So when his fellow cops started talking about doing something, when Lance’s own wife, Wendy, who had gone to school with Matt Hunter’s younger sister and thought she was a “Queen Bitch,” started getting on his case about a convicted killer moving into their neighborhood, when one of the town councilmen had offered up the sternest of suburban worries—“Lance, do you realize what it’ll do to property values?”—he had acted.
And now he wasn’t sure if he regretted it or not.
He thought about his conversation with Loren Muse yesterday. She’d asked him about young Matt Hunter. Had Lance seen any early signs of psychosis there? The answer was a pretty firm no. Hunter had been soft. Lance remembered him crying at a Little League game when he dropped a fly ball. His father had comforted him while Lance marveled at what a big baby the kid was. But—and this might seem the opposite of Loren’s study on early signs of trouble—men can indeed change. It was not all decided by age five or whatever Loren had told him.
The catch was, the change was always, always, for the worse.
If you discover a young psychotic, he will never turn himself around and become productive. Never. But you can find plenty of guys, nice guys who grew up with the right values, quality guys who respected the law and loved thy neighbor, gentle guys who found violence abhorrent and wanted to stay on the straight and narrow—you find lots of guys like this who end up doing terrible things.
Who knew why? Sometimes it was, as in Hunter’s case, just a question of bad luck, but then again it’s all about luck, isn’t it? Your upbringing, your genes, your life experience, conditions, whatever—they’re all a crapshoot. Matt Hunter had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That didn’t matter anymore. You could see it in his eyes. You could see it in the way Hunter walked, the early gray in his hair, the way he blinked, the tightness in his smile.
Bad follows some people. It hooks into them and never lets them go.
And simple as it sounded, you don’t want those people around you.
Lance knocked on Marsha Hunter’s door. The two uniforms stood behind him in vee formation. The sun had begun its ascent. They listened for a sound.
Nothing.
He saw the doorbell. Marsha Hunter, he knew, had two young children. If Matt wasn’t here, he’d feel bad about waking them, but that couldn’t be helped. He pressed the bell and heard the chime.
Still nothing.
Just for the heck of it, Lance tried the door, hoping it might be unlocked. It wasn’t.
The officer on Lance’s right started shifting his feet. “Kick it in?”
“Not yet. We don’t even know if he’s here.”
He rang the bell again, keeping his finger pressed against it until it rang a third time too.
The other cop said, “Detective?”
“Give it a few more seconds,” he said.
As if on cue, the foyer light snapped on. Lance tried to look through the pebble glass, but the view was too distorted. He kept his face pressed against it searching for movement.
“Who is it?”
The female voice was tentative—understandable under the circumstances.
“It’s Detective Lance Banner, Livingston Police. Could you open the door, please?”
“Who?”
“Detective Lance Banner, Livingston Police. Please open the door.”
“Just a minute.”
They waited. Lance kept peering through the pebble glass. He could make out a hazy figure coming down the stairs now. Marsha Hunter, he assumed. Her steps were as tentative as her voice. He heard a bolt slide and a chain rattle and then the door was opened.
Marsha Hunter had a bathrobe tied tightly around her waist. The robe was old and terrycloth. It looked like it belonged to a man. Lance wondered for a brief second if it had been her late husband’s. Her hair was mussed. She wore no makeup, of course, and while Lance had always considered her an attractive woman, she could have used the touches.
She looked at Lance, then at the two officers at his wing, then back to Lance. “What do you want at this hour?”
“We’re looking for Matt Hunter.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I know you.”
Lance said nothing.
“You coached my son last year in rec soccer. You have a boy Paul’s age.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Not ma’am,” she said, her voice sharp. “My name is Marsha Hunter.”
“Yes, I know.”
“We’re your neighbors, for crying out loud.” Marsha again took in the uniformed men before returning her gaze to Lance. “You know I live alone with two young boys,” she said, “yet you wake us up like storm troopers?”
“We really need to talk to Matt Hunter.”
“Mommy?”
Lance recognized the boy coming down the stairs. Marsha gave Lance a baleful eye before turning to her son. “Go to bed, Ethan.”
“But, Mom . . .”
“I’ll be up in a moment. Go back to bed.” She turned back to Lance. “I’m surprised you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“Matt doesn’t live here,” she said. “He lives in Irvington.”
“His car is in your driveway.”
“So?”
“So is he here?”
“What’s going on?”
Another woman was at the top of the stairs.
“Who are you?” Lance asked.
“My name is Olivia Hunter.”
“Olivia Hunter as in Mrs. Matt Hunter?”
“Excuse me?”
Marsha looked back at her sister-in-law. “He was just asking why your car is in the driveway.”
“At this hour?” Olivia Hunter said. “Why would you want to know that?”
“They’re looking for Matt.”
Lance Banner said, “Do you know where your husband is, Mrs. Hunter?”
Olivia Hunter started to move down the stairs. Her steps, too, were deliberate. Maybe that was the tip-off. Or maybe it was her clothes. She was, after all, wearing clothes. Regular clothes. Jeans and a sweatshirt. Not nightclothes. No robe, no pajamas. At this hour.
That didn’t make sense.
When Lance glanced back at Marsha Hunter, he saw it. A small tell on her face. Damn, how could he have been so stupid? The turning on the light, the walking down the stairs, the slow walk right now . . . it had all taken too long.
He spun to the uniformed cops. “Check around back. Hurry.”
“Wait,” Olivia shouted too loudly. “Why are your men going to the backyard?”