by Lisa Gardner
That surprises me enough to straighten and look at him. “She scared you?”
“Are you kidding? That first spill.” He shakes his head. “No one tells you how terrifying it is to be a parent. And we’re just beginning. She’s gonna want a trick bike next, you know. She’ll be leaping down stairs, standing on handlebars. I’m going to need that hair stuff for men, what’s it called, that gets the gray out?”
“Just for Men?”
“Yep. First thing when we get home, I’m ordering a case.”
I laugh. He puts his arm around my shoulders.
“She really is amazing,” he says, and all I can do is nod, because he’s exactly right. She’s Sophie and she’s the best thing that ever happened to either of us.
“I’m sorry about this weekend,” Brian says, one, two minutes later.
I nod against his shoulder, accepting his words without looking at him.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he continues. “Guess I got caught up in the moment. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s okay,” I say and I mean it. At this stage of the marriage, I still accept his apologies. At this stage of the marriage, I still believe in him.
“I’m thinking of joining a gym,” Brian says shortly. “Got enough time on my hands, figured I could spend it getting into shape.”
“You’re in good shape.”
“Yeah. But I want to get back to weight lifting. Haven’t done that since my college days. And let’s face it.” Sophie zooms past our picnic table. “At the rate she’s going, I’m going to need all my strength to keep up.”
“Whatever you want to do,” I tell him.
“Hey, Tessa.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
In my dream/memory, I smile, curve my arms around my husband’s waist. “Hey, Brian. Love you, too.”
I woke up hard, a noise jerking me from the golden past to the sterile present. That afternoon, the solid feel of my husband’s arms, the bright sound of Sophie’s exuberant laugh. The lull before the storm, except I hadn’t known it then.
That afternoon Brian and I had returned home with an exhausted child. We’d put her to bed early. Then, after a leisurely dinner, we’d made love and I’d fallen asleep thinking I was the luckiest woman in the world.
It would be a year before I told my husband I loved him again. Then he would be dying on our freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, his chest plugged with the bullets from my gun, his face a sad mirror of my own regrets.
In the seconds before I ran through the house, tore apart the house, searching frantically for the daughter I hadn’t found yet.
More noises penetrated my consciousness. Distant beeps, rapid footsteps, someone yelling for something. Hospital noises. Loud, insistent. Urgent. It returned me once and for all to the present. No husband. No Sophie. Just me, alone in a hospital room, wiping tears from the unbruised half of my face.
For the first time, I realized there was something in my left hand. I drew my hand up so I could inspect the find with my one good eye.
It was a button, I realized. Half an inch in diameter. Navy blue frayed thread still looped through double-holes. Could be from pants, or a blouse, maybe even a state police uniform.
But it wasn’t. I recognized the button the instant I saw it. I could even picture the second button that should be sewn right beside it, twin plastic rounds forming blue eyes on my daughter’s favorite doll.
And for a second, I was so angry, so filled with rage my knuckles turned white and I couldn’t speak.
I hurtled the button across the room, where it smacked against the privacy curtain. Then, just as quickly, I was sorry I’d done such an impulsive thing. I wanted it back. Needed it back. It was a tie to Sophie. One of my only links to her.
I tried to sit up, intent on retrieval. Immediately, the back of my skull roared to life, my cheek throbbing in a fresh spike of pain. The room wavered, tilted sickeningly, and I could feel my heart rate skyrocket from sudden, excruciating distress.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I forced myself to lie down, take a steadying breath. Eventually, the ceiling righted and I could swallow without gagging. I lay perfectly still, acutely aware of my own vulnerability, the weakness I couldn’t afford.
This was why men beat women, of course. To prove their physical superiority. To demonstrate they were bigger and stronger than us, and that no amount of special training would ever change that. They were the dominant gender. We might as well submit now and surrender.
Except I didn’t need to be smashed over the head with a beer bottle to understand my physical limitations. I didn’t need a hairy-knuckled fist exploding in my face to realize that some battles couldn’t be won. I’d already spent my whole life coming to terms with the fact that I was smaller, more vulnerable than others. I’d still survived the Academy. I’d still spent four years patrolling as one of the state’s few female troopers.
And I’d still given birth, all alone, to an amazing daughter.
Like hell I would submit. Like hell I would surrender.
I was crying again. The tears shamed me. I wiped my good cheek again, careful not to touch my black eye.
Forget the fucking duty belt, our instructors had told us the first day of Academy training. Two most valuable tools an officer has are her head and her mouth. Think strategically, speak carefully, and you can control any person, any situation.
That’s what I needed. To regain control, because the Boston cops would be returning soon, and then I was probably doomed.
Think strategically. Okay. Time.
Four, five o’clock?
It would be dark soon. Night falling.
Sophie …
My hands trembled. I supressed the weakness.
Think strategically.
Stuck in a hospital. Can’t run, can’t hide, can’t attack, can’t defend. So I had to get one step ahead. Think strategically. Speak carefully.
Sacrifice judiciously.
I remembered Brian again, the beauty of that fall afternoon, and the way you can both love a man and curse him all in one breath. I knew what I had to do.
I found the bedside phone, and I dialed.
“Ken Cargill, please. This is his client, Tessa Leoni. Please tell him I need to make arrangements for my husband’s body. Immediately.”
11
Trooper Shane Lyons agreed to meet Bobby and D.D. at the BPD headquarters in Roxbury after six. That gave them enough time to stop for dinner. Bobby ordered up a giant hoagie, double everything. D.D. nursed a bowl of chicken noodle soup, liberally topped with crumbled saltines.
Sub shop had a TV blaring in the corner, the five o’clock news leading with the shooting in Allston-Brighton and the disappearance of Sophie Marissa Leoni. The girl’s face filled the screen, bright blue eyes, huge, gap-tooth smile. Beneath her photo ran the hotline number, as well as an offer of a twenty-five thousand dollar reward for any tips that might lead to her recovery.
D.D. couldn’t watch the newscast. It depressed her too much.
Eight hours after the first call out, they weren’t making sufficient progress. One neighbor had reported seeing Brian Darby driving away in his white GMC Denali shortly after four p.m. yesterday. After that, nothing. No visual sightings. No phone calls logged on the landline or messages on his cell. Where Brian Darby had gone, what he’d done, who he might have seen, no one had any idea.
Which brought them to six-year-old Sophie. Yesterday had been a Saturday. No school, no playdates, no appearances in the yard, no sightings in local cameras or magical tips pouring in through the hotline. Friday, she’d been picked up from school at three p.m. After that, it was anybody’s guess.
Tessa Leoni had reported in for her eleven p.m. graveyard shift on Saturday night. Three neighbors had noticed her cruiser departing; one had noticed its reappearance after nine the next morning. Dispatch had a full roster of duty calls, verifying Trooper Leoni had worked her shift, turning in the
last batch of paperwork shortly after eight a.m. Sunday morning.
At which point, the entire family fell off the grid. Neighbors didn’t see anything. Neighbors didn’t hear anything. No fighting, no screaming, not even gunshots, though that made D.D. suspicious because how you could not hear a 9mm fire off three rounds was beyond her. Maybe people just didn’t want to hear what they didn’t want to hear. That seemed more likely.
Sophie Leoni had now been declared missing since ten this morning. Sun was down, thermostat was plunging, and four to six inches of snow were reportedly on their way.
The day had been bad. The night would be worse.
“I gotta make a call,” Bobby said. He’d finished his sandwich, was balling up the wrapping.
“Gonna tell Annabelle you’re working late?”
He gestured outside the sub shop window, where the first flakes had started to fall. “Am I wrong?”
“She okay with your schedule?” D.D. asked.
He shrugged. “What can she do? The job’s the job.”
“What about Carina? Soon she’ll figure out Daddy disappears and doesn’t always return home to play. Then there’s the missed recitals, school plays, soccer games. I scored one for the team, Dad! Except you weren’t there.”
Bobby regarded her curiously. “The job’s the job,” he repeated. “Yeah, there are times it sucks, but then, most jobs do.”
D.D. scowled. She looked down, poked at her soup. The saltines had absorbed the broth, creating a lumpy mess. She didn’t feel like eating anymore. She was tired. Discouraged. She was thinking of a little girl they probably wouldn’t find alive. She was thinking of elderly Mrs. Ennis’s comments on how hard it was for Trooper Leoni to juggle her job, a house, and a kid.
Maybe female law enforcement officers weren’t meant to lead lives of domestic bliss. Maybe if Trooper Leoni hadn’t tried for the whole husband and white picket fence, D.D. wouldn’t have been called out this morning and a cute, innocent child wouldn’t now be missing.
Good Lord, what was D.D. supposed to tell Alex? How was she, a career detective and self-admitted workaholic, supposed to feel about this?
She poked at her soup one last time, then pushed it away. Bobby was still standing there, apparently waiting for her to say something.
“You ever picture me as a mom?” she asked him.
“No.”
“You didn’t even have to think about that.”
“Don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never pictured myself as a mom. Moms … sing lullabies and carry around Cheerios and make funny faces just to get their babies to smile. I only know how to make my squad smile and that involves fresh coffee and maple-frosted donuts.”
“Carina likes peekaboo,” Bobby said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I put my hand over my eyes, then jerk it away and cry, ‘Peekaboo!’ She can do that for hours. Turns out I can do that for hours, too. Who knew?”
D.D. covered her eyes with her palm, then whipped her hand away. Bobby disappeared. Bobby reappeared. Other than that, it didn’t do much for her.
“I’m not your baby,” Bobby said by way of explanation. “We’re genetically programmed to want to make our children happy. Carina beams, and … I can’t even describe it. But my whole day has been worth it, and whatever silly thing makes her look like that, I’m gonna do it again. What can I tell you? It’s crazier than love. Deeper than love. It’s … being a parent.”
“I think Brian Darby murdered his stepdaughter. I think he killed Sophie, then Tessa Leoni returned home and shot him.”
“I know.”
“If we’re genetically programmed to want to make our offspring happy, how come so many parents hurt their own kids?”
“People suck,” Bobby said.
“And that thought gets you out of bed each morning?”
“I don’t have to hang out with people. I have Annabelle, Carina, my family, and my friends. That’s enough.”
“Gonna have a second Carina?”
“Hope so.”
“Why, you’re an optimist, Bobby Dodge.”
“In my own way. I take it you and Alex are getting serious?”
“Guess that’s the question.”
“Does he make you happy?”
“I’m not someone who gets happy.”
“Then does he make you content?”
She thought of her morning, wearing Alex’s shirt, sitting at Alex’s table. “I could spend more time with him.”
“It’s a start. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna call my wife and probably make some goo-goo noises for my daughter.”
Bobby stepped away from the table. “Can I listen in?” D.D. called after him.
“Absolutely not,” he called back.
Which was just as well, because her stomach was cramping uneasily again and she was thinking of a little bundle in blue or maybe a little bundle in pink and wondering what a little Alex or little D.D. might look like, and if she could love a child as much as Bobby obviously loved Carina, and if that love alone could be enough.
Because domestic bliss rarely worked out for female cops. Just ask Tessa Leoni.
By the time Bobby finished his call, the early evening snow had turned the roads into a snarled mess. They used lights and sirens all the way, but it still took them over forty minutes to hit Roxbury. Another five minutes to find parking, and Trooper Shane Lyons had been cooling his heels for at least a quarter of an hour by the time they entered the lobby of BPD headquarters. The burly officer stood as they walked in, still dressed in full uniform, hat pulled low on his brow, black leather gloves encasing both hands.
Bobby greeted the officer first, then D.D. An interrogation room would appear disrespectful, so D.D. found an unoccupied conference room for them to use. Lyons took a seat, removing his hat, but leaving on his coat and gloves. Apparently, he was planning on a short conversation.
Bobby offered him a Coke, which he accepted. D.D. stuck to water, while Bobby nursed a black coffee. Preliminaries settled, they got down to business.
“You didn’t seem surprised to hear from us,” D.D. started off.
Lyons shrugged, twirled his Coke can between his gloved fingers. “I knew my name would come up. Had to complete my duties as union rep, first, however, which was my primary responsibility at the scene.”
“How long have you known Trooper Leoni?” Bobby asked.
“Four years. Since she started at the barracks. I was her senior officer, overseeing her first twelve weeks of patrol.” Lyons took a sip of his soda. He appeared uncomfortable, every inch the reluctant witness.
“You worked closely with Trooper Leoni?” D.D. prodded.
“First twelve weeks, yes. But after that, no. Troopers patrol alone.”
“Socialize much?”
“Maybe once a week. On duty officers will try to meet up for coffee or breakfast. Breaks up our shifts, maintains camaraderie.” He looked at D.D. “Sometimes, the Boston cops even join us.”
“Really?” D.D. did her best to sound horrified.
Lyons finally smiled. “Gotta back each other up, right? So good to keep the lines of communication open. But having said that, most of a trooper’s shift is spent alone. Especially graveyard. It’s you, the radar gun, and a highway full of drunks.”
“What about at the barracks?” D.D. wanted to know. “You and Tessa hang out, grab a bite to eat after work?”
Lyons shook his head. “Nah. A trooper’s cruiser is his—or her—office. We only return to the barracks if we make an arrest, need to process an OUI, that kind of thing. Again, most of our time is on the road.”
“But you assist one another,” Bobby spoke up. “Especially if there’s an incident.”
“Sure. Last week, Trooper Leoni pinched a guy for operating under the influence on the Pike, so I arrived to help. She took the guy to the barracks to administer the breathalyzer and read him his rights. I stayed wi
th his vehicle until the truck came to tow it away. We backed each other up, but we hardly stood around talking about our spouses and kids while she stuffed a drunk in the back of her cruiser.” Lyons pinned Bobby with a look. “You must remember how it is.”
“Tell us about Brian Darby,” D.D. spoke up again, redirecting Lyons’s stare.
The state trooper didn’t answer right away, but thinned his lips, appearing to be wrestling with something inside himself.
“I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” he muttered abruptly.
“Damned for what, Trooper?” Bobby asked evenly.
“Look.” Lyons set down his soda. “I know I’m screwed here. I’m supposed to be an excellent judge of character, goes with the job. But then, this situation with Tessa and Brian. Hell, either I’m a total idiot who didn’t know my neighbor had rage management issues, or I’m an asshole who set up a fellow officer with a wife beater. Honest to God … If I’d known, if I’d suspected …”
“Let’s start with Brian Darby,” D.D. said. “What did you know about him?”
“Met him eight years ago. We were both in a neighborhood hockey league. Played together every other Friday night; he seemed like a nice guy. Had him over a couple of times for dinner and beer. Still seemed like a nice guy. Worked a crazy schedule as a merchant marine, so he got my job, too. When he was around, we’d get together—play hockey, go skiing, maybe a day hike. He liked sports and I do, too.”
“Brian was an active guy,” Bobby said.
“Yeah. He liked to keep moving. Tessa did, too. Frankly, I thought they’d be a good fit. That’s why I set them up. Figured even if they didn’t end up dating, they could be hiking buddies, something.”
“You set them up,” D.D. repeated.
“Invited them both to a summer cookout. Let them take it from there. Come on, I’m a guy. That’s as involved as a guy gets.”
“They leave the party together?” Bobby asked.
Lyons had to think about it. “Nah. They met later for drinks, something like that. I don’t know. But next thing I knew, Tessa and her daughter were moving in with him, so I guess it worked.”
“You attend the wedding?”