The Neighbor (49 page)

Ethan Hastings had done something. No doubt in her mind.

Unfortunately the teenage whiz kid was proving a tough nut to crack.

“Are we done?” his father was asking now. “Because we’re here in good faith, and it seems to me that there’s nothing more my son can tell you. If you can’t find the computer you need for your investigation, that’s your problem, not ours.”

“Not if your son tampered with evidence—” D.D. started to growl.

Her superintendent held up a quieting hand. He looked at her, and she knew that expression. It was the investigative equivalent of “Time to piss or get off the pot.” She had no evidence to piss. Dammit.

“We’re done,” she announced in clipped tones. “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch if we need anything more.”

Subtext being, it’ll be a cold day in hell….

The Hastings entourage exited, Ethan staring at her balefully as he walked out the door.

“He did something,” she muttered to her boss.

“Most likely. But he’s also still in love with his teacher. As long as he feels like he’s protecting poor Mrs. Sandra …”

“Who got his uncle killed.”

“Who was attacked by said uncle, at least according to what she says.”

D.D. sighed. They had seized Wayne’s computer, with the forensic techs recovering a fair number of e-mails between the state geek and the beautiful social studies teacher. No smoking gun, per se, but more e-mail volume than one would expect in a strictly platonic relationship. And true to Sandra’s assertion, all e-mails from her ceased five days before her disappearance, while Wayne’s computer showed dozens and dozens of IMs sent by him to her, trying to get her attention.

“I want to arrest someone,” D.D. muttered. “Preferably Jason Jones.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But a guy that cool and collected has skeletons buried somewhere.”

“You thought the same thing of Aidan Brewster,” her supervisor reminded her mildly, “and in the end, he had nothing to do with anything.”

D.D. expelled her breath. “I know. Just makes you wonder how the hell we’re supposed to know who the real monsters are anymore.”

My husband came home from the hospital today.

Ree prepared a huge banner for him. It took her three days to make it, covering the white butcher paper with pictures of rainbows and butterflies and three smiling stick figures. She’d even included an orange cat with six gigantic whiskers.
Welcum Home Daddy!
the banner read.

We hung it in the living room, above the green love seat, where Jason would get to recuperate for the next few weeks.

Ree positioned her sleeping bag next to the sofa. I set up my own nest of pillows and blankets. We camped out the first four days, a haggard little trio needing to wake up each morning and see one another’s faces. Day five, Ree declared she’d had enough of camping and returned to her bedroom.

Just like that, we moved on with our lives. Ree returned to preschool. I finished out the school year. Jason picked up several freelance gigs for various magazines, while his ribs finished knitting together and his in-sides healed.

The press had to get in its digs. I was cast as Boston’s very own Helen of Troy, a woman whose beauty led to great tragedy. I don’t agree. Helen started a war. I ended one.

The police continued to sniff around. The loss of our computer bothered them and I could tell from the look on the sergeant’s face that she didn’t consider the matter closed.

I got to take a polygraph where I told the absolute truth: I had no idea what had happened to our hard drive. The
Boston Daily
offices? Ethan’s possible involvement? It was a mystery to me. I hadn’t moved the computer and I certainly hadn’t coached Ethan in the matter.

I could tell that Jason expected to be arrested the moment he returned
home. The doorbell would ring and he would tense on the love seat, steeling himself for what he thought would happen next. It took him weeks before he finally seemed to relax. Then I would catch him regarding me thoughtfully instead.

He didn’t ask the obvious questions. I didn’t volunteer the answers. Even with our newfound closeness, we are a couple who can appreciate the value of silence.

My husband is a very smart man. I’m sure he has connected the dots by now. For example, I had fled on Wednesday night from Wayne Reynolds, who was rather conveniently blown to smithereens the same night I returned to my family. Or that my father confessed to killing Aidan Brewster, but never mentioned Wayne. Interesting, if you consider that all the bomb-making materials were discovered in my father’s hotel room.

Of course, anyone can figure out how to make a car bomb in this day and age. All you have to do is search the Internet.

No doubt, this led my husband to connect a few more dots. For example, what would lead Ethan to suddenly track down our computer? Furthermore, why would he risk tampering with said computer in a public area? He certainly wouldn’t care that the hard drive contained enough damning evidence to send Jason to prison for life.

On the other hand, the true significance of several online visits probably became clear in the moments after Ethan learned that his uncle’s car had exploded. His Trojan Horse had shadowed my activities as much as Jason’s, and let’s just say that the full scope of my Wednesday night Internet activities are best not to mention.

I have never spoken to Ethan on the subject. Nor will I. His parents have banned all contact between us, transferring Ethan to a private school. Out of respect for Ethan, I have honored their wishes. He gave me my family back, and for that, I will owe him always.

I know Jason worries about me. I wonder if he gets the irony—that my father murdered bachelor number one to frame my husband, even as I murdered bachelor number two to frame my father. Like father, like daughter? Great minds think alike
?

Maybe I have simply learned a valuable lesson from my husband: You can be the hunted or you can be the hunter. Wayne Reynolds threatened my family. After that, his fate was sealed.

I will tell you the truth:

I don’t dream anymore of blood or decaying roses or my mother’s high-pitched giggle. I don’t wake up with the sound of my father’s last words in my ears, or the image of my almost lover disintegrating in a giant fireball. I don’t dream of my parents, or Wayne, or faceless men pounding into my body.

It is summer. My daughter is running through sprinklers in her favorite pink swimsuit. My husband is smiling as he watches her. And I laze in the back hammock, my hand on the gentle curve of my rounded stomach, feeling our newest family member grow.

Once, I was my mother’s daughter. Now, I am my daughter’s mother.

So I sleep well at night, tucked inside my husband’s solid embrace, sound in the knowledge that my daughter is safe in the room next door, with Mr. Smith curled up at her feet. I dream of Ree’s first day of kindergarten. I dream of my newborn baby’s first smile. I dream of dancing with my husband at our fiftieth wedding anniversary.

I am a wife and a mother.

I dream of my family.

| ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND DEDICATION |

As always, I’m indebted to the countless experts who patiently answered my pestering questions, as well as numerous family and friends who patiently tolerated my writer-like (cranky) ways. These are kind and brilliant people. I just type very fast for a living. Oh yeah, and they are very smart. I, on the other hand, have been known to make mistakes with the information they have tried so hard to drill into me.

First up, Rob Joss, Forensic Evaluator, who educated me on the ways and means of assessing risk factors for sexual predators. He also added the interesting insight that he’d rather evaluate sex offenders for criminal courts than evaluate parents for family court. After all, sex offenders are bad people on their best behavior, while divorcing parents are good people on their worst behavior.

Also, Katie Watkins, Executive Director, and Liz Kelley, Forensic Interviewer, of the Child Advocacy Center of Carroll County. These two women spend 24/7 working the kind of child sexual assault cases that would break mere mortals. The rest of us would like the world to be a better place. They are actively making it so.

To Carolyn Lucet, a licensed independent clinical social worker who specializes in the treatment of sex offenders. Thank you for opening my eyes to both sides of the story. As a parent, I started this novel echoing Sergeant D.D. Warren’s sentiments regarding sex offenders (not enough room in hell for all of them). I’ll confess, Carolyn helped me appreciate the value of rehabilitation, and that complex problems probably deserve a more complex answer than, Hang them all and let God sort it out.

To Theresa Meyers, Probation Officer, for offering insight into the role of one of the least understood law enforcement officers. A PO for more than eighteen years, who now has second-generation parolees, Theresa astutely observed that if we spent more on kids in the beginning, perhaps we wouldn’t have to spend so much on law enforcement later on. I couldn’t agree more.

To Wayne Rock, of the Boston Police Department, who previously assisted me with
Alone
, and kindly consented to another round of questions so I could be current for this latest D.D. Warren adventure. I appreciated the overview of proper search-and-seizure, rules for questioning suspects, and, of course, the nice tidbit on strategic use of trash night in the neighborhood. Thanks, Wayne!

To Keith Morgan, Computer Forensic Technician, whose insights into a hard drive’s lazy nature and guilty conscience were fascinating, if a bit troubling, to a non-techie such as myself. Keith wins the patience award, as it took me a few tries to get all of the material right. At least I hope I got it all right. Hey, all mistakes are mine, remember? That’s the joy of being a writer.

Rounding out the pros are: Jack McCabe, Principal; Jennifer Sawyer Norvell, Esquire, of Moss Shapiro; Liz Boardman, Laura Kelly, Tara Apperson, Mark Schieldrop, and Betty Cotter with the
South County Independent;
and finally, the Divas, who approved all Barbies, games, books, and movies enjoyed by four-year-old Ree in this novel. Never have I received so much advice from such adorable consultants, who were compensated entirely in Cheddar Bunnies.

In the fun but dangerous category Congratulations to Alicia Accardi, winner of the fifth annual Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy. Alicia Accardi nominated Brenda J. Jones, “Brennie,” as the Lucky Stiff. According to Alicia, “Brenda’s had to fight for what she’s got, has overcome a lot, and still struggles every day, but has a heart as big as the whole outdoors, and would give you the shirt off her back…. She deserves to be immortalized.”

Also, Kelly Firth was our first-time winner of the Kill a Friend, Maim a Mate Sweepstakes, the international competition for literary immortality. Kelly nominated Joyce Daley, her mother, who just turned sixty-eight and loves reading crime thrillers. “She’s my mum and I wanted to show her how much I love her…. I have told her, I couldn’t contain myself, and she was absolutely thrilled.”

For those of you still hoping to get in on the action, never fear. Both contests run every year at
www.LisaGardner.com
. Check it out, and maybe you can nominate someone you love to die in my next novel.

In closing, my deepest appreciation to my husband, whose skills with his new ice cream maker made revisions to this book much more fun and fattening than they otherwise would’ve been; to my adorable daughter, who, yes, helped inspire Ree, while always being a True Original; to Sarah, for your constant care; to Mimi, who we still miss and wish the best; to my brilliant editor, Kate Miciak, who definitely improved this novel, even if I was
very
writer-like (cranky) about it at the time; and finally to my fabulous agent, Meg Ruley, and the rest of the team of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for having just the right way with writer-like (cranky) authors.

Lisa Gardner on Detective D.D. Warren

D.D. Warren really exists. When I first named the hardened Boston detective in my 2005 novel,
Alone
, after a family friend, I wasn’t thinking additional novels or potential series character. I was thinking I needed a city cop for a single murder scene that fell in Boston jurisdiction. I liked the idea of a tough female who’d give my sniper hero, Bobby Dodge, a run for his money. I added stilettos, a killer leather jacket and next thing I knew, Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren took on a life of her own.

Turns out, she loves to eat, mostly because her job doesn’t leave her any time for sex. She doesn’t have pets, doesn’t trust herself with plants, and considers her three-man homicide squad to be her primary family. She’s not exactly a people-person, but she’s a first crack detective who, over the years, has handled the murder investigation of six girls, the disappearance of a South Boston wife, and a string of family annihilations that has left eleven people dead.

Which is funny, as the real D.D. Warren is known for her lush garden, her scrumptious baking skills, and her generous spirit. On the other hand, she is blonde, beautiful, and brilliant, so I like to think fictional D.D. Warren would be proud of her. She also has a great selection of shoes.

I gave my fictional character a friend’s real name because I like to do that kind of thing. My books are generally populated with old high school chums, various long lost relatives, and of course, the annual winners of my Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes (www.LisaGardner.com). It takes a lot of bodies to populate a busy suspense novel, and I can’t spend that much time creating new names. My brain is occupied by other Important Ideas, like how to kill them all off.