quite pleased that her mother had sent it to her rather than giving it to her sister. She had hung it with artful casualness where it was sure to be noticed by visitors to their house—a subtle indication of status among the other military wives.
There was a desk in Jonna’s bedroom and one drawer contained hanging files. At the front were folders that related to her work at the Morrow House. One folder held a thick sheaf of papers that appeared to be a copy of an inventory of the furnishings of Morrow House that someone had typed up in 1976, according to the heading on the first page. There were interlineations and notations in Jonna’s careful hand of certain items that had been donated to the house since then, as well as a few question marks beside some of the items.
Next came her current financial records. Upon their divorce, her share of their Arlington house had almost paid for this house, and her mortgage payments were absurdly low. She seemed to be living modestly and within her means, which included a few shares of a utility company, the child support he paid for Cal, her part-time salary at the Morrow House, and a small monthly allowance from Mrs. Shay. No apparent savings, but no debt either. Well, she had always been a good manager, never exceeding their budget. Money was something they had never fought about. One of many things they had never fought about, he reminded himself. Except for the occasional cutting remark, Jonna did not fight. Any attempt slid right off her smooth and polished surface.
Personal papers came next—her birth certificate and expired passport, Cal’s birth certificate and medical records, a CV that she seemed to have drafted for a job that she never took, and, most surprisingly, a snapshot of himself the day he was commissioned.
The final group of folders held paperwork generated by their divorce settlement and another surprise: an account of his and Deborah’s wedding that had been cut out of the Dobbs
If there were any men in his ex-wife’s life, there was nothing in her bedside table or bathroom to indicate it.
No birth control pills, no man’s razor.
As he and Bandit headed back downstairs, his phone rang.
“Are you back in North Carolina yet?” Deborah asked.
“Did she let Cal come home with you?”
“No,” he said and quickly brought her up to speed on what Jonna had done instead.
Deborah was instantly shocked and angry on his behalf, especially when he told her what Radcliff had asked.
“That’s awful! How could she leave Cal alone all night?
And how could she do this to you? Let me know the minute they show up, okay? I’ll be at Portland’s—she and Avery are really looking forward to their first night out—but I’ll leave my phone on.”
As Dwight clipped his phone back on his belt, Bandit cocked his head and gave him a look as if to say, “What’s next?”
“Damned if I know,” he told the little dog. “Too bad you can’t talk. And too bad you’re not a bloodhound.”
On the other hand, he told himself, Bandit did seem to understand a few basic words:
“Where’s Cal?” Dwight said. “Find Cal!”
The terrier immediately trotted over to the door and looked back at him with an expectant whine.
Feeling slightly foolish, Dwight got his leash, snapped it on, and opened the door. “Find Cal,” he said again, and the little dog headed straight for the gate. Without stopping for his jacket, Dwight followed, and when he opened the gate, Bandit raced down the drive and turned left along the sidewalk.
“Good dog!” he encouraged. “Find Cal!”
At the corner, Bandit sniffed around, then pulled Dwight across the street where he stopped short at a spot beside the curb. Dwight could read their shoe prints in the snow. He saw where Cal must have walked up to the car door and climbed in, then Jonna’s boot prints went around and left the curb where she had circled around to the driver’s side.
With the two of them shivering from the cold, he again said, “Find Cal!” even though they both knew it was use-less.
Back at the town police station, Paul Radcliff had only one tiny bit of news. “A neighbor across the street heard about our canvass and called us. She said that Jonna drove away around nine yesterday morning wearing a red jacket and a white toboggan.”
“Red jacket? I thought that crank next door said it was a blue parka with a hood.”
“She must have changed.”
“What about the sheriff’s department or the state troopers? They spot her car?”
“Nothing yet.”
They were interrupted by a clerk with papers that needed Radcliff’s attention.
Outside an icy rain had begun to fall and a deputy entered with reports of a three-car collision on one of the town’s main streets, which served to remind Dwight that he, too, had other responsibilities.
While Radcliff attended to business, Dwight called his own office. Mayleen Richards had just walked in from Chapel Hill. J.D. Rouse’s autopsy had been bumped back by the murder-suicide of three middle-class teenagers in a neighboring county, so it had been a fairly wasted day.
She gave him the gist of the ME’s preliminary findings.
Rouse had died from a bullet that had entered at the base of his neck and lodged against the upper front of his
