The first three nights, Ethan had definitely learned some things about Mr. Jones. He’d learned, in fact, quite a lot about Mr. Jones. More than he really wanted to know.
What Ethan hadn’t counted on, however, was how much he’d also learn about Mrs. Sandra.
Now he was stuck. To rat out Mr. Jones, he’d have to also rat out Mrs. Sandra, and Uncle Wayne, too.
He knew too little, he knew too much.
And Ethan Hastings was a bright enough boy to know that was a very dangerous place to be.
He picked up his mother’s iPhone, checked messages again. Told himself to call 911, set down the phone again. Maybe he could call that sergeant, the one with the blonde hair. She seemed nice enough. Then again, as his mother always told him, lies of omission were still lies, and he was pretty sure lying to the police would get him in even more trouble than school suspension and a four-week loss of computer privileges.
Ethan didn’t want to go to jail.
But he was terribly worried about Mrs. Sandra.
He picked up the iPhone again, checked messages, sighed heavily. Finally, he did the only thing he could bring himself to do. He opened a fresh e-mail box and started,
Wayne Reynolds was not a patient man. Sandra Jones had been missing for multiple days, and as far as the forensics expert could tell, the lead detectives were taking a slow boat from China to find her. Hell, he’d practically had to hand them Jason Jones on a silver platter, and still, judging from the five o’clock news, no arrests had been made.
Instead, reporters had picked up the scent of a registered sex offender living just down the street from Sandra. Some pale, freaky-looking kid with a blistered scalp they’d caught walking down the street, then literally chased all the way to an old 1950s ranch.
Pervert had bolted into the house, and the erstwhile reporters had documented half a dozen shots of a closed door and blinds-covered windows. Really scintillating stuff.
At least Sandra’s father had entered the fray, deriding Jason Jones as a highly dangerous, manipulative man who’d isolated the beautiful young woman from her own family. The grandfather was demanding custody of Ree and had already won visitation rights to begin shortly. The old man wanted justice for his daughter and protection for his granddaughter.
The media were eating it up. And still no arrests had been made!
Wayne didn’t get it. The husband was always the primary person of interest, and as suspects went, Jason Jones was perfect. Conspicuously lacking in credible background information. Suspected by his own wife of dubious online activities. Known to disappear for long periods of time after midnight, in a job that didn’t really provide a concrete alibi. What the hell was Sergeant Warren waiting for, a pretty package with a bow on top?
Jason needed to be arrested. Because then Wayne Reynolds could finally sleep at night. God knows in the past few days he’d been frantically purging his personal computer as well as his Treo. Which was ironic, because he of all people knew he’d never get the electronic devices one hundred percent clear. He should buy a new hard drive for his computer, and “lose” his Treo, preferably while running over it with his lawn mower. Or maybe he could flatten it with his car? Toss it into the harbor?
It was funny, outsiders always assumed law enforcement officers had an advantage-they worked in the system, meaning they knew exactly what sort of misstep might trip a guy up. Except that was the problem. Wayne of all people knew how hard it was to cover one’s electronic tracks, and, being fully aware of such things, he understood just how hard his own actions would be scrutinized under a microscope.
He’d spent three months going on walks with Sandra Jones, nothing less, nothing more, but if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself labeled as her lover and placed on administrative leave, a subject of internal investigation. Especially if the forensic computer expert “lost” his Treo, or “replaced” his home computer. That sort of thing simply wasn’t going to play.
Which made him wonder why the BPD hadn’t cracked open the Jones computer yet. They’d had it nearly twenty-four hours. Figure five to six hours to make a forensically sound copy, then getting EnCase up and running…
One to two more days, he figured, and sighed. He didn’t think his nerves could take one to two more days.
Let alone what such a long period of time might mean for Sandy.
He tried not to think about it. The cases he’d worked on before, the crime-scene photos he often viewed in his line of work. Suffocation? Stabbing? Single gunshot wound to the head?
He had tried to warn Sandy: She never should have gone away on the February vacation.
Wayne sighed heavily. Consulted the clock again. Decided to stay a little later at the crime lab, do a bit more work. Except then his Treo buzzed. He looked down, to find a message from his sister’s e-mail address.
He frowned, clicked open the message.
Five forty-five P.M. Wayne read his nephew’s startling confession.
And started to sweat in earnest.
Six P.M. Maxwell Black was sitting at a white linen-covered table in the corner of the dining room at the Ritz. His duck had just arrived, prepared with wild berry compote, and he was savoring a particularly fine Oregon Pinot Noir. Good food, fine wine, excellent service. He should be a happy camper.
Except he wasn’t. After his conversation with the detectives, the judge had returned to his hotel and immediately called his law clerk to have him do some legal research on Max’s behalf. Unfortunately, the case law unearthed by his clerk did not sound promising.
Most family courts-and Massachusetts was no exception-deferred to the birth parents as the primary caretakers in a child custody dispute. Naturally, grandparents did not start the process with any guaranteed rights, with the courts accepting the parents’ decision in the matter.
Max had assumed, however, that Sandra’s disappearance-and Jason’s resulting position as a viable suspect in his wife’s disappearance-might sway the court in his favor. Furthermore, Max was confident that Jason was not Clarissa’s biological father. Hence, with Sandra gone, Max himself was now Clarissa’s closest living relative. And surely that would count for something.
But no. Leave it to the state that had legalized gay marriage to accept
Max needed Sandy’s body to be found. He needed Jason to be arrested. Then the state would take Clarissa into custody and he could argue that as her biological grandfather it would be in the child’s best interest to live with him. That should work.
Except he had no idea how long it might take to find Sandra’s body. Frankly he’d driven by that harbor four times already and as far as he could tell, Jason Jones could’ve dumped Sandy’s body just about anywhere. It could take weeks, if not months, if not years.
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.
