our project now. I hope to see you again, at the next Thursday basketball game.…

  | CHAPTER THIRTY |

  “What do you mean you can’t find the money? It’s four million dollars, for God’s sake. It takes a little more than a piggy bank to cart that much around.” D.D. was ranting into her cell phone, held tight against her ear. They were exiting the Jones residence and half a dozen photographers were snapping away at them. The class they should have at detective school and don’t: How to Always Have Photo-Ready Hair.

  “No, I don’t want the Feds involved. We’ve traced money before; we can do it again.… Okay, okay, so it’s not a one-day project. I’ll give you two more hours.… I know, so get cracking.”

  D.D. flipped the phone shut, scowling.

  “Bad news?” Miller asked. He was stroking his mustache self consciously, obviously not liking the glare of the media spotlight any more than she did. They paused at the base of the porch stairs, not wanting to have this conversation in earshot of the press, who were already banging out questions.

  “Cooper hit a wall chasing Jones’s assets,” D.D. reported. “Something about the money was wired into Jones’s current bank from an offshore account, and offshore banks are a little uptight about disclosing information. According to Cooper, we need to charge Jones with a crime first, then they might see things our way. Of course, we need to trace the money in order to expose Jones’s real identity, so we can charge him with a crime. At this point, it’s heads he wins, tails we lose.”

  “Bummer, dude,” Miller said.

  She rolled her eyes at him, chewed her lower lip. “I feel like we’re stuck in a bad episode of Law & Order.”

  “How so?”

  “Look at our pool of suspects: We have the mysterious husband who’s probably engaged in online porn, the down-the-street neighbor who’s a registered sex offender, a thirteen-year-old student who’s in love with his missing teacher, a state computer technician who seems to have a very personal stake in the investigation, and, last but not least, the victim’s estranged father who may or may not have known she was abused as a child and has lots of incentive to keep that quiet. It’s all ‘In a case that’s been ripped from the headlines …’ Except I have no idea which fucking headline we ripped off.”

  “Maybe it’s like that old movie. Murder on the Orient Express. They all did it. That would be cool.”

  She gave him a look. “You have a strange sense of humor, Miller.”

  “Hey, this job will do that to you.”

  When in doubt, keep everyone talking. D.D. wanted to question Ree again, but the expert, Marianne Jackson, waved her off. Three interviews in three consecutive days would not only be too much for the child, but would appear like badgering. Even if Ree did tell them something useful, a good defense attorney would argue they’d harassed her into disclosing. They needed to give the girl one more day better yet, turn over some new piece of evidence that warranted a third interview. Then they’d be on safer ground.

  So D.D. and Miller turned to their cast of suspects. In the past forty-eight hours, they’d hit Jason Jones, Ethan Hastings, Aidan Brewster, and Wayne Reynolds, which left the ho
norable Maxwell Black. Currently, the judge stood right across the street, working the crowd of reporters much the way a politician might work a room of high-net-worth donors.

  Already, D.D. felt uneasy. Guy hasn’t seen his daughter in five years, learns she’s gone missing, so he catches a flight to Boston to smile for the cameras and press flesh with the local news personalities?

  Judge seemed pretty relaxed about it, too. Wearing a dapper light blue suit with a pastel pink tie and coordinating pink silk kerchief, very Southern gentleman. Then, of course, there was that drawl that sounded so honey smooth in the land of dropped R’s and guttural A’s.

  As they neared the news vans, Miller hung back, giving her the lead. D.D. waded into the fray.

  “Detective, detective,” the hordes began.

  “Sergeant,” D.D. snapped back, because they could at least grant her that much.

  “Any news on Sandy’s whereabouts?”

  “Are you going to arrest Jason?”

  “How is little Ree holding up? Her preschool teacher says she hasn’t been to school since Wednesday.”

  “Is it true Jason wouldn’t let Sandy talk to her own father?”

  D.D. shot Maxwell Black a look. Clearly, they had the good judge to thank for that tidbit. She ignored the reporters, placing her hand firmly on Maxwell’s shoulder and leading him away from the sudden forest of microphones and camera lenses.

  “Sergeant D.D. Warren, with Detective Brian Miller. If you don’t mind, sir, we’d like a word.”

  The judge didn’t protest. Merely nodded his head elegantly while waving goodbye to his newfound media playmates. Man must be a lot of fun in his own courtroom, D.D. thought with irritation. Like the grand master of a three-ring circus.

  She got him over to Miller and they walked him to their car, the reporters trailing behind greedily in a last-ditch attempt to catch a snippet of conversation, a juicy revelation. That Sandra was dead. That they were arresting the husband. Or perhaps the police wanted to question Sandy’s father as a fresh person of interest. Either way, the reporters’ wheels would be spinning for a bit, the attention ramping up exponentially.

  Maxwell ducked into the back seat of D.D.’s car and they pulled away, D.D. laying on the horn and doing her best Britney Spears imitation as she aimed for the nearest photographer’s foot. The cameramen immediately cleared, and she managed to drive down the street without incident. She felt vaguely disappointed.

  “You’re the detectives in charge of my daughter’s case,” Maxwell drawled from the back seat.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Excellent. I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you. I have some information on my son-in-law. Starting with the fact that his name is not Jason Jones.”

  They took the judge down to the station. It was the kosher way of questioning someone, and Jason Jones had been giving them such a runaround on the matter, D.D. was pleased to get protocol right for at least one person. The detectives’ interrogation room was small, and the coffee terrible, but Maxwell Black maintained his charming smile even as he sat down in the hard metal folding chair wedged between the table and bone white wall. They might as well have invited him back to their country estate.

  The judge bothered D.D. He was too sure of himself, too easygoing. His daughter was missing. He was at a major police station in an airless room. He should sweat a little. That’s what normal people did, even the innocent ones.

  D.D. took her time sitting down, getting out a yellow legal pad, then setting up the mini-recorder in the middle of the table. Miller leaned back in his metal chair, arms folded over his chest. He looked bored. Always a nice strategy when dealing with a man who obviously liked attention as much as Judge Black did.

  “So when did you get into town?” D.D. kept her voice neutral. Just making polite chitchat.

  “Early yesterday afternoon. I always watch the news while taking my morning coffee. Imagine my surprise when I saw Sandy’s picture flash across the screen. I knew right then her husband had gone and done something horrible. I bolted out of my office and headed straight for the airport. Left my coffee sitting on my desk and everything.”

  D.D. made a show of setting out her pens. “You mean that’s the same suit you were in yesterday?” she asked, because that didn’t jibe with what she remembered from the news clips.

  “I grabbed a few items from my home,” the judge amended. “I already anticipated this would not be a short trip.”

  “I see. So you saw your daughter’s image on the screen, then returned home to pack, maybe tidy up a few things—”

  “I have a housekeeper who tends to all that, ma’am. I called her from the road, she put everything together for me, and here I am.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Ritz-Carlton, of course. I do so love their tea.”

  D.D. blinked. Maybe she wasn’t Southern enough, because as criteria for picking a hotel, she’d never considered tea before. “What airline did you fly?”

  “Delta.”

  “Flight number? When did it land?”

  Maxwell gave her a look, but provided the specifics. “Why do you ask?”

  “Basic protocol,” she assured him. “Remember from that old TV show Dragnet: ‘Just the facts, ma’am’?”

  He beamed at her. “I loved that show.”

  “Well, there you go. Boston PD aims to please.”

  “Are we gonna talk about my son-in-law now? Because I’m telling you, there are some things you ought to know—”

  “All in good time,” D.D. assured him, polite, but remaining in control. Down the table from her, Miller started twirling his pen around his finger, drawing Maxwell’s attention.

  “When was the last time you spoke with your daughter, Sandra Jones?” D.D. asked.

  Maxwell blinked at her, looking momentarily distracted. “Um, oh, years. Sandra wasn’t the kind to pick up the phone.”

  “You didn’t call her in all that time?”

  “Well, if you must know, we had a falling-out right before she left town. My daughter was only eighteen years old, much too young for hanging out with the likes of Jason, and I told her so.” Black sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, Sandy always was a headstrong girl. She ran out in the middle of the night. Eloped, I imagined. I’ve been waiting for a phone call or at least a postcard ever since.”

  “You file a missing persons report after your daughter left?”

  “No ma’am. I didn’t consider her missing. I knew she’d run off with that boy. That’s the kind of thing Sandy would do.”

  “Really? She ran off before?”

  Black flushed. “It is a parent’s job to know his child’s weaknesses,” he stated primly. “My daughter—well, Sandy took the death of her mother hard. Went through a rebellious spell, and all that. Drinking, staying out all night. Being … well, an active teenage girl.”

  “You mean sexually active,” D.D. clarified.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Child made no bones about it. Would come in at the crack of dawn reeking of cigarettes and booze and sex. I was a teenager once myself, Sergeant. I know what kids do.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  “Her mother died when she was fifteen.”

  “How’d she die?”

  “Heart attack,” Black said, then seemed to catch himself. He looked at her, then at Miller, who was still twirling his pen, then switched his attention back to D.D. again. “Actually, it was not a heart attack. That’s a story we’ve been telling for so long it seems to have become the truth in the way lies sometimes do. But you might as well know: My wife, Sandra’s mom, she committed suicide. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Sandra was the one who found the body in our garage.”

  “Your wife killed herself at home?”

  “In her own Cadillac.”

  “Did your wife have a history of depression?”

  That almost imperceptible hesitation again. “My wife probably drank m
ore than what would be considered medicinal, Sergeant. I have a very demanding job, you understand. I guess the loneliness took its toll on her.”

  “Your wife have a good relationship with Sandra?”

  “My wife may not have been a perfect mother, but she tried hard.”

  “And you?”

  “As I said, I was probably gone more than I should have been, but I love my daughter, too.”

  “So much so that you never once tried to find her in the past five years?”

  “Oh, I tried. I definitely tried.”

  “How so?”

  “I hired a private investigator. One of the best in the county. Here’s the kicker, though. The man Sandra introduced to me as her future husband was Jason Johnson, not Jason Jones.”

  D.D. excused herself to get a glass of water. While she was out, she swung by Detective Cooper’s desk and gave him the heads-up—start running background checks on Jason Johnson as well as Jason Jones.

  Cooper just gave her a look. He was the best in the unit at this kind of stuff, and without at least a middle initial or any other additional detail, sorting through the reams of Jason Johnsons in the world wasn’t going to be any easier than sorting through the lists of Jason Jones.

  “I know,” she assured him. “You love your job and each day is more satisfying than the last. Have fun.”

  D.D. returned to the interrogation room, but rather than go inside, she opted to watch the show from the other side of the observation glass. Judge Black was entirely too comfortable with women. He would ooze Southern charm and spin easy tales until the cows came home. Given that, she thought it might be more productive to let Miller take a run at him.

  So far, Miller had made no attempt to rouse himself from his slouch, and the detective’s continued disinterest was already starting to make Maxwell fidget. The judge played with his tie, smoothed his pocket kerchief, then took several sips of coffee. His hand shook lightly when he raised his cup. From this angle, D.D. could see the dark age spots on the back of his hand. But his face was relatively unlined and attractive.