The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [109]
She released the sheets. Pushed back the covers. Stabilized her legs enough to walk to the bathroom, where she regarded herself in the mirror above the sink.
“That,” she told her reflection firmly, “never happened.”
Five-thirty A.M., she brushed her teeth and got ready for the day ahead.
D.D. was a realist. You didn’t last twenty years in the biz without realizing some hard truths about human nature. First twenty-four hours of a missing persons case, she gave them even odds of finding the person alive. Adults did take off. Couples argued. Some individuals could stick it out, others needed to bolt for a day or two. So first twenty-four hours, maybe even the first thirty-six, she’d been willing to believe that Sandra Jones was alive and they, the fine detectives of the BPD, might bring her home again.
Fifty-two hours later, D.D. was not thinking of locating a missing mother. She was thinking of recovering a body, and even with that in mind, she understood that time remained of the essence.
Crime, and investigations, had a certain rhythm. First twenty-four hours, not only was there hope of the victim surviving, but also of the criminal screwing up. Abduction, assault, homicide, all involved high emotion. Individuals held in the sway of high emotion had a tendency to make mistakes. Flushed on adrenaline, overloaded by anxiety or even remorse, the perpetrator was in panic mode. Did something bad. How to get away, get away, get away?
Unfortunately, as each day went by without the cops closing in, the subject had time to calm down, settle in. Start thinking more rationally about next steps, form a more concrete plan for cover up. The criminal became entrenched, disposing of evidence, polishing his story, even perhaps swaying key witnesses, such as his four-year-old daughter. In other words, the perpetrator transitioned from bungling amateur to criminal mastermind.
D.D. didn’t want to be dealing with any criminal masterminds. She wanted a body and an arrest, all in time for the five o’clock news. Close in, apply the thumb screws, and crack the case wide open. That was the kind of thing that made her day.
Unfortunately, she had a few too many people to pressure. Take Ethan Hastings. Thirteen years old, frighteningly brilliant, and hopelessly in love with his missing teacher. Budding Lothario? Or freaky teenmonster?
Then came Aidan Brewster. Bona fide felon with a history of choosing inappropriate sexual relationships. Claimed not to know Sandra Jones, but lived just down the street from the crime. Reformed sex offender or escalating perpetrator with a fresh appetite for violence?
Sandy’s father, the honorable Maxwell Black, had to be included in the mix. Estranged father, who magically showed up when his daughter disappeared. According to Officer Hawkes, Black seemed to be threatening Jones, and clearly planned to see his granddaughter one way or the other. Grieving father, or opportunistic grandfather who’d do anything to get his hands on Ree?
Finally, she returned to Jason Jones, the cold-blooded husband who had yet to engage in a single activity to find his missing wife. The guy claimed not to be the jealous type. Then again, he had no paper trail prior to marrying Sandy five years ago. A definite assumed identity.
D.D. went round and round, and she still came back to Jones. His daughter’s own assessment of Wednesday night, Jones’s disengaged behavior since his wife vanished, the obvious use of an alias. Jones was hiding something—ergo, he was the most likely suspect in his pregnant wife’s disappearance.
That was it. D.D. was bringing little Ree in for more questioning as soon as possible. She would arrange for two officers to track each of their other subjects, building history and establishing alibis. Better yet, she was assigning two of her best white-collar investigators to trace Jones’s bank accounts. Follow the money, find Jones’s real name,