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

by Lisa Gardner

  It was enough to make him consider filing a case against Jason in civil court, where the burden of proof was lower. Except even in civil court, it was hard to proceed without a dead body. No corpse meant Sandra Jones might really have run off with the gardener, which meant she might really be alive and well in Mexico.

  It all came back to dead bodies.

  Max needed one.

  Then it occurred to him. Yes, he needed a dead body. But did it necessarily have to be Sandra’s?

  Seven forty-five P.M. Aidan Brewster stood at the Laundromat, folding the last load of laundry. In front of him were four stacks of white T-shirts, two stacks of blue jeans, and half a dozen smaller piles of white briefs and blue-banded athletic socks. He’d started at six P.M., after his PO had graciously picked him up from his reporter-infested property and spirited him away. Colleen had offered to take him to a hotel for the night, to let things calm down. Instead, he’d asked her to drop him off at a suburban Laundromat, someplace far away from South Boston, where the reporters would have no reason to look for him and a man could bleach his tighty whities in peace.

  He could tell Colleen had been uncomfortable with the request. Or maybe it had been the trash bag after trash bag of dirty laundry he’d loaded into the trunk of her car, while three cameramen had clicked away from across the street. At least when Colleen had pulled away, the photographers had abandoned their posts, as well. No use staking out a house when you knew the target wasn’t there.

  “What happened to your head?” Colleen had asked as she drove down the street.

  “Kitchen fire. Left a paper plate too near a burner. Embers floated up and caught my hair on fire, but I was too busy dumping flour on the stove to notice.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “You doing okay, Aidan?”

  “I lost my job. I burned my head. I got my face on the evening news. No fucking way, but thanks for asking.”

  “Aidan …”

  He stared at her, daring her to say it. She was sorry. What a shame. Things’ll get better. Hold tight.

  Pick a platitude, any platitude. The sayings were all bullshit. And he and Colleen both knew it.

  She drove him the rest of the way in silence, biggest favor she ever did him.

  Now he finished folding his towels, sheets, various coverlets, even three doilies. If it was a textile and it had been in his apartment, he’d washed it with Clorox color-safe bleach.

  Let the police hash over that one. Let them hate him.

  After this, he planned on returning to his apartment and packing up everything he owned. He was placing his entire collection of worldly possessions into four black trash bags, and he was bolting into the wind. That was it. Show over. He was done. Let his PO chase him. Let the police go apeshit looking for another registered sex offender.

  He’d followed the rules, and look where it got him: The police were screwing him; his former coworkers had tried to jump him; and his neighbor, Jason Jones, just plain scared him. Then there were the reporters … Aidan wanted out. So long. See you. Bye-bye.

  Which didn’t explain why he remained here, sitting on the floor of a grungy Laundromat, snapping his green elastic band and clutching a blue ballpoint pen. He’d been staring at the blank piece of notebook paper for three minutes already. He finally wrote:

  Dear Rachel:

  I’m an ass. It’s all my fault. You should hate me.

  He paused. Chewed on the end of the pen again. Snapped the band.

  Thanks for sending me the letters. Maybe you hate them. Maybe you couldn’t stand to see them anymore. Guess I can’t blame you.

  He crossed out words. Tried again. Crossed out more.

  I love you.

  I loved you. I was wrong. I’m sorry.

  I won’t bother you again.

  Unless, he thought. But he didn’t write it. He forcefully kept himself from writing it. If she’d wanted to see him, she could’ve done it by now. So take the hint, Aidan, old boy. She didn’t love you. She doesn’t love you. You went to prison for nothing, you pathetic, stupid, miserable sack of shit.…

  He picked up the pen again.

  Please don’t hurt yourself.

  Then, almost as an afterthought:

  And don’t let Jerry hurt you either. You deserve better. You really, really do.

  Sorry I fucked everything up. Have a nice life.

  Aidan

  He set down the pen. Reread the letter. Debated tearing it to shreds and attempting another bonfire. Held it instead. He wouldn’t send the letter. In group, the exercise was simply to write the note. Teach him empathy and remorse. Which he guess he felt, because his chest was tight, and it was hard to breathe, and he didn’t want to be sitting in the middle of a seedy Laundromat anymore. He wanted to be back in his apartment, curled up with blankets over his head. Someplace he could get lost in the dark and not think about that winter and how good her skin had felt against his, or how much of both of their lives he had destroyed.

  God help him, he still loved her. He did. She was the only good thing that had ever happened to him, and she had been his step sister and he was the worst kind of monster in the world and maybe the guys at the shop should beat the snot out of him. Maybe that was the only solution for a jerkoff like him. He was a pervert. No better than Wendell the psychotic flasher. He should be destroyed.

  Except, like any pervert, he didn’t really want to die. He just wanted to get through the night and maybe the next day.

  So he gathered up his laundry and hailed a cab.

  “Home, James,” he told the driver.

  Then, sitting in the back seat of the taxi, he tore the letter into tiny, tiny bits, and flung them out the window, watching the night wind carry them away.

  Nine-oh-five P.M., Jason finally had Ree down for the night. It hadn’t been easy. The growing media camp had kept them housebound for most of the day, and Ree was punchy from lack of fresh air and exercise. Then, after dinner, the first of the klieg lights had powered on, their entire house now lit up bright enough to be viewed from outer space.

  Ree had complained about the spotlights. She had whined about the noise. She had demanded that he make the reporters go away, and then, when that hadn’t done the trick, she had stomped her foot and demanded that he take her to find her mother right now.

  In response, he offered to color with her. Or maybe they could work on origami. Perhaps a stimulating game of checkers.

  He didn’t blame her for scowling at him and storming around the house. He wanted the reporters to go away, too. He’d like their old life to resume anytime now, thank you very much.

  He’d read an entire fairy novel to his daughter, all one hundred pages from beginning to end. His throat hurt, he’d lost command of the English language, but his daughter was finally asleep.

  Which left him alone in the family room, blinds and curtains tightly drawn, trying to figure out what to do next. Sandra remained missing. Maxwell had a court-ordered visit with Ree. And Jason was still the primary suspect in his pregnant wife’s disappearance.

  He had hoped, in his own way, that his wife had run off with a lover. He hadn’t really believed it, but he had hoped, because given all the options, that one kept Sandy safe and sound. And maybe one day she’d change her mind and return to him. He’d take her back. For Ree’s sake, for his own. He knew he was not a perfect husband, he knew he had made a terrible mistake during the family vacation. If she’d needed to punish him for that, he could take it.

  But now, as day three closed and the hours dragged by, he was forced to contemplate other options. That his wife hadn’t run off. That something terrible had happened, right here, in his own home, and by some miracle, Ree had survived it. Maybe Ethan Hastings had grown frustrated with his unrequited love. Maybe Maxwell had finally found them and abducted Sandy as a ploy to gain his granddaughter. Or maybe Sandra had another lover, this mysterious computer expert, who’d grown tired of waiting for her to leave Jason.

  She’d been pregn
ant. His baby? Someone else’s? Had that been what triggered this whole thing? Maybe, with Ethan Hastings’s help, she had figured out exactly who he was, and she had recoiled at the prospect of bearing a monster’s child. He couldn’t really blame her. He should be terrified at the thought of reproducing as well.

  Except he wasn’t. He had wanted … He had hoped …

  If they had ever had that moment, the one where Sandy nervously confessed they were expecting a baby together, he would’ve been touched, awed, humbled. He would have been eternally grateful.

  But they never got that moment. His wife was gone, and he was left with the ghost of what might have been.

  As well as the specter of impending criminal arrest.

  He would take his daughter and run. Only thing that could be done, because sooner or later, Sergeant Warren was going to appear on his front porch with an arrest warrant, and a family court officer. He’d go to prison. Worse, Ree would go to foster care.

  He could not let that happen. Not for his sake and not for his daughter’s.

  He headed for the attic.

  The access panel was in the closet of the master bedroom. He grabbed the handle in the ceiling, and pulled down the rickety folding stairs. Then he clicked on a flashlight and headed up into the pitch black gloom.

  The attic space was only three feet tall, meant for storage, not comfort. He crawled along the plywood floor, shuffling around boxes of Christmas decorations until he reached the far corner. He counted two rafters over to the left, then shoved aside the exposed insulation and reached in for the flat metal box.

  He pulled it out, thinking it felt lighter than he remembered. He set the flashlight down on the floor, raised the lid.…

  The metal box was empty. Cash, IDs, all gone. Cleared out.

  Police? Sandy? Someone else? He couldn’t understand it. He’d never told anyone about his emergency escape kit. It was his little secret, one that kept him from having to bolt awake screaming every night. He was not trapped. He had an escape plan. He always had an escape plan.

  And then, while his mind was still frantically trying to process what had happened to him, how it could have possibly happened to him, he became aware of something else. A noise, not far below him.

  The creak of a floorboard.

  Coming from his daughter’s room.

  | CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE |

  As family vacations go, Jason’s choice of hotel shocked me. I had expected some moderately priced, kid-friendly establishment. Instead, we arrived at a five-star getaway resort, complete with a full-service spa and yawning indoor pool. A bellhop in a red coat with gold-braid trim led us up to the very top floor, which could only be accessed by inserting the room key into the elevator key pad. Then, he escorted us to a two-bedroom corner suite.

  The first room contained a king-sized bed with sumptuous white bedding and enough richly brocaded pillows to furnish a harem. Our view overlooked Boston Harbor. The bathroom featured wall-to-wall rose-colored marble.

  In the adjacent sitting area, we discovered a sleeper sofa, two low-slung camel-colored chairs, and the world’s largest flat-screen TV. When Jason announced that this would be Ree’s room, her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. So did mine.

  “I love it!” Ree squealed, and immediately went to work disgorging her overstuffed suitcase into her deluxe chamber. In five seconds or less, the room was covered in bright pink princess blankets, half a dozen Barbies, and, of course, Lil’ Bunny, given the perch of honor in the middle of the sofa. “Can we watch a movie?”

  “Later. First, I thought we’d put on fancy clothes and I would escort my two favorite ladies to dinner.”

  Ree’s scream of delight threatened to shatter the bank of windows. I continued to regard my husband with shell-shocked surprise. “But I didn’t bring anything fancy … I wasn’t expecting …”

  “I took the liberty of throwing in a dress and your boots.”

  My eyes went wider, but Jason maintained his inscrutable features. He was up to something. I just knew it. And for a moment, Wayne’s warning came back to me. Maybe Jason knew what I’d been doing. He’d guessed that I’d been tracking his online activities and he was … wining and dining me to death? Spa-ing me into submission at a sumptuous resort?

  I retreated to our half of the suite, where I put on the shimmering blue dress Jason had packed for me, as well as knee-high black leather boots. I hadn’t worn this dress for Wayne yet. I wondered if Jason had known that, and I felt uneasy all over again.

  Then Ree came barreling into the room, spinning around in a cranberry-colored dress sprinkled with embroidered flowers and finished with a giant looping bow in the back. “Mommy, do my hair. Hair time, Mommy. I want to look fabulous!”

  So I fashioned Ree’s hair into a bun on top of her head, with curly wisps springing around her face. And I spritzed and styled my own golden curls, even finding some makeup packed away by my clever husband for our family getaway. I did eyes, cheeks, and lip gloss for me. Lip gloss only for Ree, who then pouted because she personally believed the more makeup you wore, the more “fabulous” you were bound to be.

  Jason appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. He was wearing dark slacks I’d never seen before, with a deep plum-colored shirt and a dark flecked sports jacket. No tie. The top two buttons of his sharply pressed shirt were undone, showing off the strong column of his throat. And I felt a stirring then, low in my belly, that I had not felt in the past four months.

  My husband is a handsome man. A very, very handsome man.

  My gaze came up. Our eyes met, and I felt it then, genuine, spine-tingling, bone deep.

  I was afraid of him.

  Jason wanted to walk. While the evening held a bracing, February chill, it was not raining and the sidewalks were clear Ree loved this idea, as she loved everything about family vacation thus far. She walked between us, her left hand tucked in Jason’s, her right hand tucked in mine. She would count to ten, then it would be our job to hoist her into the air so she could squeal at passing pedestrians.

  They would smile at us, a well-dressed family out and about in the big city.

  We followed the red line tracing Paul Revere’s ride toward the Old State House, then took a left and continued past Boston Commons, toward the theater district. I recognized the Four Seasons, where I passed my spa nights, and walking toward it, holding my daughter’s hand, I couldn’t bear to glance at the glass doors. It was too much like looking at a crime scene.

  Fortunately, Jason veered away, and soon we arrived at a charming bistro, where the air smelled like fresh-pressed olive oil and ruby red Chianti. A tuxedoed maitre d’ led us to a table, and another black-vested young man wanted to know if we wanted still or sparkling water I was about to say tap, when Jason replied smoothly that we would like a bottle of Perrier, and of course, the wine list.

  I blinked at my husband of five years, struck speechless yet again, while Ree squirmed around in her wooden seat, then discovered the bread basket. She stuck her hand beneath the linen covering, producing a long thin breadstick. She snapped it in half, obviously liking the noise it made, and proceeded to munch away.

  “You should put your napkin in your lap,” Jason told her, “like this.”

  He demonstrated with his napkin and Ree was impressed enough to follow suit. Then Jason helped scoot her chair closer to the table, and explained the various pieces of silverware.

  The waiter appeared. He poured elegant pools of olive oil onto our bread plates, a routine Ree recognized from our usual North End haunts. She fell to work soaking each piece of bread from the bread basket, while Jason turned to the waiter and very calmly ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  “But you don’t drink,” I protested, as the waiter nodded efficiently and once more disappeared.

  “Would you like a glass of champagne, Sandra?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then I would like to share some with you.”

  “Why?”

  He merely s
miled and returned to studying his menu. Finally, I did the same, though my mind was racing. Maybe he was going to get me drunk. Then, when Ree wasn’t looking, he’d push me into the harbor. No walking near the water on the way back to the hotel, I thought with a vague sense of rising hysteria. Must stick to the opposite side of the street.

  Ree decided she would like angel hair pasta with butter and cheese. She did her parents proud by ordering in a nice clear voice and remembering to say both please and thank you. I, on the other hand, stuttered like an idiot, but managed to order scallops with wild mushroom risotto.

  Jason had the veal.

  The champagne arrived. The waiter made a discreet show of uncorking it with a delicate little burp. He poured two glasses in paper-thin flutes that showed off the sparkling bubbles. Ree declared it the prettiest drink she’d ever seen and wanted some.

  Jason told her she could when she turned twenty-one.

  She pouted at him, then returned to drowning bread in olive oil.

  Jason lifted the first flute. I took the second.

  “To us,” he said, “and our future happiness.”

  I nodded and took an obedient sip. The bubbles tickled my nose and I thought, quite absurdly, that I was going to cry.

  How well do you know the person you have married? You exchange vows, gold rings, build a home, raise a family. You sleep side by side every night, gazing upon your spouse’s naked body so often it becomes as mundane as your own. Maybe you have sex. Maybe you have felt your husband’s fingers digging into your ass, urging you closer, guiding you faster, asking you in a low guttural tone, “How do you like that? Is it good for you?” Yet this is the same man who will slip out of bed six hours from now and prepare waffles with your daughter’s favorite ruffled apron tied around his waist and perhaps even a butterfly barrette, graciously supplied by the four-year-old, clipped into his hair.

  If you can marvel at his sweetness, your husband’s ability to be both your carnal lover and your daughter’s indulgent father, is it not so much of a stretch then to wonder what other roles he could play? What other parts of his personality are just waiting to be dialed into place?