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“If she thought it was sex, he could’ve pulled out a knife before she realized what was happening.”
“There’s also a strong possibility Travis or one of his ‘associates’ is the baby’s father. If a broken condom was involved, she’d know who. Maybe she confronted him and he decided she’d be too much trouble.”
“That would explain why she wouldn’t tell anyone who the father was.” Jo dropped her pen and sat forward. “So the question is, how do we get any evidence? We need DNA samples from the ‘associates’ but we don’t even know who they are yet.”
“We’ll have to see what Springfield PD comes up with about The Volcano. Meantime we can try for a warrant for Travis’s DNA. But we’d need at least a sworn statement from the waitress, and even then I’m not sure it’ll walk. And if we get it and serve it, that could step on Springfield PD, because it’ll let The Volcano know we’re watching,” Arnett said.
“I’ll text Silva, see what he thinks. We might as well get started on the warrant just in case. And we can show Travis’s picture to the people who claim to have seen Madison at Crone Ridge, see if any of them recognize him. We’ll do the same with any photos Springfield PD gets of the people going into The Volcano. If we get a hit, that might help with probable cause for the warrant.”
“We might as well take a stab at getting a DNA sample from Brad Pratt, too.” Arnett swung back to face his desk. “You work up the paperwork for Hartley, and I’ll take Pratt. With a little help from the warrant gods, we could have samples by the end of the day tomorrow.”
* * *
After finishing up the warrant paperwork, Jo and Arnett headed home. Matt wasn’t there when she arrived; he’d been called in for an emergency surgery and texted he’d hopefully be home by eight-thirty. The threatening rain had started to fall, beating a steady rhythm on her windshield as she carefully navigated the newly wet roads.
The house felt strangely empty without him in it. As she made her way into the kitchen for a snifter of calvados, she marveled at how quickly that shift had taken place. Only a couple of weeks before she’d been resentful and grumpy as a result of having to share her space, but now she was bothered by the quiet. She still needed time alone to de-stress and think now and then, but he no longer felt like an invasive presence inherhome—he now felt like a part of what made it a home.
Cleopatra, the Sphynx cat she’d accidentally adopted, rubbed up against her leg as she pulled open the cabinet. Jo squatted down to give her a cuddle. “I should probably eat something before I throw any booze on my stomach,” she told the cat. “And Matt’ll be hungry, too. What do you think? Breakfast for dinner, since Matt loves that? If I start now, I can have bacon and hash browns ready by the time he gets home, and then I can just throw on some eggs.”
“Browwr.” Cleopatra bumped her head against Jo’s chin.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Jo set Cleopatra on one of the kitchen chairs. “Although probably what it really means is you’re hoping for some of the bacon. I’m no fool.”
As she laid out rashers of bacon in a skillet and grated potatoes for hash browns, Jo told the cat about her day, including the twists and turns of what they’d learned and the theories in her head.
“It’s all very frustrating,” she summed up. “This poor girl—life took everything from her, none of it due to any fault of her own. The least I can give her is the justice of finding her killer, but unless her killer is the baby’s father, we may never be able to find any evidence of anything. So if you have any Sphinx-kitty magic lingering behind those huge blue eyes, feel free to send it my way.”
Jo’s phone, perched on the table next to Cleopatra’s chair, shrilled.
Jo popped her brows at the cat. “Impressive. If I’d known it was that easy, I’d’ve asked ages ago.” She wiped her hands on the towel hanging from her oven, then crossed to pick up the phone.
She frowned down at the number—Chelsea was calling.
Jo’s jaw clenched—maybe she’d written off Sophie’s concerns about Chelsea too quickly. No matter what, obviously she hadn’t been clear enough about proper boundaries.
She stabbed at the phone. “Chelsea? I thought I was pretty pointed about the fact that—”
“Please, Jo, I’m not calling for myself. This is about Naomie. She’s missing.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY
“Dammit, I should have gone to see her in person,” Jo said to Arnett, who she’d picked up en route to Naomie Alexander’s house.
“You returned the call,” Arnett replied. “There’s no reason to believe this has anything to do with a paperwork error.”
Jo’s eyes flashed to his. “Other than the fact she’s now missing?”
He raised a hand. “You’re jumping to conclusions, and that isn’t like you. She may be fine.”
Jo tried to convince herself he was right. She tried to remember the exact wording of the message as she scanned the traffic, fighting back her frustration at the drivers staying below the speed limit, held back by the steadily falling rain.
Four cars were already parked in the wide driveway of the Alexanders’ sprawling red-clapboard farmhouse. Although newly built, the covered front porch and narrow eaves mimicked classic New England architectural elements. Modernity with a nod to the past, but the pre-fab feel came up short.
A medium-height, blond white man burst through the front door as they stepped from the car. His classic blue button-down matched his eyes and the creases on his black chinos were still crisp, despite whiskering across his lap. Chelsea and Julia slipped out of the doorway behind him; Chelsea, hands firmly clutched at her abdomen and eyes wide, hurried to pace him while Julia, face pale and tight, hung back.
“Detectives?” the man called while they were still a good hundred feet away. “I’m Chris Alexander, Naomie’s husband. I hope I’m not overreacting, but with what just happened to her friend…”
Jo hurried through the now-sheeting rain to the porch, then shook his hand. “It’s always better to be safe than sorry. What exactly happened?”
