The Neighbor (11 page)

But then, half a beat later, he dismissed that conclusion: While Sandy may have been ambivalent about marriage, she was not ambivalent about Ree. Meaning if Sandy had left the house willingly, she would’ve taken Ree, and at the very least, grabbed her own purse. The absence of such steps led to a different conclusion: Sandy had not left willingly. Something bad had happened, here, inside Jason’s own home, while his daughter had slept upstairs. And he had no idea what.

Jason was a reserved man. He acknowledged that. He preferred logic to emotion, fact to supposition. It was one of the reasons he made a good reporter. He was excellent at sifting through vast pools of data and coming up with the perfect nugget of information that brought everything together. He did not get bogged down with outrage or shock or grief. He did not suffer any preconceived notions about Boston’s citizens or humanity in general.

Jason believed at all times that the worst could happen. That was a fact of life. And so, he armed himself with many other facts,
perhaps believing, rather foolishly, that if he knew enough, this time he could be secure. His family would not suffer. His daughter would grow up safe and sound.

Except here he was, confronted by several great big unknowns, and he could feel his control already beginning to unravel.

The police had been gone for nearly six hours now, just the lone officer sitting in the car outside the house, switched out once, around five o’clock. Jason had thought having the police in his home all morning had been long and painful. He now realized their absence was far worse. What were the detectives doing? What was Sergeant D. D. Warren thinking? Had she taken the bait regarding his sex offender neighbor, or was he still considered the prize catch?

Did they have a warrant yet for the computer? Could they kick him out of the house, force him down to the station? Exactly what kind of evidence did they need?

Worse yet, if they arrested him, what would happen to Ree?

Jason walked around the coffee table again and again, hard tight circles that made him dizzy and still he couldn’t stop. He didn’t have local family, didn’t have close friends. Would the police contact Sandy’s father, ship Ree to Georgia, or invite Max up here?

And if Max came up here, exactly how much might Max say or do?

Jason needed a strategy, some kind of contingency plan.

Because the longer Sandy remained missing, the worse this was going to get. The police would keep digging, asking harder questions. And inevitably, the word would leak out, the media would descend. Jason’s own peers would turn on him like cannibals, beaming his image all over the free world. Jason Jones, husband of the missing woman and person of interest in an ongoing investigation.

Sooner or later, someone was going to recognize that image. Someone was going to start to connect dots.

Especially if the police got their hands on his computer.

Jason careened around the table too fast, catching his knee on the corner of the washing machine. The pain lanced up his thigh and finally forced him to stop. For an instant, the world spun, so he clung to the top of the washer, breathless with pain.

When he could finally focus again, the first thing he noticed was the spider, the tiny little brown garden spider hanging right in front of him by a thread.

Jason jumped back, clipping the edge of the beat-up table with his shin and nearly yelping from the pain. But that was okay. He could take the pain. He didn’t mind the pain, just so long as he didn’t see that spider again.

And for a moment, it was too much. For a moment, one tiny little cellar spider had him spinning back to a place where it was always dark except for the eyes that glowed from the dozens of terrariums edging the room. A place where screams started in the basement and worked their way up through the walls. A place that smelled routinely of death and decay and no amount of ammonia was ever going to make a difference.

A place little boys and big girls went to die.

Jason placed a fist in his mouth. He bit his own knuckle until he tasted blood and he used that pain to ground himself again.

“I will not lose control,” he murmured. “I will not lose control, I will not lose control, I will not lose control.”

The phone rang upstairs. He gratefully left the basement and went to answer it.

The caller was Phil Stewart, the principal from Sandy’s school, and he sounded uncharacteristically flummoxed.

“Is Sandra there?” Phil started.

“She’s not available,” Jason said automatically. “May I take a message?”

There was a long pause. “Jason?”

“Yes.”

“Is she home? I mean, have the police located her yet?”

So the police had interviewed people where Sandra worked. Of course they had. That was a logical next step. After checking here, they might as well check there. Of course. Jason needed something intelligent to say. A statement of fact, a party line that summed up the current state of affairs without delving into personal territory.

He couldn’t think of a single damn word.

“Jason?”

Jason cleared his throat, glanced at the clock. It was 7:05
P.M.
, meaning Sandy had now been gone for what, eighteen, twenty hours? Day one nearly done, day two nearly beginning. “Umm … she’s … she’s … she’s not home, Phil.”

“She’s still missing,” the principal stated.

“Yes.”

“Do you have any ideas? Do the police have a lead? What’s going on, Jason?”

“I went to work last night,” Jason said simply. “When I came home, she was gone.”

“Oh my God,” Phil expelled as a long sigh. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

“No.”

“Do you think she’s coming home? I mean, maybe she just needed to take a break or something.” This was delving into personal territory, and Jason could practically hear Phil’s blush over the phone lines.

“Maybe,” Jason said quietly.

“Well.” Phil seemed to pull himself together. “Sounds like I should arrange a sub for tomorrow.”

“I would think so.”

“Will the search begin in the morning? I imagine much of the staff would like to assist. Probably some parents of the students, as well. Of course you’ll need help distributing flyers, canvassing neighborhoods, that sort of thing. Who will be leading the charge?”

Jason faltered again, feeling the edge of panic. He caught it this time, stiffened his backbone, forced himself to sound firm. “I will get that information to you.”

“We’ll need to think of what to tell the children,” Phil stated, “preferably before they catch it on the news. Perhaps a public statement for the parents, as well. Nothing like this has happened around here before. We need to start preparing the kids.”

“I will get that information to you,” Jason repeated.

“How is Clarissa holding up?” Phil asked abruptly.

“About as well as can be expected.”

“If you need any help on that front, just let us know. I’m sure some of the teachers would be happy to assist. These things can all be managed, of course. All it takes is a plan.”

“Absolutely,” Jason assured him. “All it takes is a plan.”

| CHAPTER NINE |

At 5:59
P.M.
Sergeant D.D. Warren was a happy camper. She had a warrant to search Jason Jones’s truck. She had an appointment with a registered sex offender’s parole officer. And better yet, it was trash night in the neighborhood.

She drove around South Boston with Detective Miller, getting the lay of the land while they plotted next steps.

“According to Detective Rober,” Miller was reporting, “Jones kept a low profile for the afternoon. No guests, no errands, no activities. He seems to be hanging out at home with his daughter, doing his thing.”

“Has he been out to the truck?” D.D. wanted to know.

“Nope, hasn’t even cracked open the front door.”

“Huh,” D.D. said. “Working on the computer? Your guy should be able to see him sitting there in the kitchen window.”

“I asked that question, and the answer is uncertain. Afternoon sun made the view into the kitchen window unclear. But in the officer’s professional assessment, Jones spent most of the day entertaining his kid.”

“Interesting,” D.D. said, and meant it. What a spouse did after a loved one went missing was always a source of fodder for the
inquisitive detective. Did the spouse go about business as usual? Suddenly invite over a new female friend for “comfort”? Or run around purchasing accelerants and/or unusual power tools?

In Jason’s case, his behavior seemed to be mostly defined by what he didn’t do. No relatives or friends coming over to help him cope, maybe assist with childcare. No trips to the local office supply store to blow up photos of his missing wife. No quick visits to his neighbor’s house for standard inquiries:
Hey, have you happened to see my wife? Or maybe hear anything unusual last night? Oh, and by the way, catch any sign of an orange cat
?

Jason Jones’s wife disappeared and he did nothing at all.

It’s almost as if he didn’t expect her to be found. D.D. found that fascinating.

“Okay,” she said now, “given that Jason is holding tight, I think our first stop should be with Aidan Brewster’s PO. We got Suspicious Husband under our thumb. Now it’s time to learn more about Felonious Neighbor.”

“Works for me,” Detective Miller said. “You know, tomorrow morning happens to be trash day for the neighborhood.” He nodded his head toward the collection of trash cans starting to proliferate on the curb. Trash in a house was private property and required a warrant. Trash on the curb, on the other hand … “Say two or three
A.M.
, I have an officer swing by and pick up Jones’s garbage? Give us something to sort through in the morning.”

“Ah, Detective, you read my mind.”

“I try,” he said modestly.

D.D. winked at him, and they swung back into the city.

Colleen Pickler agreed to meet with them in the nondescript space that passed for her office. The floor was light gray linoleum, the walls were covered in battleship gray paint, and her filing cabinets sported a dull gray finish. In contrast, Colleen was a six-foot athletically built Amazon, sporting a head of shocking red hair and wearing a deep red blazer over a kaleidoscope T-shirt of oranges, yellows, and reds. When she first stood up from her desk, it looked like a torch had suddenly been lit in the middle of a fog bank.

She crossed the room in three easy strides, shook their hands vigorously, then gestured them into the two low-slung blue chairs across from the desk.

“Forgive the office,” she announced cheerfully. “I work mostly with sex offenders, and the state seems to feel that any color other than gray might overstimulate them. Clearly,” she gestured to her top, “I disagree.”

“You work mostly with sex offenders?” D.D. asked in surprise.

“Sure. Nicest group of parolees there is. The heroin pushers and petty burglars bolt first time they smell fresh air. Can’t track ’em down, can’t get ’em to complete a single piece of paperwork, can’t get ’em to make a meeting. The average sex offender, on the other hand, is eager to please.”

Miller was staring up at Pickler as if he were having a religious experience. “Really?” he said, stroking his thin brown mustache, checking the motion, then smoothing it again.

“Sure. Most of these guys are scared out of their minds. Prison was the worst thing that ever happened to them and they’re desperate not to go back. They’re very compliant, even anxious for approval. Hell, the really hard-core pedophiles will check in almost daily. I’m the only adult relationship they have, and they want to make sure I’m happy.”

D.D. arched her brows and took a seat. “So they’re just a bunch of regular Joes.”

Pickler shrugged. “As much as anyone is. ’Course, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think someone was behaving badly. Who is it?”

D.D. checked her notes. “Brewster. Aidan Brewster.”

“Aidan Brewster?” Pickler parroted. “No way!”

“Yes way.”

Pickler’s turn to arch a brow. But then she turned to the first gray metal filing cabinet and got busy. “B … B … Brewster. Aidan. Here we go. But I can tell you now, he’s a good kid.”

“For a registered sex offender,” D.D. filled in dryly.

“Ah please. Now see, this is where the system is its own worst enemy. First, the system has managed to vilify an entire class of perpetrators. Second, the system has created a class of perpetrators too big
for its own good. On the one hand, you rape thirty kids, you’re a registered sex offender. On the other hand, a nineteen-year-old has consensual sex with a fourteen-year-old, and he’s also a registered sex offender. It’s like saying a serial killer is the same as the guy who gave his wife a black eye. Sure, they’re both pieces of garbage, but they’re not the
same
pieces of garbage.”

“So what kind of sex offender is Aidan Brewster?” D.D. asked.

“The nineteen-year-old who had consensual sex with his younger stepsister’s fourteen-year-old friend.”

“He’s on probation for that?”

“He served two years in jail for that. If she’d been a year younger, he would’ve gotten twenty. That’ll teach a boy to keep his pants zipped.”

“Fourteen is too young to give consent,” Miller spoke up, having finally taken a seat. “Nineteen-year-old boy should know better.”

Pickler didn’t argue. “A lesson that Brewster will get to spend the rest of his life learning. You know, being a sex offender is a one-way ticket. Brewster could be clean the next thirty years; he’ll still be a registered sex offender. Meaning every time he applies for a job, or looks for an apartment, or crosses state lines, he’ll pop up in the system. That’s a lot of baggage for a twenty-three-year-old.”

“How’s he taking it?” D.D. asked.

“As well as can be expected. He’s entered a treatment program for sex offenders and is attending his weekly meetings. He has an apartment, a job, the semblance of a life.”

“Apartment,” D.D. stated.

Pickler rattled off an address that matched what D.D.’s team had already found in the system. “Does the landlord know?” D.D. inquired.

“I told her,” Pickler reported. “It’s not standard protocol for his level of offender, but I always think it’s better to be safe than sorry. If the landlord found out later and booted Aidan unexpectedly, that could create stress and strain. Perhaps set him adrift. As Aidan’s PO, I feel my job is to help him avoid unnecessary turmoil.”