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.

“This, uh, is Wayne Reynolds. I work for the Massachusetts State Police. I’m also Ethan Hastings’s uncle.”

D.D. thought about it. The number on her display screen looked familiar. Then it came to her: “Didn’t you buzz me yesterday morning?”

“I tried your pager. I saw the press conference and figured we’d better talk.”

“Because of Ethan?”

Another pause. “I think it would be best if we could meet in person. What do you say? I could buy you breakfast.”

“You think we’re gonna arrest Ethan?”

“I think if you did, it would be a huge mistake.”

“So, you’re gonna throw your state weight around, ask me to back off? ’cause you should know up front, I don’t take those kinds of conversations well, and buying me a bagel with cream cheese isn’t gonna make a difference.”

“How about we meet first, and you can be hostile and indifferent second?”

“It’s your funeral,” D.D. said. She rattled off the name of a coffee shop just around the corner, then went to fetch an umbrella.

Mario’s was a locals’ establishment. Tiny, with the original Formica countertop from 1949 and an enormous glass jar of fresh biscotti next to the ancient cash register. Mario II, the son, currently ran the joint. He served up eggs, toast, pancetta, and the best coffee you could buy outside of Italy.