The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [87]
“How’d you kill your wife, Jason? Knife, gun, garrote? Bet it was easy for you, given all your experience….”
He should have a spokesperson, he thought idly. Isn’t that how it worked in this day and age? Become a victim of a crime, hire an entourage. A lawyer to represent your interests, a spokesperson to speak on behalf of your family, and, of course, an entertainment agent to handle the pending book and movie deals. Right to privacy? Solitude for shock and mourning?
No one gave a rat’s ass anymore. Your pregnant daughter was kidnapped and killed. Your beloved wife was murdered on the subway. Your girlfriend’s body had just been found cut up in a suitcase. Your life suddenly belonged to the cable news. Forget planning a funeral, you needed to appear on Larry King. Forget trying to explain to your child that Mommy wasn’t coming home anymore, you needed to share a couch with Oprah.
Crime equaled celebrity, whether you liked it or not.
He was angry. Suddenly, viciously. His knuckles had whitened on the steering wheel, and he was driving too fast, way over the speed limit.
He didn’t want this life. He didn’t want to miss his wife. And he didn’t want to be so terrified for his only daughter.
He forced himself to inhale deeply, then exhale slowly, easing off the gas pedal, working out his shoulders. Push it away. Lock it up tight. Let it go. Then smile, because you’re on Candid Camera.
He turned onto his street. Sure enough, four news vans were stacked bumper to bumper on his block. The police were out, too. The cruiser parked right in front of his house, two uniformed officers standing on the sidewalk, hands on their hips as they surveyed the small huddle of smartly suited reporters and shabbily dressed cameramen. Local stations; story hadn’t launched into national headlines yet.
Wait till they heard about Ethan Hastings. That would do it.
Ree’s eyes had widened in the back seat. “Is there a party, Daddy?” she asked excitedly.
“Maybe they’re happy we found Mr. Smith.”
He slowed for the driveway, and the first surge of flashes exploded outside his window. He pulled into the driveway, parked the station wagon. The media couldn’t trespass onto private property, so he had plenty of time to unfasten his seatbelt, tend to his child, figure out Mr. Smith.
Grieving husband, grieving husband. Cameras came with telephoto lenses.
He would carry Mr. Smith to the house, while holding Ree’s hand. There was a photo op for you—bruised and bandaged husband clutching a pretty orange kitty with one hand and a beautiful little girl with the other. Yep, he’d get fan mail for sure.
He felt empty again. Not mad, not sad, not angry, not anything. He had found the zone.
Mr. Smith stood on Jason’s lap, peering out the window at the commotion. The cat’s ears were straight up, its tail twitching nervously. In the back, Ree already had the seatbelt unfastened and was staring at him expectantly.
“Can you get out of this side of the car, love?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, staring at the throng of strangers on the sidewalk. “Daddy?”
“It’s okay, honey. Those are reporters. It’s their job to ask questions, kind of like it’s Daddy’s job to ask questions. Except I write up stuff in the paper, while these reporters talk about it on TV.”
She looked at him again, the anxiety building in her drawn features.
He twisted in the driver’s seat, touching her hand. “They have to stay on the sidewalk, honey. It’s the law. So, they can’t come inside our home. However, when we get out of the car, it’s gonna be loud. They’re gonna start asking all sorts of crazy questions all at once, and get this—they don’t raise their hands.”
This caught her attention. “They don’t raise their hands?”
“No. They talk right over the top of one another. No taking turns, no saying excuse me, nothing.”
Ree blinked at him. “Mrs. Suzie would not like that,” she said firmly.
“I totally agree. And when we get out of the car, you’re going