The Neighbor

and over, when it came to Jason, the piece he’d been missing since the very beginning.

“You asked if my child was home,” he called out across the yard. “You asked about my child.”

The kid was up now, one leg slung over the fence. Jason started to run toward him.

“Son of a bitch! Your prior. Tell me what you did, tell me exactly what you did!”

Kid paused at the top of the fence. He no longer looked like a golden retriever puppy. Something about his eyes had changed, his expression growing secretive, growing hard. “Don’t need to; you already figured it out.”

“Background check, my ass! You’re a convicted sex offender, aren’t you? Your name is in the fucking sex offender database. They’ll be at your door by two.”

“Yep. But they’ll still be arresting you by three. I didn’t kill your wife. She’s too old for my tastes-”

“Fucking prick!”

“And I know something you don’t know. I heard a car last night. Best I can figure, I saw the vehicle that took your wife away.”

CHAPTER SIX

I fell in love the first time when I was eight years old. The man didn’t actually exist, but was a character on TV: Sonny Crockett, the cop played by Don Johnson on Miami Vice. My mama didn’t hold with such nonsense, so I’d simply wait until she’d pass out cold from the afternoon “ice tea,” then pop open a Dr Pepper and watch the reruns to my heart’s content.

Sonny Crockett was strong, world-weary. The kind of tough guy who’d seen it all and still went out of his way to save the girl. I wanted a Sonny Crockett. I wanted somebody to save me.

When I turned thirteen I developed breasts. Suddenly, there were a lot of boys interested in saving me. And for a while, I thought that might work. I dated indiscriminately, with a slight preference for older boys with body art and really bad attitudes. They wanted sex. I wanted somebody to load me up in the front seat of his Mustang and drive a hundred miles an hour in the middle of the night with no headlights. I wanted to scream my name with the wind tattooing my face and whipping my hair. I wanted to feel wild and reckless. I wanted to feel like anyone but me.

I developed a reputation for really great blow jobs and for being even crazier than my mad-as-a-hatter mother. Every small town has a mother like mine, you know. And every small town has a girl like me.

I got pregnant for the first time when I was fourteen. I didn’t tell anyone. I drank a lot of rum and Coke and prayed real hard for God to take the baby away. When that didn’t get it done, I stole money from my father’s wallet and went to a clinic where they do those kinds of things for you.

I didn’t cry. I considered my abortion an act of public service. One less life for my mama to ruin.

I’m telling you, every small town has a girl like me.

Then I turned fifteen and my mother died and my father and I were finally free and I…

I dreamed for so long of somebody to save me. I wanted Sonny Crockett, the world-weary soul who still sees the true heart within the battered exterior. I wanted a man who would hold me close and make me feel safe and never let me go.

I never found Sonny Crockett. Instead, the day before my eighteenth birthday, at a local bar, I met my husband. I sat on Jason’s bar stool, downed his Coke, and then, when he started to protest, ran my hands up the hard denim lines of his thighs. He told me to fuck off. And I knew at that moment that I would never let him go.

Of course, no one can save you.

But knowing now all the things I know about Jason, I understand why he felt he had to try.

By 2:02 P.M., D.D. was feeling pretty good about the investigation. They had a game plan, and were executing it well considering they were looking for an adult female who could not yet legally be declared missing but needed to be found ASAP.

At 2:06, she received the first piece of bad news. Judge Banyan had denied their petition to seize the Jones family’s computer and refused to declare the house a crime scene. She cited the lack of physical evidence of foul play as the overriding factor in her consideration, plus not enough time had passed. Missing ten hours was nothing for an adult. Maybe Sandra Jones had ended up at a friend’s house. Maybe she’d suffered some kind of injury and was at a local hospital, unable to provide her name. Maybe she’d gone sleepwalking and was still roaming the back streets of the city in a daze. In other words, a lot of maybes.

However, the judge continued, if Sandra Jones was still gone after twenty-four hours, Banyan would be willing to reconsider things. In the meantime, she did grant them access to Jason Jones’s truck.

One for three, D.D. thought, resigned. Discovering the quilt and nightshirt in the washing machine had complicated things. A missing quilt and broken lamp had seemed ominous. A quilt and a nightshirt in the washing machine…

D.D. still wasn’t sure what the hell a quilt and nightshirt in the washing machine meant. That a husband had been trying to cover his tracks, or that the wife had liked to do laundry? Assumptions were dangerous.

At 2:15 Detective Miller reported in. D.D. gave him the bad news from Judge Banyan. Miller provided an update from Sandra Jones’s middle school. According to the principal, Sandy Jones had taught social studies at the school for the past two years-first as a student teacher for the seventh grade class, then taking over sixth grade social studies in September. Thus far, kids seemed to like her, parents seemed to like her, fellow teachers seemed to like her. Sandra didn’t socialize a lot with her peers, but then again, she had a small child at home and a husband who worked nights, so that kind of thing was to be expected. Principal had met the husband once and thought he’d seemed nice enough. Principal had met the daughter, Ree, many times, and thought she was adorable.

The principal couldn’t think of any reason for Sandra not to show up for work, and yes, it was out of character for her not to at least phone in. He was concerned and wanted to do anything he could to assist the investigation.

P.S., the principal was a fifty-year-old happily married man, who according to the secretary was already engaged in a torrid affair with the drama teacher. Everyone knew about it, no one much cared, and there wasn’t enough Viagra in the world for one fifty-year-old to juggle both the red-headed drama coach and a twenty-three- year-old new conquest. Odds were, the principal only had a working relationship with Sandra Jones.

Miller had also run preliminary financial reports on the Joneses. They had a staggering hundred and fifty thousand sitting in savings, with another two million stashed in various mutual funds with an investment bank. Monthly income was modest, same with monthly expenses. It looked to him like they had paid cash for the house, and did their best to live off their paychecks.

Miller would guess the high net worth came from a lump sum deposit, such as an inheritance or insurance settlement. He had detectives working on tracing the money now.

In other news, the Joneses had been married in 2004 in a civil ceremony in Massachusetts. Their daughter, Clarissa, had been born two months later. There were no outstanding tickets or warrants for either Sandra Jones or Jason Jones. Neither had there been any indication of domestic violence or public disturbance.

According to the neighbors, the Joneses were a quiet couple who kept to themselves. Did not party, did not entertain. If you saw them on the street, they would smile and wave, but were not the kind to stop and make polite chitchat. Except for Ree. Everyone agreed Clarissa Jones was precocious and would talk your ear off. Apparently, she was also hell on wheels on a tricycle. If you saw her coming it was up to you to get off the sidewalk.

“Parents yell at her a lot?” D.D. asked.

“Parents doted on her. And I’m reading verbatim here, three different accounts from three different neighbors: Parents ‘doted’ on daughter.”

“Huh. ’Course, parents are also described as quiet and reserved, meaning, how well did any of the neighbors know them?”

“True.”