“She ever talk about her husband’s past? Where he grew up, how they met?”
Wayne shook his head.
“Ever mention that ‘Jones’ might be an alias?”
“Are you kidding…? No, no, she never mentioned that.”
D.D. considered the matter. “Sounds like Jason Jones is pretty computer savvy.”
“Very.”
“Savvy enough to use the computer to either hide a previous identity or build a new one?”
“All of the above,” Wayne concurred. “You can open bank accounts, sign up for utilities, build credit histories, all online. A sophisticated computer user could both create and disguise multiple identities using the computer.”
D.D. nodded, turning it over in her mind. “What would he need besides the computer?”
“Ummm, a mailing address, or P.O. box. Sooner or later, you have to provide a mailing address. Say, something he rented from a UPS store. And a phone number connected to that name, though in this day and age, he could buy a disposable cell phone for that. So he would need some tangible items to support the identity, but nothing too hard to manage.”
Post office box. D.D. hadn’t thought of that. Either in Jones’s name or Sandy’s maiden name. She’d do some digging…
“Sandy ever mention the name Aidan Brewster’?”
Wayne shook his head.
“And can you swear to me, as an investigator and law enforcement officer, that to the best of your knowledge, Sandra Jones was never alone with your nephew?”
“All Ethan ever talked about was meeting with Sandra in the computer lab during free period. Yeah, they were alone for a lot of those sessions, but we’re talking in the middle of the day, in the middle of a public school.”
“She ever talk to you about running away from her husband?”
“She would never leave her daughter.”
“Not even for you, Wayne?”
He shot her that look again, but D.D. didn’t withdraw her question. Wayne Reynolds was a handsome man, and Sandra Jones one very lonely young woman…
“I think Jason Jones killed her,” Wayne said flatly. “He came home Wednesday night, discovered her trying to copy the hard drive, and blew his top. He was up to something, his wife figured it out, so he killed her. I’ve been thinking that since the second I saw the press conference yesterday, so if you’re asking if I’m personally involved in this case, yeah, I’m personally invested in this case. I was trying to help a young, frightened mother, and in doing that, I may have gotten her murdered. I’m angry about that. Hell, I’m pissed off beyond belief.”
“Okay.” D.D. nodded. “You understand I’m going to need you to come in, give an official statement?”
“Absolutely.”
“This afternoon, three o’clock? BPD headquarters?”
“I’ll be there.”
D.D. nodded, started to break away, then one last question came to her. “Hey, Wayne, how many times did you and Sandy meet?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. Eight, ten times maybe. Always at the basketball games.”
D.D. nodded. She thought that was a lot of times to meet, given that Sandra had never had a copy of the computer’s hard drive to share.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jason woke up to a slow building hum, then a slash of bright lights across his eyes. He peered groggily at his watch, saw that it was five A.M., then peered at his backlit blinds with fresh confusion. Sun didn’t rise at five A.M. in March.
Then he got it. Klieg lights. From across the street. The news vans had returned and were powering up for their morning visuals, everyone filming a fresh report from the crime scene, aka his front yard.
He let his head fall back against the pillow, wondering if there was any breaking news he should know about from the past three hours when he’d actually slept. He should turn on the TV. Watch an update of his life. He’d always had an overdeveloped sense of irony. He waited for it to kick in, appreciate this moment. But mostly, he felt tired, stretched in too many directions as he sought to protect his daughter, find his wife, and keep out of prison.
Jason extended his arms and legs, taking inventory after last night’s pounding. He discovered that all four limbs appeared to be working, though some hurt more than others. He tucked his hands behind his head, peered up at the ceiling with his one working eye, and attempted to plan for the day ahead.
Max would return. Sandra’s father hadn’t come all the way to Massachusetts just to sit quietly in his hotel room. He would continue to demand access to Ree, threatening… legal action, exposure of Jason’s past? Jason wasn’t sure how much Max even knew of Jason’s previous life. It wasn’t like he and the old man had ever sat down. Jason had met Sandra in a bar, and she’d kept to that routine as much as possible. Only good girls take boys home to meet their fathers, she’d told him that first night, clearly wanting to establish that she wasn’t a good girl. Jason would take her back to his little rental, where he would cook her dinner and they would watch movies together, or maybe play board games. They did everything but what she clearly expected them to do, and that kept her returning, night after night after night.
Until Jason began to notice her growing stomach. Until he started asking more questions. Until the night she broke down in tears and it became clear to him the solution to both of their problems. Sandy wanted away from her father for whatever reason. He just wanted away. So they’d taken off together. Fresh city, new last name, clean start. Right up until Wednesday night, Jason would’ve said neither one of them had ever harbored regrets.
Now Max was back in the picture. A man with money, brains, and local legal connections. Max could hurt Jason. Yet Jason still couldn’t grant the man access to Ree. He’d promised Sandy that her father would never touch Ree. He wasn’t going back on that now, not when his daughter needed him more than ever.
So Max would stir the pot, while the police continued to dog his heels. They were tearing apart his computer. Probably digging into his financial records. Interviewing his editor, perhaps even touring the Boston Daily offices. Would they spot the computer he’d left there, put two and two together?
How long could this game of high stakes poker go on?
Jason had taken basic steps when he’d become a family man. His “other” activities existed under a different identity, with a separate bank account, credit card, and P.O. box. Payment confirmations and the single credit card statement went to a suburban post office out in Lexington. He visited once a month, retrieving the paperwork, sorting through it, then shredding the evidence.
All good plans, however, had at least one central flaw. In this case, the family computer contained enough damning evidence to send him to prison for twenty to life. Sure, he employed a decent scrubber software, but any web visit generated far more temp files than one scrubber could cover. Three, four days tops, he decided. Then the forensic specialists would realize that something was wrong with the computer they had seized, and the police would return in earnest.
Assuming they hadn’t already discovered Sandy’s body and were even now standing on his front porch, waiting to arrest him.
Jason got out of bed, too keyed up to return to sleep. His ribs protested when he moved. He couldn’t see out of his left eye. His injuries didn’t matter to him, however. Nothing mattered, except one thing.
He needed to make sure Ree was still sleeping safely in her room, a tiny, curl-topped form with a bright orange cat at her feet.
He padded quietly down the hall, senses alert. The house smelled the same, felt the same. He cracked open the door to Ree’s room, and discovered his daughter lying straight as an arrow in her bed, hands clutching the top of her comforter, big brown eyes staring up at him. She was awake, and, he realized belatedly, she had been crying. Damp lines of moisture smeared her cheeks.