The Neighbor Read Free

better than her, and now he was married and she was …
    Goddammit, she needed to get laid.
    She’d just gotten her running shoes laced up when her cell phone rang. She checked the number, frowned, placed the phone to her ear.
    “Sergeant Warren,” she announced crisply.
    “Morning, Sergeant. Detective Brian Miller, District C-6. Sorry to bother you.”
    D.D. shrugged, waited. Then when the detective didn’t immediately continue, “How can I help you this morning, Detective Miller?”
    “Well, I got a situation….” Again, Miller’s voice trailed off, and again, D.D. waited.
    District C-6 was the BPD field division that covered the South Boston area. As a sergeant with the homicide unit, D.D. didn’t work with the C-6 detectives very often. South Boston wasn’t really knownfor its murders. Larceny, burglary, robbery, yes. Homicide, not so much.
    “Dispatch took a call at five A.M. ,” Miller finally spoke up. “A husband, reporting that he’d come home and discovered his wife was missing.”
    D.D. arched a brow, sat back in the chair. “He came home at five A.M. ?”
    “He reported her missing at five A.M. Husband’s name is Jason Jones. Ring any bells?”
    “Should it?”
    “He’s a reporter for the Boston Daily. Covers the South Boston beat, writes some larger city features. Apparently, he works most nights, covering city council meetings, board meetings, whatever. Wednesday it’s the water precinct, then he got a call to cover a residential fire. Anyhow, he wrapped up around two A.M. , and returned home, where his four-year-old daughter was sleeping in her room but his wife was MIA.”
    “Okay.”
    “First responders did the standard drill,” Miller continued. “Checked ’round the house. Car’s on the street, woman’s purse and keys on the kitchen counter. No sign of forced entry, but in the upstairs bedroom a bedside lamp is broken and a blue-and-green quilt is missing.”
    “Okay.”
    “Given the circumstances, a mom leaving a kid alone, etc., etc., the first responders called their supervisor, who contacted my boss in the district office. Needless to say, we’ve spent the past few hours combing the neighborhood, checking with local businesses, tracking down friends and families, etc., etc. To make a long story short, I haven’t a clue.”
    “Got a body?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Blood spatter? Footprints, collateral damage?”
    “Just a busted-up lamp.”
    “First responders check the whole house? Attic, basement, crawl space?”
    “We’re trying.”
    “Trying?”
    “Husband … he’s not refusing, but he’s not exactly cooperating.”
    “Ah crap.” And suddenly D.D. got it. Why a district detective was calling a homicide sergeant about a missing female. And why the homicide sergeant wouldn’t be going for her run. “Mrs. Jones—she’s young, white, and beautiful, isn’t she?”
    “Twenty-three-year-old blond schoolteacher. Has the kind of smile that lights up a TV screen.”
    “Please tell me you haven’t talked about this over the radio.”
    “Why do you think I called you on your cell phone?”
    “What’s the address? Give me ten minutes, Detective Miller. I’ll be right there.”
    D.D. left her running shoes in the family room, her running shorts in the hall, and her running shirt in the bedroom. Jeans, white button-down top, a killer pair of boots, and she was ready to go. Clipped her pager to her waist, hung her creds around her neck, slipped her cell phone into her back pocket.
    Last pause for her favorite caramel-colored leather jacket, hanging on a hook by the door.
    Then Sergeant Warren hit the road, on the job and loving it.
    South Boston had a long and colorful history, even by Boston standards. With the bustling financial district on one side, and the bright blue ocean on the other, it functioned as a quaint harbor town with all the perks of big-city living. The area was originally settled by the lower end of the socioeconomic scale. Struggling