The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [15]
She felt nothing from him. Nothing at all.
It was almost as if he weren’t in the room.
She turned at last. Jason Jones was sitting on the love seat, his arm around his complacent daughter, his gaze fixed upon the empty TV screen. Up close and personal, he was everything Miller had advertised. Thick rumpled hair, masculine five o’clock shadow, nicely toned chest accentuated by a simple navy blue cotton shirt. He was sex and fatherhood and mysterious boy-next-door all rolled into one. He was an anchorwoman’s wet dream, and Miller was right—if they didn’t find Sandra Jones before the first news van found them, they were screwed.
D.D. picked up one of the wooden chairs, placed it in front of the sofa, and took a seat. Miller, for his part, had faded into the backdrop. Better for approaching the kid. Two cops could pressure a reluctant husband. For an anxious child, however, it would be too much.
Jason Jones’s gaze finally flickered to her, resting upon her face, and in spite of herself, she nearly shivered.
His eyes were empty, like staring into pools of starless night. She had only seen such a gaze twice before. Once when interviewing a psychopath who’d resolved an unhappy business relationship by executing his partner and the man’s entire family with a crossbow. Secondly when interviewing a twenty-seven-year-old Portuguese woman who had been held as a sex slave for fifteen years by a wealthy couple in their elite Boston brownstone. The woman had died two years later. She’d walked into oncoming traffic on Storrow Drive. Never hesitated, witnesses said. Just stepped off the curb straight into the path of a Toyota Highlander.
“I want my cat,” Ree said. She had straightened on the sofa, pushing slightly away from her father. He didn’t try to pull her back.
“When did you last see Mr. Smith?” D.D. asked her.
“Last night. When I went to bed. Mr. Smith always sleeps with me. He likes my room best.”
D.D. smiled. “I like your room, too. All the flowers and the pretty butterflies. Did you help decorate it?”
“No. I can’t draw. My mommy and daddy did it. I’m four and three-quarters, you know.” Ree puffed out her chest. “I’m a big girl now, so I got a big girl’s room for my fourth birthday.”
“You’re four? No way, I would’ve said you’re five, six, easy. What have they been feeding you, ’cause you’re awfully tall for four.”
Ree giggled. Her father said nothing.
“I like macaroni and cheese. That’s my favorite food in the whole world. Mommy lets me eat it if I have turkey franks, too. Need protein, she says. If I have enough protein, I can have Oreos for dessert.”
“Is that what you ate last night?”
“I had mac-n-cheese and apples. No Oreos. Daddy didn’t have time to make it to the grocery store.”
She gave her father a look, and for the first time Jason Jones fired to life. He ruffled his daughter’s hair, while his gaze filled with a mixture of love and protectiveness. Then he turned away from her and, as if a switch had been thrown, resumed his dead man’s stare.
“Who fed you dinner last night, Ree?”
“Mommy feeds me dinner, Daddy feeds me lunch. I have PB and J for lunch, but no cookies. Can’t have cookies all the time.” Ree sounded faintly mournful.
“Does Mr. Smith like Oreos?”
Ree rolled her eyes. “Mr. Smith likes everything! That’s why he’s so fat. He eats and eats and eats. Mommy and Daddy say no people food for Mr. Smith, but he does not like that.”
“Did Mr. Smith help you eat dinner last night?”
“He tried to jump on the counter. Mommy told him to scat.”
“I see. And after dinner?”
“Bath time.”
“Mr. Smith takes a bath?” D.D. tried to sound incredulous.
Ree giggled again. “No, Mr. Smith is a cat. Cats don’t take baths. They groom themselves.”
“Ooh. That makes much more sense. So who took a bath?”