Miller had also run preliminary financial reports on the Joneses. They had a staggering hundred and fifty thousand sitting in savings, with another two million stashed in various mutual funds with an investment bank. Monthly income was modest, same with monthly expenses. It looked to him like they had paid cash for the house, and did their best to live off their paychecks.

Miller would guess the high net worth came from a lump sum deposit, such as an inheritance or insurance settlement. He had detectives working on tracing the money now.

In other news, the Joneses had been married in 2004 in a civil ceremony in Massachusetts. Their daughter, Clarissa, had been born two months later. There were no outstanding tickets or warrants for either Sandra Jones or Jason Jones. Neither had there been any indication of domestic violence or public disturbance.

According to the neighbors, the Joneses were a quiet couple who kept to themselves. Did not party, did not entertain. If you saw them on the street, they would smile and wave, but were not the kind to stop and make polite chitchat. Except for Ree. Everyone agreed Clarissa Jones was precocious and would talk your ear off. Apparently, she was also hell on wheels on a tricycle. If you saw her coming it was up to you to get off the sidewalk.

“Parents yell at her a lot?” D.D. asked.

“Parents doted on her. And I’m reading verbatim here, three different accounts from three different neighbors: Parents ‘doted’ on daughter.”

“Huh. ’Course, parents are also described as quiet and reserved, meaning, how well did any of the neighbors know them?”

“True.”

“Life insurance policies?”

“Still inquiring.”

“Two million dollars in the bank,” D.D. mused. “Plus cash, plus prime Boston real estate … what are we talking about, nearly three-point-five million in assets? People have killed for less.”

“Figure the standard divorce would run the husband nearly two mil. That’s a lot of money for a starter marriage.”

“Speaking of which, what year were they married again?”

“Two thousand and four.”

“Which would make Sandra Jones, what, eighteen years old? And already pregnant?”

“Given that Clarissa was born two months later, yep.”

“And Jason Jones is, what, thirty, thirty-one?”

“That would be my guess. Still working on rounding up a birth certificate for him.”

“Let’s consider that for a second. You got a young, beautiful pregnant girl, an older—richer?—man …”

“Don’t know who had the money yet. Could’ve been Jason or Sandra.”

“Somehow, I’m willing to bet the money was his.”

“Somehow, I’m thinking you’re right.”

“So Jason snags himself a pregnant teenage bride. Has an ‘adorable’ little girl, and four/five years after that …”

“Is living a quiet life in South Boston, in a house reinforced tighter than Fort Knox, in a neighborhood where no one really knows him.”

D.D. and Miller both fell silent for a bit.