“Judge Banyan,” D.D. said, resuming walking at a much brisker pace. “We can prepare the affidavits now, and get ’em to her chamber right after lunch. We’ll get warrants for the computer, the truck, and dammit, we’ll have the house declared a crime scene. We’ll knock Mr. Arctic right out on his ass.”

“Wait, I thought you just said—”

“And we’ll hope,” D.D. interjected forcefully, “that when Jason Jones is given a choice between vacating his own home, or letting a certified forensic specialist talk to his child, he’ll opt for the interview.”

D.D. glanced at her watch. It was just after twelve now, and on cue, her stomach rumbled for lunch. She remembered her early-morning fantasy of an all-you-can-eat buffet, and felt just plain pissy.

“We’ll need more manpower to execute the warrants,” she added.

“All right.”

“And we’re gonna have to think of a way to broaden our search without alerting the media yet.”

“All right.”

They were at her car. D.D. paused long enough to look Miller in the eye and sigh heavily.

“This case sucks,” she declared.

“I know,” Miller said affably. “Aren’t you glad I called?”

CHAPTER FIVE

At 11:59, Jason finally got the last law enforcement officer out of the house. The sergeant retreated, then the lead detective, the evidence technicians, and the uniformed officers. Only a plainclothes detective remained behind, sitting obtrusively in a brown Ford Taurus parked in front. Jason could watch him from the kitchen window, the officer sitting with his gaze straight ahead, alternately yawning and taking sips of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

After another minute, Jason moved away from the window, realized that his house was all his again, and nearly staggered under the weight of what to do next.

Ree was staring at him, her big brown eyes so much like her mother’s.

“Lunch,” Jason said out loud, slightly startled by the hoarse sound of his own voice. “Let’s have lunch.”

“Daddy, did you buy Oreo cookies?”

“No.”

She exhaled heavily, turning toward the kitchen anyway. “Maybe you should call Mommy. Maybe, if she’s near a grocery store looking for Mr. Smith, she can bring home some cookies.”

“Maybe,” Jason said, and managed to get the refrigerator door open even though his hand had started to shake violently.

He made it through lunch on autopilot. Found the bread, pulled out whole wheat slices. Mixed the natural peanut butter, spread the jelly. Counted out four carrots, picked out some green grapes. Arranged it all on a flowered daisy plate with the sandwich cut on the requisite diagonal.