Chapter 9

"Facing the Enemy"

It had been years since Lane had last visited the Garden State. Probably over a decade, if memory didn't fail her. Yes, it had been a decade ago, when her father had passed away at only sixty-seven years of age. A massive heart-attack, the doctors had told Lane, and that there hadn't been anything anyone could have done to save him.

It had destroyed the family – her father had been the most wonderful man Lane had ever met, and he'd been the one who had encouraged her dream of being a police officer (her mother had been more partial to her becoming a nurse or maybe a teacher – more feminine careers, if you will). He'd been at his proudest when she'd graduated top of her class from police academy, and she remembered that, whenever he'd called her, he'd greet her with a happy (if slightly teasing) "Hey, officer!".

Her mother hadn't been able to bear the loneliness afterwards. The house had become way too silent, and eventually Lane had helped sell it and re-settle in Florida (a state Lane rarely visited) and she occasionally came back to visit Lane and her other children.

Ergo, New Jersey had become a distant memory.

At least up until then.

Astonishingly enough, from there being practically no progress in the Babcock case, she suddenly found herself with a plausible suspect and was about to knock on his door, and it was all thanks to Mr Brightmore. He and Miss Babcock's parents had come in the day before and the butler had accused one of Miss Babcock's employees of having taken her. He'd claimed he was the man Miss Babcock had last seen with.

Initially Lane had been sceptical – her staff had done a background check on Thomas, and they hadn't found anything that had warranted their suspicion, but upon closer inspection, Lane had found that, actually, there was a plethora of evidence that pointed at Thomas Jones.

Evidence she'd somehow missed.

Thomas Jones did not have a Ford Bronco registered to his name, that was true, but his father did. It had taken only a few short calls to the Jones family to discover that Mr Jones Sr had loaned his car to his son after he'd totalled his own car a few weeks ago. Also worrying was the fact that, even though Thomas had never been to jail as an adult, he'd been to juvie several times – twice for truancy and once for underage possession. Moreover, he'd been kicked out of not one, but two schools due to violent fighting with his classmates.

Despite his current façade of being a model, tax-paying citizen, his past was incredibly dark and troubled. Thomas had not always been Thomas Jones – once, he'd been Thomas Russel. He'd been born to poor, illiterate parents, one of whom was a convicted violent alcoholic. Thomas and his siblings had been victimised by their parents, so much so they'd all landed in foster care after Mr Russel Sr had nearly killed Thomas by way of repeatedly beating him with a belt when he was only six years old. He'd later been adopted by doctors Edward and Martha Jones, who'd already had two children of their own at the time.

If this lead went anywhere, then it might've appeared that Mr and Mrs Jones hadn't gotten there in time to stop Thomas from turning out like his biological father after all. Not that they'd failed to do anything else as parents – the Jones family was filthy rich.

Martha and Edward Jones, born and raised in Boston, had met at Harvard Medical School, they'd married young, and had set up their own practice, which had steadily begun to grow until it became one of the best and most exclusive in Boston, effectively proving to be an extremely profitable business. They had two biological children of their own, and around the same time said children had entered middle school, the couple had decided to adopt a new child into their family – Thomas.

They'd provided their children with everything they could ever need or want, and (almost) all of them had turned out to be extremely successful individuals – Edward Jones Junior, Thomas' adoptive brother, had followed in his parents' footsteps by becoming a doctor and, now that his parents had retired, he managed the family business. Helena Jones, Thomas' adoptive sister, was a well-respected engineer and was currently working for NASA.

The black sheep, unsurprisingly, had been Thomas Jones. Unlike his siblings, Thomas had never shown any aptitudes for (or interest in) scholarly pursuits, and being the (admittedly spoiled) baby of the family, his parents had left him to his own devices and had provided him with an impressive bank account and a massive 4200 square feet, fully restored 1930's Queen Anne mansion in one of New Jersey's most exclusive areas. Lane had done some digging about the property, and she'd been more than surprised by what she'd found – the house was a luxurious three-story, eight-bedroom monstrosity, complete with an ample basement, a pool and valued at well over a million dollars! It truly was a millionaire's home! Given the meagre salary theatre assistants perceived, Lane doubted he could have had this kind of life without his parents' help.

He'd had it good, and in Lane's experience entitled men were, more often than not, the worst monsters there could be.

But she had to make a few more enquires before she could arrive at a solid conclusion, in that regard. That's why she'd come to Jersey on the first place – to have a little talk with Mr Jones. Even with all the evidence she had, and with all the convictions she'd found from his youth, she didn't have the last bit of solid proof which would immediately point to him having done it.

Frustratingly, there was always still the loophole of "correlation not equalling causation", or some such. But she could still do what she was planning on doing. And she had an extra suspicion beyond that other stuff anyway, based on the evidence Mr Brightmore had given when he'd explained that Thomas had had an…infatuation with Miss Babcock...

The mere thought of what that could mean made her skin crawl. But she knew she couldn't show any kind of hesitation or weakness there.

So, she straightened herself up to make sure the guy knew she meant business when he opened the door, and rang the bell. She made sure to do so at least thrice, too. She could see that his car was there, indicating that he was home, and she didn't want him giving any excuse like he hadn't heard her at the door. But, as it turned out, she didn't have to worry about that. Within a minute or so, she heard the security latches on the front door coming undone and it opened after that.

Mr Brightmore had been right. The face she was greeted by certainly looked like the police composite...

He smiled at her – not unpleasantly, but in a manner that suggested he wasn't fully happy to have someone calling at his door, "Can I help you?"

"Hello, Mr Jones," she said, flipping out her badge and showing it to Thomas, "I'm Chief Detective Christine Lane. Do you have time to answer a few questions? It's about your former boss' disappearance, C.C. Babcock."

As usual, Lane watched the suspect's reaction to that information with rapt attention – years' worth of being an investigator had taught her how to carefully read people, and often, when faced with the police knocking at their door, suspects cracked under the pressure and showed signs of nervousness or distress. Thomas, however, seemed to have a tight control on his emotions and didn't show any unease or nervousness. But neither did he show shock at being asked about his boss nor did he question why that concerned him, two things most innocent people did when they were faced with the police.

Clearly there was a lot more than met the eye here.

"Of course," said the man, swinging the door open and giving a step back, letting the way free, "Do come in."

So, he was that calm and collected about it! A lot of people who got nervous because they seemed to be involved in a case in a potentially big way asked if she had a warrant. But maybe he knew the difference between asking questions and actually searching the house. It would certainly take more than just Lane on her own to go over this place in any detail!

But she stepped inside anyway. He'd been cooperative so far.

They walked in through the hallway, and Thomas gestured for her to go into a living room off to the left-hand side.

The entire place was as luxurious on the inside as it was on the outside, but the inside had the added feature of apparently being spotlessly clean. There wasn't a speck of dust around, the furniture was pristine – heck, even the magazines on the coffee table and the ornaments around were either stacked perfectly or arranged in lines!

It seemed that Thomas kept an orderly place...an unsettlingly orderly place...

"Would you like some coffee while you're here, Detective?" he asked. "I can put a pot on..."

"No, thank you," Lane replied, her eyes still tracing around the room. "I won't be staying long."

It was best to keep that moment lighter than a full-on investigation, and a drink of any kind would only drag it out. Besides, he might insist on her staying in the living room while he made it, and that could open her up to vulnerability if he did turn out to be the guy responsible.

No, it was best if they stayed right where they were. And it was certainly for the best if she could see where he was at all times. Even if it did mean leaving looking around the house more for when she'd actually gotten a warrant...

"Water, then?" Thomas tried again. He was still wearing the same...odd smile as before. "Surely you have enough time for a glass of water?"

Lane frowned, thinking. Water was harder to tamper with than something with a taste, and it might look suspiciously official if she refused every offer...

Clearly she had to compromise.

"A glass of water should be fine," Lane replied with a polite smile.

"Wonderful. I'll get it for you now," he said and gestured over at the four luxurious leather seats around an antique oak coffee table, "Please, sit down — make yourself at home."

Lane did as she'd been told, and only once she'd settled down on one of the comfortable settees (the only that was closer to the door), did Thomas leave for the kitchen. Her eyes followed him as he went, aware that this next few moments alone were an opportunity to look around with more detail.

Nothing looked really out of the ordinary, but Lane found the unusual neatness a little suspicious. It was almost as if no one were living there! Even though obsessive neatness by itself meant nothing in terms of guilt, Lane had a feeling the man had something to hide.

"Here we go," Thomas said a few moments later, as he returned to the living room carrying a small tray with a cup of coffee for himself and a glass of water for Lane, which he then laid on top of a small coaster on the coffee table. "Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of you being here, Detective Lane?"

Lane took the water and sipped it, making it look like she was just preparing to answer. It tasted normal, and there wasn't any kind of discolouration that she could see, so it had to be safe to continue.

"I just wanted to get a few details about...well, the day that C.C. Babcock went missing."

This was the part where suspects in movies might scoff, point to themselves and say "What, you think I had something to do with it?". Then they'd laugh a little harder, as though the notion were completely ridiculous. Some people even did that in real life, not knowing any other way to behave when they were put under the slightest bit of scrutiny.

But Thomas handled it far more calmly than that. Probably a result of his previous run-ins with police officers, as well as a side effect of being abused as a child – both those things could lead to someone hiding things well, or to them becoming a good liar.

"Alright," he said. "What do you want to know?"

So, here it went. Time for Lane to get to work and do a little more investigating. There might only be so much she could do, looking around one room, but talking to the man himself could reveal something unexpected.

"Where were you, on the day of her disappearance?"

Thomas eyebrows knitted into a mild frown, almost as if he were trying to recall what he'd done on that day. Of course, Lane's question had been made carefully, and there was a small trap hidden in her seemingly innocuous question. The date of Miss Babcock's disappearance wasn't public knowledge. If he fell for it and said what he'd done on that day, he'd be incriminating himself. After all, how could he have known exactly when she'd gone missing if he had nothing to do with it? How could he have known the date it had happened when it hadn't been made public?

These were the ins and outs of police interrogation – it was, to some degree, a study in human nature. Years in the force had taught lane which buttons to push and what things to say to get certain reactions out of people; she'd essentially learnt how to emotionally manipulate interviewees into saying what she wanted them to say.

Still, she wasn't infallible, and she had a feeling that Mr Jones was well aware of the game she was playing.

"Forgive me, but when did Miss Babcock go missing?" Thomas eventually said, and Lane had to fight the urge to groan.

"23rd of May," she replied, "Almost six weeks ago."

"I see," Thomas said, nodding gravely, "Well, in that case, I don't really remember, Detective Lane – I suppose I must have been at home."

Some might've considered that so convincing that they'd have ended that line of questioning there and moved onto something else. But Lane knew better than to leave it at that. Lane knew more than to leave it at that, and she was eventually intending on letting him know.

Eventually. She was going to give it another shot at getting him to incriminate himself.

"Really?" she asked, managing to keep her voice level. It was hard, when she knew that something just wasn't right about anything that was going on there. "You were here all day? You didn't go out at all?"

Thomas appeared to think again, but this time he came back sooner with a shake of his head and a shrug.

"As far as I'm aware. I didn't need anything, and I didn't have to go to work that day. There wouldn't be much of a reason for me to go out otherwise."

Lane picked up her glass of water, thinking about those words and the stereotype of the "awkward loner" that fit the profile of so many killers. Not that she was thinking that anything quite so extreme had happened – yet. She didn't know what could turn up, if they didn't find C.C.. But Thomas had just set himself up perfectly for what she wanted to say next.

"So the fact that C.C. Babcock was seen getting into a white Ford Bronco with a man who matched your description is purely coincidental?"

She then sipped at her drink.

Thomas' expression did change then. But it wasn't in the "caught red handed" way that Lane had hoped. Instead, it was more surprised, than anything else.

He blinked as he replied, "Huh. Well, that's a weird coincidence!"

Lane put her glass down again, making sure she didn't reveal any frustration by accidentally slamming it down on the coaster.

"And it is just a coincidence?" she asked, turning her eyes up to look at his face.

She wanted to see if his expression changed again – perhaps to something more panicked by the fact that she wasn't letting it go. But he didn't, and he had his own well-reasoned response to give.

"It has to be; I was here all day, as much as I remember," he said. He then shrugged again. "I guess a lot of people must own Ford Broncos..."

That did it for Lane — this man was taking her for a fool! Pleasantries had to be dropped. It was time to get on the offensive. Thomas knew something, and it was up to her to find out what it was.

"Do you take me for a fool, Mr Jones?" Lane very nearly hissed, her steely eyes fixed on Thomas' grey ones.

"On the contrary, Detective," he replied, leaning his upper body towards Lane's – he was defying her. Showing he was not backing down. "You are an outstandingly smart individual."

Lane could have scoffed. Insincere flattery was not going to get him anywhere.

"Then why are you wasting my time?" she said, her voice having lost the cordiality it had once had. "What have you done with Miss Babcock? She was last seen in your car!"

Thomas huffed out a humourless laugh and slumped against the back of his seat. He looked infuriatingly calm and collected — like he wasn't being affected by the accusations made against him. It was here when innocent people would vehemently proclaim their innocence, and demand that the police to look somewhere else.

But not Thomas.

If anything, his attitude looked like he was challenging them. He was making his stance on the matter clear.

"Prove it." he cooed mockingly, a malicious smile soon appearing on his face.

The words made Lane feel like she was burning up inside. It wasn't often that she let the fire causing it to burn out of control, either. But occasionally, it was necessary. It gave clarity when one was confused and set about helping one to resolve the issue. And, in this case, Lane was going to see how much she could resolve the issue by bringing in backup. Getting someone to look through every nook and cranny in the place...!

All she had to do was get a warrant. And Thomas speaking to her like he had gave her more of an incentive than ever. But she couldn't get the warrant just on a whim, no matter how much she would've liked to. And the last thing on Earth she could do was let him know what she had in mind. But she could question him. Formally. Until the judge had no choice but to let her search the house!

She glowered back at his smug, jeering features.

"Oh, I will. You can expect a call very soon, Mr Jones; we'll be needing you in for questioning," Lane spat, and she watched with certain amount of satisfaction how Thomas' smug smile quickly dropped away.

Clearly, the mention of formal questioning was a matter for concern to him, something that only supported Lane's certainty that she had to round this guy up; to force him to give up Miss Babcock's whereabouts.

"Fine then," the man replied (practically hissed), getting to his feet. He'd lost any semblance of cordiality and politeness that he'd once had by this point. There was something menacing about his person, but Lane had no intention of shrinking in fear.

Not when Miss Babcock depended on her.

"Get out of my house," ordered Thomas, pointing at the door. "You are not welcome here."

Of course she wasn't. She'd just figured him out, and he didn't like that at all. But she wasn't going to stay, now that she'd been asked to leave.

She'd be back, soon enough, and this whole thing would be over...

"Fine," she said, rising to her feet.

Thomas followed her through to the hallway, never letting his eyes off her for an instant. Lane could practically feel them burning holes in the back of her head, until she got both feet out the door.

That was when she turned and cleared her throat at him, "Your time has been most productive, Mr Jo–"

The door slamming shut in her face halted her sentence. Lane huffed in frustration – she should've seen that coming, really. But she didn't have any time to waste on that.

She rummaged around in her pocket for her cell phone, dialled a number she was very familiar with, and waited for the other end to be picked up.

She didn't have to wait long.

"Officer Walters? It's Lane. Listen – we need to set up a time, date and room for questioning Thomas Jones," she told her, glaring at the door. "This guy is hiding something, and I am going to find out exactly what it is."