were spoken softly, but Brian equipped them with the force of command.
Adrian looked up. Another trim, suburban clapboard home, like just about every other one. Like his own.
He sighed and went up to the door, leaving his brother behind on the sidewalk. He rang the doorbell twice, and just as he was about to turn and leave he heard hurried footsteps inside. The door cracked open and he came face to face with a middle-aged woman, a dish towel in her hands, red eyes and blond frazzled hair. She smelled of smoke and anxiety and looked as if she hadn’t slept in a month.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Adrian started.
The woman stared out past him. Her voice quavered but she tried to be polite.
“Look, I’m just not interested in Jehovah’s Witnesses or the Mormon Church or Scientology. Thank you, but no thanks.”
As quickly as she had opened it the woman was shutting the door.
“No, no,” Adrian said.
From behind him, he heard his brother’s shouted command: “ Show her the hat! ”
He thrust the pink hat forward.
The woman stopped.
“I found this on the street. I’m looking for—”
“Jennifer,” the woman said.
She immediately burst into tears.
10
By the time Terri Collins managed to get into the hard drive on Jennifer’s computer and copy everything without simultaneously destroying it, it was midmorning and, even with a catnap on a couch outside of an interview room, she was still exhausted. The office around her had awakened. The other three detectives on the small force were at their desks, making calls, sorting through various open-case tasks. She had also received a summons from the chief’s office, wanting a midday update, so Terri was scrambling to put together some sort of analysis of Jennifer’s disappearance. In order to keep processing the case, she needed to create at least the impression that a crime was taking place because, otherwise, she knew the chief would tell her to do what she had already done—put out a picture and description and the appropriate statewide and national bulletins and then get back to work on cases that actually might result in arrests and convictions.
She looked guiltily at the stack of case folders cluttering a corner of her desk. There were three sexual assault cases, a simple assault—that was a Saturday night Yankees—Red Sox fistfight in a bar—an assault with a deadly weapon—what was that sophomore from the tony Boston suburb of Concord doing with a switchblade anyway?—and half a dozen drug cases ranging from a nickel bag of marijuana to a student over at the university arrested selling a kilo of cocaine to an undercover campus cop. Every file needed attention, especially the sexual assaults, because they were all more or less the same—girls taken advantage of after they’d had too much to drink at a frat house or a dorm party. Invariably, the victims wavered, imagining they were somehow to blame. Perhaps, Terri thought, they were. Inhibitions had been washed away in beery excess and provocative dancing, maybe they had heeded the catcalls of show us your boobs! that were commonplace at campus gatherings. Each case was awaiting toxicology results and she suspected they would all test positive for Ecstasy. These cases all started: “Hey, baby, let me get you a drink” in a crowded room, music pounding, bodies packed together, and the girl not noticing the slightly odd taste as she sipped at her plastic cup. One part vodka, two parts tonic, a dash of date-rape drug.
She hated seeing sexual predators skate away when the embarrassed and sobered-up girls and their equally embarrassed parents dropped all her carefully constructed criminal charges. She knew the boys involved would end up boasting of their conquests as they matriculated on to Wall Street or medical school or into some other high-powered profession. She thought it was her policewoman’s duty to make sure that this ascension wasn’t without some sweat and some scars.
Terri went
Adrian looked up. Another trim, suburban clapboard home, like just about every other one. Like his own.
He sighed and went up to the door, leaving his brother behind on the sidewalk. He rang the doorbell twice, and just as he was about to turn and leave he heard hurried footsteps inside. The door cracked open and he came face to face with a middle-aged woman, a dish towel in her hands, red eyes and blond frazzled hair. She smelled of smoke and anxiety and looked as if she hadn’t slept in a month.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Adrian started.
The woman stared out past him. Her voice quavered but she tried to be polite.
“Look, I’m just not interested in Jehovah’s Witnesses or the Mormon Church or Scientology. Thank you, but no thanks.”
As quickly as she had opened it the woman was shutting the door.
“No, no,” Adrian said.
From behind him, he heard his brother’s shouted command: “ Show her the hat! ”
He thrust the pink hat forward.
The woman stopped.
“I found this on the street. I’m looking for—”
“Jennifer,” the woman said.
She immediately burst into tears.
10
By the time Terri Collins managed to get into the hard drive on Jennifer’s computer and copy everything without simultaneously destroying it, it was midmorning and, even with a catnap on a couch outside of an interview room, she was still exhausted. The office around her had awakened. The other three detectives on the small force were at their desks, making calls, sorting through various open-case tasks. She had also received a summons from the chief’s office, wanting a midday update, so Terri was scrambling to put together some sort of analysis of Jennifer’s disappearance. In order to keep processing the case, she needed to create at least the impression that a crime was taking place because, otherwise, she knew the chief would tell her to do what she had already done—put out a picture and description and the appropriate statewide and national bulletins and then get back to work on cases that actually might result in arrests and convictions.
She looked guiltily at the stack of case folders cluttering a corner of her desk. There were three sexual assault cases, a simple assault—that was a Saturday night Yankees—Red Sox fistfight in a bar—an assault with a deadly weapon—what was that sophomore from the tony Boston suburb of Concord doing with a switchblade anyway?—and half a dozen drug cases ranging from a nickel bag of marijuana to a student over at the university arrested selling a kilo of cocaine to an undercover campus cop. Every file needed attention, especially the sexual assaults, because they were all more or less the same—girls taken advantage of after they’d had too much to drink at a frat house or a dorm party. Invariably, the victims wavered, imagining they were somehow to blame. Perhaps, Terri thought, they were. Inhibitions had been washed away in beery excess and provocative dancing, maybe they had heeded the catcalls of show us your boobs! that were commonplace at campus gatherings. Each case was awaiting toxicology results and she suspected they would all test positive for Ecstasy. These cases all started: “Hey, baby, let me get you a drink” in a crowded room, music pounding, bodies packed together, and the girl not noticing the slightly odd taste as she sipped at her plastic cup. One part vodka, two parts tonic, a dash of date-rape drug.
She hated seeing sexual predators skate away when the embarrassed and sobered-up girls and their equally embarrassed parents dropped all her carefully constructed criminal charges. She knew the boys involved would end up boasting of their conquests as they matriculated on to Wall Street or medical school or into some other high-powered profession. She thought it was her policewoman’s duty to make sure that this ascension wasn’t without some sweat and some scars.
Terri went
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