D.D. arched a brow, registering that bit of news. McDreamy was McSmarty. At least, he knew more about his constitutional rights than the average bear. Interesting. She tucked her chin down, turning her face away from the wind. “No sign of forced entry?”

“No, and get this, both the front and back doors are made of steel.”

“Really?”

“Yep. With key in and key out bolt locks. Oh, and we found wooden dowels jammed into most of the window frames.”

“No shit. What’d the husband say?”

“One of those questions he declined to answer.”

“Is there a home security system? Maybe a camera?”

“No and no. Not even a nanny cam. I asked.”

They were approaching the house now, the adorable fifties bungalow that apparently was reinforced tighter than Fort Knox.

“Key in and key out locks,” D.D. murmured. “No cameras. Makes me wonder if the setup is about keeping someone out, or keeping someone in.”

“Think the wife was abused?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. You said there was a kid?”

“Four-year-old girl. Clarissa Jane Jones. They call her Ree.”

“Talk to her yet?”

Miller hesitated. “Kid’s spent the morning curled up on her father’s lap, looking pretty traumatized. Given that I don’t see any hope of this guy letting us speak to her alone, I haven’t pushed. Figured I’d approach them both when we had a little more ammunition.”

D.D. nodded. Interviewing kids was messy business. Some detectives had a knack for it, some didn’t. She was guessing, based on Miller’s reluctance, that he didn’t feel too good about it. Which would be why D.D. made the big bucks.

“Is the husband confined?” she asked. They climbed the bungalow’s front steps, approaching a bright green welcome mat, where the blue scripted word was surrounded by a sea of bright green and yellow flowers. It looked to D.D. like the kind of welcome mat a little girl and her mother might pick out.

“Father and daughter are sitting in the family room. I left an officer in charge. Best I can do at the moment.”

“At the moment,” she agreed, pausing in front of the doormat. “You’ve searched the home?”

“Ninety percent of it.”

“Cars?”

“Yep.”

“Outbuildings?”

“Yep.”

“Checked with local establishments, neighbors, friends, relatives, and coworkers?”

“Efforts are ongoing.”

“All without sign of Sandra Jones.”

Miller glanced at his watch. “Approximately six hours from the husband’s first call, there remains no sign of twenty-three-year-old white female Sandra Jones.”

“But you do have a potential crime scene in the master bedroom, a potential witness in Sandra’s four-year-old daughter, and a potential suspect in Sandra’s journalist husband. That about sums it up?”

“That about sums it up.” Miller gestured to the front door, revealing his first hint of impatience. “How do you wanna play it: house, husband, or kid?”