The Neighbor (33 page)

He wasn’t there yet, however, and I felt bad for his painful shyness, the way he regarded the whole world through this highly analytical lens the rest of us could never see.

“You understand that when you delete something on a computer, it never actually goes away?” he said presently.

I shook my head. “No, I don’t understand that at all.”

He brightened. “Oh, absolutely. See, computers are inherently lazy.”

“They are?”

“Sure. A computer’s primary function is to store data. If you think about it, the hard drive is nothing but a giant library lined with empty shelves. Then you, the user, come along and start inputting documents, or downloading information, or surfing the Internet, whatever. You’re creating ‘books’ of data, which the computer then stashes on the shelves.”

“Okay.”

“Like any library, the computer needs to be able to retrieve the books at a moment’s notice. So it creates a directory, its own version of a card catalogue system, which it can use to find each particular piece of data on the bookshelves. Got it?”

“Got it,” I assured him.

Ethan beamed at me. Apparently, in addition to being a good teacher, I was an excellent student. He continued his lecture: “Now this is where the computer gets lazy: When you delete a document, the computer doesn’t take the time to track down the actual data on the bookshelf and trash it. That would be too much work. Instead, it simply deletes the reference to the document in the directory. The book’s still there; the card catalogue, however, no longer shows its location.”

I stared at my red-headed partner for a bit. “You mean to tell me, even if the cache is cleared, those particular Internet files are still on the computer somewhere?”

I got a second smile for that one. “Great job!”

I couldn’t help it. I smiled back. This made Ethan blush, and reminded me I had to be careful. Just because I was using Ethan Hastings didn’t mean I wanted to hurt him.

“So, if the card catalogue has been cleared,” I asked, “how do I find the data?”

“If you really want to know what’s in the computer’s browser history, I recommend Pasco.”

“Pasco?”

“It’s a computer forensic software you can download from online. Here’s the deal. When someone ‘clears the cache,’ the computer rarely clears all the cache. At least a few index.dat files get left behind. So you open the history files, run Pasco, and it’ll spit out a CSV—”

“CSV?”

“Comma Separated Values, which opens an Excel spreadsheet that will show every URL that was visited by the computer with a date-time stamp. You can cut and paste one of the URLs straight into the computer’s search engine and it’ll take you to that website for inspection. Voila, you’ll know everyplace the computer has visited.”

“How do you know so much?” I had to ask.

Ethan blushed furiously. “My um … family.”

“Your family?”

“My mother runs Pasco on my computer each week. Not that she doesn’t trust me!” He flushed brighter. “It’s just, um, ‘due diligence,’ she calls it. She knows I’m smarter than her, so she’s gotta have something on her side.”

“Your mother’s right, Ethan. You are a genius, and I can’t thank you enough for assisting me with this teaching module.”

Ethan smiled, but he appeared more thoughtful this time.

At home that night, I got serious. Two stories, one song, and half a Broadway show later, Ree was down, Jason was out, and I was all alone with my newfound computer skills and a whole host of suspicions. First order of business: downloading and installing the Pasco forensic tool from Foundstone.

Next up, I started working the menu system, identifying possible history files and running Pasco on the contents. Shoulders hunched, head down, I pecked away at the computer with eyes glued to microscopic type on the screen and ears perked for the first sound of Jason’s car in the driveway.

I didn’t know what I was doing, and everything took longer than I thought. Next thing I knew, it was after midnight and Jason was due home any minute. I was still running reports and hadn’t figured out yet how to uninstall Pasco, whose mere presence on the desktop would alert Jason that I knew something was going on.

I was hopped up and jumpy when I finally got the dialogue box asking if I wanted to open or save the CSV. I didn’t know what I should do, but I was running out of time, so I hit Open and watched an Excel spreadsheet fill the screen before me.

I figured I would discover dozens of URLs. Porn sites? Chat rooms? More terrible photos of terrified little boys? Evidence that the man I’d
chosen to raise my child was a hard-core pedophile, or one of those sick men who trolled MySpace, preying on twelve-year-olds? I wasn’t sure yet what I hoped, or what I feared. My eyes were screwed shut I could barely bring myself to look.

What, oh what, was my husband doing all those long nights
?

Three values filled the screen. I already knew what they were before I ever entered the URLs into the web browser: Drudge Report, USA Today, and the New York Times.

My husband held his secrets well.

The next day during free period, Ethan was already waiting for me in the computer lab.

“Did it work?” he asked me.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Well?” he said impatiently. “Did you find out what your husband is doing online or not?”

I stared at my star pupil.

He remained matter-of-fact. “Sixth-graders aren’t that Internet savvy,” he said. “I mean, I was, but you don’t have a single me in your class, meaning you have nothing to worry about. That leaves your job, but I hack into the school’s computer all the time, and there’s nothing interesting going on here—”

“Ethan!”

He shrugged. “So the last possibility is that you’re worried about something at home. Ree is only four, so it can’t be her. That leaves your husband.”

I sat down. It seemed better than standing.

“Is it porn?” Ethan asked with his guileless blue eyes. “Or is he gambling away your life savings?”

“I don’t know,” I said at last.

“You didn’t run Pasco?”

“I did. It returned only three URLs, the same three I’ve seen before.”

Ethan sat upright. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Wow, gotta be a shredder. I’ve only ever heard about them. That’s cool!”

“A shredder is a good thing?”

“It is if you’re trying to cover your tracks. A shredder, or scrubber software, is like a rake, clearing all the cache file footprints left behind you.”

“It’s deleting things the lazy computer wouldn’t otherwise delete?”

“Nope. Shredders are lazy, too. They’re automatically clearing the cache file so you don’t have to remember to do it manually. So a user can go all sorts of places, then ‘shred’ the evidence. But since a lack of browser history is also a red flag, your husband is attempting to be clever by rebuilding a fake Internet trail. Fortunately for us, he’s not that good at faking it.”

I didn’t say a word.

“Here’s the cool part, though—shredders aren’t foolproof.”

“Okay,” I managed.

“Every time you click on an Internet page, a computer is creating so many temp files there’s no way the shredder can get them all. Plus, the shredder is still only messing with the directory. So the files are still there, we just have to find them.”

“How?”

“Better tool. Pasco is over-the-counter. Now you want prescription-strength meds.”

“I don’t know any pharmacists,” I said blankly.

Ethan Hastings grinned at me. “I do.”

| CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX |

D.D. was dreaming about roast beef again. She was at her favorite buffet, trying to decide between the eggplant Parmesan and a blood-red carving roast. She opted for both, sinking her right hand straight into the tray of eggplant Parm while plucking up thin, juicy slivers of beef with her left. She had strings of melted cheese trailing down one arm and dribbles of
au jus
on her chin.

No bother. She climbed straight onto the white-covered table, planting her ass between the green Jell-O fruit ring and the collection of cherry-topped puddings. She scooped up handfuls of squishy Jell-O, while licking creamy tapioca straight from the chilled parfait glass.

She was hungry. Starving even. Then the food was gone, and she was on top of a giant, satin-covered mattress. She was on her belly, face down, nude body stretched out in a cat-like purr while unknown hands worked magic down the curve of her spine, over her writhing hips, finding the inside of her thighs. She knew where she wanted those hands. Knew where she needed to be touched, needed to be taken. She raised her hips accommodatingly, and suddenly she was flipped over, legs spreading wide to receive urgent thrusts while she stared into Brian Miller’s heavily mustached face.

D.D. jerked awake in her bedroom. Her hands were fisting her covers, her body covered in a light sheen of sweat as she worked to slow her breathing. For the longest time, she simply stared at her gray-washed walls, morning coming hard in the rainy gloom.

She released the sheets. Pushed back the covers. Stabilized her legs enough to walk to the bathroom, where she regarded herself in the mirror above the sink.

“That,” she told her reflection firmly, “never happened.”

Five-thirty
A.M.
, she brushed her teeth and got ready for the day ahead.

D.D. was a realist. You didn’t last twenty years in the biz without realizing some hard truths about human nature. First twenty-four hours of a missing persons case, she gave them even odds of finding the person alive. Adults did take off. Couples argued. Some individuals could stick it out, others needed to bolt for a day or two. So first twenty-four hours, maybe even the first thirty-six, she’d been willing to believe that Sandra Jones was alive and they, the fine detectives of the BPD, might bring her home again.

Fifty-two hours later, D.D. was not thinking of locating a missing mother. She was thinking of recovering a body, and even with that in mind, she understood that time remained of the essence.

Crime, and investigations, had a certain rhythm. First twenty-four hours, not only was there hope of the victim surviving, but also of the criminal screwing up. Abduction, assault, homicide, all involved high emotion. Individuals held in the sway of high emotion had a tendency to make mistakes. Flushed on adrenaline, overloaded by anxiety or even remorse, the perpetrator was in panic mode.
Did something bad. How to get away, get away, get away
?

Unfortunately, as each day went by without the cops closing in, the subject had time to calm down, settle in. Start thinking more rationally about next steps, form a more concrete plan for cover up. The criminal became entrenched, disposing of evidence, polishing his story, even perhaps swaying key witnesses, such as his four-year-old daughter. In other words, the perpetrator transitioned from bungling amateur to criminal mastermind.

D.D. didn’t want to be dealing with any criminal masterminds. She wanted a body and an arrest, all in time for the five o’clock news. Close in, apply the thumb screws, and crack the case wide open. That was the kind of thing that made her day.

Unfortunately, she had a few too many people to pressure. Take Ethan Hastings. Thirteen years old, frighteningly brilliant, and hopelessly in love with his missing teacher. Budding Lothario? Or freaky teenmonster?

Then came Aidan Brewster. Bona fide felon with a history of choosing inappropriate sexual relationships. Claimed not to know Sandra Jones, but lived just down the street from the crime. Reformed sex offender or escalating perpetrator with a fresh appetite for violence?

Sandy’s father, the honorable Maxwell Black, had to be included in the mix. Estranged father, who magically showed up when his daughter disappeared. According to Officer Hawkes, Black seemed to be threatening Jones, and clearly planned to see his granddaughter one way or the other. Grieving father, or opportunistic grandfather who’d do anything to get his hands on Ree?

Finally, she returned to Jason Jones, the cold-blooded husband who had yet to engage in a single activity to find his missing wife. The guy claimed not to be the jealous type. Then again, he had no paper trail prior to marrying Sandy five years ago. A definite assumed identity.

D.D. went round and round, and she still came back to Jones. His daughter’s own assessment of Wednesday night, Jones’s disengaged behavior since his wife vanished, the obvious use of an alias. Jones was hiding something—ergo, he was the most likely suspect in his pregnant wife’s disappearance.

That was it. D.D. was bringing little Ree in for more questioning as soon as possible. She would arrange for two officers to track each of their other subjects, building history and establishing alibis. Better yet, she was assigning two of her best white-collar investigators to trace Jones’s bank accounts. Follow the money, find Jones’s real name, real history, real past.

Break the alias. Break the man.

Satisfied, D.D. pulled out her notepad and jotted down one major to-do for the day:
Squeeze Jason Jones.

D.D.’s cell rang ten minutes later. It was barely seven, but she didn’t lead one of those lives where people called during normal operating hours. She took another sip of coffee, flipped open her phone, and announced, “Talk to me.”

“Sergeant D. D. Warren?”

“Last I checked.”

The caller paused. She took another sip of cappuccino.