The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [128]
“Cooper hit a wall chasing Jones’s assets,” D.D. reported. “Something about the money was wired into Jones’s current bank from an offshore account, and offshore banks are a little uptight about disclosing information. According to Cooper, we need to charge Jones with a crime first, then they might see things our way. Of course, we need to trace the money in order to expose Jones’s real identity, so we can charge him with a crime. At this point, it’s heads he wins, tails we lose.”
“Bummer, dude,” Miller said.
She rolled her eyes at him, chewed her lower lip. “I feel like we’re stuck in a bad episode of Law & Order.”
“How so?”
“Look at our pool of suspects: We have the mysterious husband who’s probably engaged in online porn, the down-the-street neighbor who’s a registered sex offender, a thirteen-year-old student who’s in love with his missing teacher, a state computer technician who seems to have a very personal stake in the investigation, and, last but not least, the victim’s estranged father who may or may not have known she was abused as a child and has lots of incentive to keep that quiet. It’s all ‘In a case that’s been ripped from the headlines …’ Except I have no idea which fucking headline we ripped off.”
“Maybe it’s like that old movie. Murder on the Orient Express. They all did it. That would be cool.”
She gave him a look. “You have a strange sense of humor, Miller.”
“Hey, this job will do that to you.”
When in doubt, keep everyone talking. D.D. wanted to question Ree again, but the expert, Marianne Jackson, waved her off. Three interviews in three consecutive days would not only be too much for the child, but would appear like badgering. Even if Ree did tell them something useful, a good defense attorney would argue they’d harassed her into disclosing. They needed to give the girl one more day better yet, turn over some new piece of evidence that warranted a third interview. Then they’d be on safer ground.
So D.D. and Miller turned to their cast of suspects. In the past forty-eight hours, they’d hit Jason Jones, Ethan Hastings, Aidan Brewster, and Wayne Reynolds, which left the honorable Maxwell Black. Currently, the judge stood right across the street, working the crowd of reporters much the way a politician might work a room of high-net-worth donors.
Already, D.D. felt uneasy. Guy hasn’t seen his daughter in five years, learns she’s gone missing, so he catches a flight to Boston to smile for the cameras and press flesh with the local news personalities?
Judge seemed pretty relaxed about it, too. Wearing a dapper light blue suit with a pastel pink tie and coordinating pink silk kerchief, very Southern gentleman. Then, of course, there was that drawl that sounded so honey smooth in the land of dropped R’s and guttural A’s.
As they neared the news vans, Miller hung back, giving her the lead. D.D. waded into the fray.
“Detective, detective,” the hordes began.
“Sergeant,” D.D. snapped back, because they could at least grant her that much.
“Any news on Sandy’s whereabouts?”
“Are you going to arrest Jason?”
“How is little Ree holding up? Her preschool teacher says she hasn’t been to school since Wednesday.”
“Is it true Jason wouldn’t let Sandy talk to her own father?”
D.D. shot Maxwell Black a look. Clearly, they had the good judge to thank for that tidbit. She ignored the reporters, placing her hand firmly on Maxwell’s shoulder and leading him away from the sudden forest of microphones and camera lenses.
“Sergeant D.D. Warren, with Detective Brian Miller. If you don’t mind, sir, we’d like a word.”
The judge didn’t protest. Merely nodded his head elegantly while waving goodbye to his newfound media playmates. Man must be a lot of fun in his own courtroom, D.D. thought with irritation. Like the grand master of a three-ring circus.
She got him over to Miller and they walked him to their car, the reporters trailing behind greedily in a last-ditch attempt to catch a snippet of conversation, a juicy revelation. That Sandra was dead. That they were arresting the