“Programming. Sex offenders are responsible for treatment costs. So in Brewster’s case, that means he’s forking over sixty bucks a week for his group counseling. Then there’s the cost of his maintenance polygraph, two-fifty a pop every ten months, to make sure he’s on track. If he had an ankle bracelet he’d have to pay for that, too, but he got lucky and hit the streets the year before the GPS became SOP. Plus, he’s got Boston rent due, transportation costs, etc., etc. Not a cheap life for someone who’s starting the game with limited employment options.”

“You mean because he can’t be around kids,” D.D. said.

“Exactly. So even at a local garage, Brewster can only work on the cars, never at the front counter. After all, you never know when a woman might walk in with two-point-two kids.”

“But he’s a good employee.”

“The best.” Colleen shot them a grin. “Vito can work Brewster to the bone, and the kid’ll never complain because they both know he can’t just quit and get a job elsewhere. People think sex offenders can’t find employment. In fact, there are certain ‘savvy’ employers out there who are more than happy to have them on board.”

Miller was frowning now. “Poor little Aidan Brewster? Couldn’t keep his hands off a fourteen-year-old, so now we should all feel sorry for him?”

“I’m not saying that,” Colleen replied evenly. “The law is the law. I’m just saying that for most of the judicial system, you do your crime, you serve your time. Brewster went to jail, but he’s still serving time, and will be for the rest of his life. Ironically enough, he would’ve been slightly better off had he killed the girl instead of sleeping with her. And as a member of the judicial system, I’m not comfortable with that analysis.”

D.D., however, was already pondering something else. She turned to Miller. “Do you know where the Joneses got their cars serviced?”

He shook his head, jotted down a note. “I’ll get on it.”

“Who are the Joneses?” Colleen asked.

“Jason and Sandra Jones. They live on the same block as Aidan Brewster. Except sometime in the middle of last night, Sandra Jones disappeared.”

“Ahh,” Colleen said with a sigh. She sat back in her chair, hooked her hands behind her fireball hair. “You think Aidan had something to do with it?”

“Have to consider him.”

“How old is Sandra Jones?”

“Twenty-three. A sixth grade teacher at the middle school. Has a four-year-old daughter.”

“So, you’re thinking Aidan abducted the mom from her house in the middle of the night, with the husband there?”

“Husband was at work—he’s a local reporter.”