“I love my cat,” Jones said quietly.

“Then give us access to your computer. Cooperate with us, so we can resolve this matter safely and expediently.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t?” D.D. pounced. “Or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

“And why can’t you, Mr. Jones?”

He looked at her. “Because I love my daughter more.”

Thirty minutes later, D.D. walked with Detective Miller back to her car. They had printed Jason Jones and Clarissa Jones as a matter of protocol; in order to determine if there were any strange fingerprints in the house, they had to start by identifying the prints of the known occupants. Jones had volunteered his hands, then assisted with Ree’s, who thought the whole thing was a grand adventure. Most likely, Jason had realized that one act of cooperation cost him very little-after all, there was nothing suspicious about his prints being in his own home.

Jason Jones had washed his hands. Jason Jones had washed Ree’s hands. Then he’d basically kicked the police officers out. His daughter needed to rest, he announced, and that had been that. He escorted each and every one of them to the door. No What are you doing to find my wife? No Please, please please I’ll do whatever I can to help. No Let’s organize a search party and tackle the entire neighborhood until we find my beautiful, beloved spouse.

Not Mr. Jones. His daughter needed a nap. And that was that.

“Cold?” D.D. muttered now. “Arctic is more like it. Clearly, Mr. Jones has never heard of global warming.”

Miller let her rant.

“Kid knows something. Notice the way she shut down the moment we got past bedtime? She heard something, saw something, I don’t know. But we need a forensic interviewer, someone who specializes in children. Quick, too. More time that girl spends around dear old Dad, harder it’s going to be for her to recall any inconvenient truths.”

Miller nodded his head.

“’Course, we’re also gonna need doting Dad’s permission to interview his child, and somehow, I don’t think he’s gonna grant us access. Fascinating, don’t you think? I mean, his wife vanished in the middle of the night, leaving their daughter all alone in the house, and far from cooperating with us, or asking us any logical questions about what we’re doing to find his wife, Jason Jones sits on that sofa as mute as a mime. Where’s his shock, his disbelief, his panicked need for information? He should be calling friends and relatives. He should be digging out recent photos of his wife for us to canvass the neighborhood. He should, at the very least, be arranging for someone to watch his daughter so he can personally assist with our efforts. This guy—it’s like a switch has been thrown. He’s not even home.”

“Denial,” Miller offered up, trudging along beside her.