10th Anniversary - James Patterson [38]
“I have to use my judgment, Willy.”
She looked at me like I was going to sink my fangs into her neck and then left the squad room without closing out her Facebook account.
Sergeant Nardone swooped in like a condor. I told him to keep his pants on, then took the opportunity to pry.
I tapped on the keyboard, did a search for photo tags for Ritter, and found more pictures of the English teacher on Willy’s home pages and on those of her friends.
According to the Web chat and notes written on virtual walls, Ritter was frequently discussed by the girls in Willy’s circle. Many of them commented on his good looks and his manner in class and speculated about what he’d be like in bed.
I clicked on the link to Avis Richardson’s home page. I’d seen her page when Joe suggested it, but now I was looking with a specific purpose. I scrutinized photos of Avis mugging with Larry Foster, doing shots with girlfriends at parties, and cheering at sporting events — but there was not one picture of her with Jordan Ritter.
I cut and pasted what I might need later into an e-mail that I then sent to myself. After that, I closed down the computer and gave Nardone back his chair.
“You’re a gent, Nardone.”
“Don’t mention it, Boxer. By the way, I ate your Cheetos in the bottom drawer.”
“I knew that,” I said, pointing to the orange prints on a drawer pull. Nardone laughed. “You’re good,” he said.
I called Richie twice on my way out to my car. Both times I got his voice mail, and after the second time, I left a message. “I’ve got a lead, Rich. Good one. Call me.”
Next, I called Jordan Ritter. I told Ritter I was working the abduction of Avis Richardson and hoped he could give me some insights into her personality.
Ritter said, “I don’t know her all that well, but sure, I’ll be happy to help.”
Jordan Ritter lived only a few blocks from Brighton Academy. I drove Martha home, then headed east along California to Broderick.
It was still early on Sunday afternoon when I parked my car on the pretty residential block near the corner of Broderick and Pine. The building where Ritter lived was a three-story apartment house, Italianate, clay-colored, trimmed in white, with two columns of bay windows.
He lived on the ground floor.
I rang the bell in the alcove and said my name into the speaker. Ritter’s footsteps got louder as he came to the door.
Chapter 46
JORDAN RITTER OPENED THE DOOR of his apartment, placed one palm on the doorjamb, and, taking his time, looked me over.
I was doing the same to him.
Ritter was in his early thirties, fit, unshaven, good hair, good teeth, and was wearing a T-shirt and Burberry pajama bottoms. I’d seen Avis Richardson wearing pajamas just like those.
A trend? A coincidence? Or had Avis been wearing her boyfriend’s pj’s?
“Well, look at you,” he said.
The nervy bastard was hitting on me.
“Mr. Ritter? I’m Sergeant Boxer,” I snapped. I also flashed my badge.
“Come in. Can I get you some coffee? I just made it.”
I said, “Sure,” and walked around him into the apartment.
The place had a prepackaged look, as if it had been rented furnished or bought all in one day in a department store. I followed Ritter through the living room, noticing the Sunday paper on the floor and a couple of coffee mugs on the low table in front of the couch.
Anyone with an online degree in Forensics for Dummies could’ve figured out that Ritter had had a sleepover guest. Or else he was cagey and had staged a red herring for my benefit.
In the kitchen Ritter said, “Cream and sugar, Sergeant?”
“Black will be fine.”
“Like I said on the phone,” Ritter said, “I hardly know Avis. She’s in my class this year, but apart from her grades — which were excellent — I don’t know much about her.”
I followed Ritter back into the living room and took a chair opposite the one he sprawled in.
“I think we both know that’s not true,” I said.
Ritter