by Lisa Gardner
“Hey, Officer Fiske. You’ve logged every single uniform entering this joint?” She gestured to the notebook in his hand, where he was collecting the names of all personnel to cross the crime-scene tape.
“Forty-two officers,” he said, without batting an eyelash.
“Jesus. Is there a single cop left on patrol in the greater Boston area?”
“Doubt it,” Officer Fiske said. Kid was young and serious. Was it just D.D. or were they getting younger and more serious with each passing year?
“Well, here’s the problem, Officer Fiske. While you’re collecting names here, other cops are entering and exiting from the rear of the property, and that’s really pissing me off.”
Officer Fiske’s eyes widened.
“Got a buddy?” D.D. continued. “Radio him to grab a notebook, then take up position behind the house. I want names, ranks, and badge numbers, all on record. And while you two are at it, get the word out: Every state trooper who showed up at this address needs to report to Boston HQ by end of day to have an imprint made of his or her boots. Failure to comply will result in immediate desk duty. You heard it straight from the state liaison officer.” She jerked her thumb at Bobby, who stood beside her rolling his eyes.
“D.D.—” he started.
“They trampled my scene. I don’t forgive. I don’t forget.”
Bobby shut up. She liked that about him.
Having both secured her scene and stirred the pot, D.D. next approached the EMTs, who now had the stretcher positioned between them and were preparing to climb the steep stairs to the front door.
“Hang on,” D.D. called out.
The EMTs, one male, one female, paused as she approached.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. introduced herself. “I’m the one in charge of this circus. You getting ready to transport Trooper Leoni?”
A heavyset woman at the head of the stretcher nodded, already turning back toward the stairs.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” D.D. said quickly. “I need five minutes. Got a couple of questions for Trooper Leoni before she goes on her merry way.”
“Trooper Leoni has sustained a significant head wound,” the female answered firmly. “We’re taking her to the hospital for a CT scan. You got your job, we got ours.”
The EMTs took a step closer to the stairs. D.D. moved to intercept.
“Is Trooper Leoni at risk for bleeding out?” D.D. pressed. She glanced at the woman’s name tag, adding belatedly, “Marla.”
Marla did not appear impressed. “No.”
“Is she in any immediate physical danger?”
“Swelling of the brain,” the EMT rattled off, “bleeding of the brain …”
“Then we’ll keep her awake and make her recite her name and date. Isn’t that what you guys do for a concussion? Count to five, forward and backward, name, rank, and serial number, yada yada yada.”
Beside her, Bobby sighed. D.D. was definitely toeing a line. She kept her attention focused on Marla, who appeared even more exasperated than Bobby.
“Detective—” Marla started.
“Kid missing,” D.D. interrupted. “Six-year-old girl, God knows where and in what kind of danger. I just need five minutes, Marla. Maybe that’s a lot to ask from you and your job and from Trooper Leoni and her injuries, but I don’t think that’s nearly enough to ask for a six-year-old child.”
D.D. was good. Always had been. Always would be. Marla, who appeared to be mid-forties and probably had at least one or two kids at home, not to mention how many little nieces and nephews, caved.
“Five minutes,” she said, glancing over at her partner. “Then we’re taking her out, ready or not.”
“Ready or not,” D.D. agreed, and sprinted for the stairs.
“Eat your Wheaties this morning?” Bobby muttered as he jogged up behind her.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Why am I jealous?”
“Because I always get away with this shit.”
“Pride goeth before the fall,” Bobby murmured.
D.D. pushed opened the front door of the house. “For six-year-old Sophie’s sake, let’s hope not.”
Trooper Leoni was still sequestered in the sunroom. D.D. and Bobby had to pass through the kitchen to get there. Brian Darby’s body had been removed, leaving behind bloodstained hardwoods, a pile of evidence placards, and a thick dusting of fingerprint powder. The usual crime-scene detritus. D.D. covered her mouth and nose with her hand as she skirted through. She was still two paces ahead of Bobby and hoped he didn’t notice.
Tessa Leoni looked up at Bobby and D.D.’s entrance. She held an ice bag against half of her face, which still didn’t cover the blood on her lip or the oozing gash in her forehead. As D.D. walked into the sunroom, the female officer lowered the pack to reveal an eye that had already swollen shut and turned eggplant purple.
D.D. suffered a moment of shock, despite herself. Whether she believed Leoni’s initial statement or not, the female trooper had definitely taken a beating. D.D. quickly glanced at the officer’s hands, trying to ascertain any signs of defensive wounds. Trooper Leoni caught the motion, and covered her knuckles with the ice pack.
For a moment, the two women studied each other. Trooper Leoni seemed young to D.D., especially wearing her state blues. Long dark hair, blue eyes, heart-shaped face. Pretty girl despite the bruises and maybe more vulnerable because of them. Immediately, D.D. felt herself set on edge. Pretty and vulnerable almost always tried her patience.
D.D. surveyed the other two occupants of the room.
Standing beside Leoni was a super-sized state trooper, his shoulders thrown back in his best tough-guy stance. Conversely, sitting across from her, was a petite gray-suited older gentleman with a yellow legal pad balanced delicately on one knee. Union rep standing, D.D. determined. Union-appointed lawyer sitting. So the gang was all here.
The union rep, a fellow state trooper, spoke first.
“Trooper Leoni isn’t answering questions,” he stated, jutting out his chin.
D.D. glanced at his badge. “Trooper Lyons—”
“She has provided an initial statement,” Trooper Lyons continued stiffly. “All other questions will have to wait until she’s been treated by a doctor.” He glanced behind D.D. to the doorway. “Where are the EMTs?”
“Getting their gear,” D.D. said soothingly. “They’ll be right up. Of course Trooper Leoni’s injuries are a priority. Nothing but the best for a fellow officer.”
D.D. moved to the right, making room for Bobby to stand beside her. A united front of city and state law enforcement. Trooper Lyons didn’t look impressed.
The lawyer had risen to standing. Now he held out a hand. “Ken Cargill,” he said by way of introduction. “I’ll be representing Trooper Leoni.”
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. introduced herself, then Bobby.
“My client is not taking questions at this time,” Cargill told them. “Once she has received the proper medical attention and we understand the full extent of her injuries, we’ll let you know.”
“Understand. Not here to push. EMTs said they needed a few minutes to prepare the stretcher, grab some fluids. Thought we could use that time to cover a few basics. We got a full Amber Alert out for little Sophie, but I gotta be honest.” D.D. spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “We have no leads. As I’m sure Trooper Leoni knows, in these kinds of cases, every minute counts.”
At the mention of Sophie’s name, Trooper Leoni stiffened on the sofa. She wasn’t looking at D.D., or at any of the men in the room. She had her gaze locked on a spot on the worn green carpet, hands still tucked beneath the ice pack.
“I searched everywhere,” Leoni said abruptly. “The house, the garage, the attic, his vehicle—”
“Tessa,” Trooper Lyons interjected. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”
“When was the last time you saw your daughter?” D.D. asked, seizing the opening while she had it.
> “Ten forty-five last night,” the officer answered automatically, as if speaking by rote. “I always check on Sophie before reporting for duty.”
D.D. frowned. “You left here at ten forty-five for your eleven o’clock shift? You can make it from here to the Framingham barracks in fifteen minutes?”
Trooper Leoni shook her head. “I don’t drive to the barracks. We drive our cruisers home, so the moment we take the wheel, we start our patrols. I called the desk officer from my cruiser and declared Code 5. He assigned me my patrol area and I was good to go.”
D.D. nodded. Not being a state trooper, D.D. didn’t know these things. But she was also playing a game with Trooper Leoni. The game was called establish the suspect’s state of mind. That way, when Trooper Leoni inevitably said something useful, and her eager-beaver attorney sought to block that admission by claiming his client was suffering from a concussion and therefore mentally incapacitated, D.D. could point out how lucidly Leoni had answered other, easily verifiable questions. For example, if Leoni had been able to accurately recollect what time she’d called the desk officer, where she’d gone on patrol, etc., etc., then why assume she was suddenly mistaken about how she’d shot her own husband?
These were the kind of games a skilled detective knew how to play. Couple of hours ago, D.D. might not have used them on a fellow officer. She might have been willing to cut poor battered Trooper Leoni some slack, show her the kind of preferential treatment one female officer was inclined to give another. But that was before the state troopers had trampled her crime scene and placed D.D. squarely on the other side of their blue wall.
D.D. did not forgive. She did not forget.
And she did not want to be working a case right now involving a small child. But that was not something she could talk about, not even to Bobby.
“So you checked your daughter at ten forty-five …” D.D. prodded.
“Sophie was asleep. I kissed her on the cheek. She … rolled over, pulled the covers up.”
“And your husband?”
“Downstairs. Watching TV.”
“What was he watching?”
“I didn’t notice. He was drinking a beer. That distracted me. I wished … I preferred it when he didn’t drink.”
“How many beers had he had?”
“Three.”
“You counted?”
“I checked the empties lined up next to the sink.”
“Your husband have a problem with alcohol?” D.D. asked bluntly.
Leoni finally looked up at D.D., peering at her with one good eye, as the other half of her face remained a swollen, pulpy mess. “Brian was home sixty days at a stretch with nothing to do. I had work. Sophie had school. But he had nothing. Sometimes, he drank. And sometimes … Drinking wasn’t good for him.”
“So your husband, who you wished didn’t drink, had had three beers and you still left him alone with your daughter.”
“Hey—” Trooper Lyons started to interrupt again.
But Tessa Leoni said, “Yes, ma’am. I left my daughter with her drunken stepdad. And if I had known … I would’ve killed him then, goddammit. I would’ve shot him last night!”
“Whoa—” Attorney was out of the chair. But D.D. didn’t pay any attention to him and neither did Leoni.
“What happened to your daughter?” D.D. wanted to know. “What did your husband do to her?”
Leoni was already shrugging her shoulders. “He wouldn’t tell me. I got home, went upstairs. She should’ve been in bed. Or maybe playing on the floor. But … nothing. I searched and I searched and I searched. Sophie was gone.”
“He ever hit her?” D.D. asked.
“Sometimes, he got frustrated with me. But I never saw him hit her.”
“Lonely? You’re gone all night. He’s alone with her.”
“No! You’re wrong. I would’ve known! She would’ve told me.”
“Then you tell me, Tessa. What happened to your daughter?”
“I don’t know! Dammit. She’s just a little girl. What kind of man hurts a child? What kind of man would do such a thing?”
Trooper Lyons placed his hands on her shoulders, as if trying to soothe. Trooper Leoni, however, shrugged him off. She rose to her feet, obviously agitated. The movement, however, proved too much; almost immediately, she lurched to one side.
Trooper Lyons caught her arm, lowering her carefully back to the love seat while skewering D.D. with an angry stare.
“Steady,” he said gruffly to Tessa Leoni, while continuing to glare at D.D. and Bobby.
“You don’t understand, you don’t understand,” the mother/trooper was murmuring. She didn’t look pretty or vulnerable anymore. Her face had taken on an unhealthy pallor; she looked like she was going to vomit, her hand patting the empty seat beside her. “Sophie’s so brave and adventurous. But she’s scared of the dark. Terrified. Once, when she was nearly three, she climbed into the trunk of my cruiser and it closed and she screamed and screamed and screamed. If you could’ve heard her scream. Then you would know, you’d understand.…”
Leoni turned to Trooper Lyons. She grabbed his beefy hands, peering up at him desperately. “She’s gotta be safe, right? You would keep her safe, right? You would take care of her? Bring her home. Before dark, Shane. Before dark. Please, please, I’m begging you, please.”
Lyons didn’t seem to know how to respond or handle the outburst. He remained holding Leoni’s shoulders, meaning D.D. was the one who grabbed the waste bucket and got it under the ashen-faced woman just in time. Leoni puked until she dry-heaved, then puked a little more.
“My head,” she groaned, already sagging back into the love seat.
“Hey, who’s disrupting our patient? Anyone who’s not an EMT, out!” Marla and her partner had returned. They muscled into the room, Marla giving D.D. a pointed glance. D.D. and Bobby took the hint, turning toward the adjoining kitchen.
But Leoni, of all people, grabbed D.D.’s wrist. The strength in her pale hand startled D.D., brought her up short.
“My daughter needs you,” the officer whispered, as the EMTs took her other hand and started administering the IV.
“Of course,” D.D. said stupidly.
“You must find her. Promise me!”
“We’ll do our best—”
“Promise me!”
“Okay, okay,” D.D. heard herself say. “We’ll find her. Of course. Just … get to the hospital. Take care of yourself.”
Marla and her partner moved Leoni to the backboard. The female officer was still thrashing, trying to push them away, trying to pull D.D. closer. It was hard to say. In a matter of seconds, the EMTs had her strapped down and were out the door, Trooper Lyons following stoically in her wake.
The lawyer stayed behind, holding out a card as they stepped from the sunroom back into the home. “I’m sure you understand none of that was admissible. Among other things, my client never waived her rights, and oh yes, she’s suffering from a concussion.”
Having gotten his say, the lawyer also departed, leaving D.D. and Bobby standing alone next to the kitchen. D.D. didn’t have to cover her nose anymore. She was too distracted from the interview with Officer Leoni to notice the smell.
“Is it just me,” D.D. said, “or does it look like someone took a meat mallet to Tessa Leoni’s face?”
“And yet there’s not a single cut or scrape on her hands,” Bobby provided. “No broken nails or bruised knuckles.”
“So someone beat the shit out of her, and she never lifted a hand to stop it?” D.D. asked skeptically.
“Until she shot him dead,” Bobby corrected mildly.
D.D. rolled her eyes, feeling perplexed and not liking it. Tessa Leoni’s facial injuries appeared real enough. Her fear over her daughter’s disappearance genuine. But the scene … the lack of defensive wounds, a trained officer who went first for her gun when she had an entire duty belt at her disposal, a female who’d just given such an emotional statement while studiously avoiding all eye c
ontact …
D.D. was deeply uncomfortable with the scene, or maybe, with a fellow female officer who’d grabbed her arm and basically begged D.D. to find her missing child.
Six-year-old Sophie Leoni, who was terrified of the dark.
Oh God. This case was gonna hurt.
“Sounds like she and the husband got into it,” Bobby was saying. “He overwhelmed her, knocked her to the floor, so she went for her gun. Only afterward did she discover her daughter missing. And realize, of course, that she’d just killed the only person who could probably tell her where Sophie is.”
D.D. nodded, still considering. “Here’s a question: What’s a trooper’s first instinct—to protect herself or to protect others?”
“Protect others.”
“And what’s a mother’s first priority? Protect herself or protect her child?”
“Her child.”
“And yet, Trooper Leoni’s daughter is missing, and the first thing she does is notify her union rep and find a good lawyer.”
“Maybe she’s not a very good trooper,” Bobby said.
“Maybe, she’s not a very good mother,” D.D. replied.
6
I fell in love when I was eight years old. Not the way you think. I had climbed the tree in my front yard, taking a seat on the lower branch and staring down at the tiny patch of burnt-out lawn below me. Probably, my father was at work. He owned his own garage, opening up shop by six most mornings and not returning till after five most nights. Probably, my mother was asleep. She passed the days in the hushed darkness of my parents’ bedroom. Sometimes, she’d call to me and I’d bring her little things—a glass of water, a couple of crackers. But mostly, she waited for my father to come home.
He’d fix dinner for all of us, my mother finally shuffling out of her dark abyss to join us at the little round table. She would smile at him, as he passed the potatoes. She would chew mechanically, as he spoke gruffly of his day.