by Lisa Gardner
“No. Didn’t even hear about it until it was all over. I think I noticed Tessa was suddenly wearing a ring. When I asked, she said they’d gotten married. I was a little startled, thought it was kind of quick, and okay, maybe I was surprised they didn’t invite me, but …” Lyons shrugged. “It’s not like we were that close or I was that involved.”
It seemed important for him to establish the point. He wasn’t that close to the couple, not that involved in their lives.
“Tessa ever talk about the marriage?” D.D. asked.
“Not to me.”
“So to others?”
“I can only speak for myself.”
“And you’re not even doing that,” D.D. stated bluntly.
“Hey. I’m trying to tell you the truth. I don’t spend my Sundays dining at Brian and Tessa’s house or having them over to my place after church. We’re friends, sure. But, we got our own lives. Hell, Brian wasn’t even in town half the year.”
“So,” D.D. said slowly. “Your hockey buddy Brian Darby ships out half the year, leaving behind a fellow trooper to juggle the house, the yard, and a small child, all by herself, and you just go your own way. Have your own life, don’t need to get bogged down with theirs?”
Trooper Lyons flushed. He looked at his Coke, his square jaw noticeably clenched.
Good-looking guy, D.D. thought, in a ruddy face sort of way. Which made her wonder: Did Brian Darby start bulking up because his wife carried a gun? Or because his wife started calling a hunky fellow trooper for help around the house?
“I might have fixed the lawn mower,” Lyons muttered.
D.D. and Bobby waited.
“Kitchen faucet leaked. Took a look at that, but out of my league, so I gave her the name of a good plumber.”
“Where were you last night?” Bobby asked quietly.
“Patrolling!” Lyons looked up sharply. “For chrissake, I haven’t been home since eleven last night. I got three kids of my own, you know, and if you don’t think I’m not picturing them every time Sophie’s photo flashes across the news … Shit. Sophie’s just a kid! I still remember her rolling down the hill in my backyard. Then last year, climbing the old oak. Not even my eight-year-old son could catch up with her. She’s half monkey, that one. And that smile, and ah … Dammit.”
Trooper Lyons covered his face with his hand. He appeared unable to speak, so Bobby and D.D. gave him a moment.
When he finally got himself together, he lowered his hand, grimacing. “You know what we called Brian?” he said abruptly. “His nickname on the hockey team?”
“No.”
“Mr. Sensitive. The man’s favorite movie is Pretty Woman. When his dog, Duke, died, he wrote a poem and ran it in the local paper. He was that kind of guy. So no, I didn’t think twice about introducing him to a fellow officer with a small child. Hell, I thought I was doing Tessa a favor.”
“You and Brian still play hockey together?” Bobby asked.
“Not so much. My schedule changed; I work most Friday nights.”
“Brian looks bigger now than when he got married. Like he’s bulked up.”
“I think he joined a gym, something like that. He talked about lifting weights.”
“You ever work out with him?”
Lyons shook his head.
D.D.’s pager went off. She glanced at the display, saw it was the crime-scene lab and excused herself. When she left the conference room, Bobby was grilling Trooper Lyons on Brian Darby’s exercise regimen and/or possible supplements.
D.D. got out her cellphone and dialed the crime lab. Turned out they had some initial findings from Brian’s white GMC Denali. She listened, nodded, then ended the call in time to bolt for the ladies’ room, where she managed to keep the soup down, but only after splashing a great deal of cold water on her face.
She rinsed her mouth. Ran more cold water over the back of her hands. Then she studied her pale reflection and informed herself that like it or not, she would get this done.
She would survive this evening. She would find Sophie Leoni.
Then she would go home to Alex, because they had a couple of things to talk about.
D.D. marched back into the conference room. She didn’t wait, but led with the big guns because Trooper Lyons was stonewalling them, and frankly, she didn’t have time for this bullshit anymore.
“Preliminary report on Brian Darby’s vehicle,” she said sharply.
She flattened her hands on the table in front of Trooper Lyons and leaned down, till she was mere inches from his face.
“They found a collapsible shovel tucked into a rear compartment, still covered in dirt and bits of leaves.”
Lyons didn’t say anything.
“Found a brand-new air freshener as well, melon scented, the kind that plugs into a socket. Lab geeks thought that was strange, so they took it out.”
Lyons didn’t say anything.
“Odor became apparent in less than fifteen minutes. Very strong, they said. Very distinct. But being geeks, they call in a cadaver dog just to be sure.”
The officer paled.
“Decomp, Trooper Lyons. As in, the lab gurus are pretty damn certain a dead body was placed in the back of Brian Darby’s vehicle in the past twenty-four hours. Given the presence of the shovel, they further surmise the body was driven to an unknown location and buried. Brian got a second home? Lake house, hunting lodge, ski cabin? Maybe if you finally start talking to us, we can at least bring home Sophie’s body.”
“Ah no …” Lyons paled further.
“Where did Brian take his stepdaughter?”
“I don’t know! He doesn’t have a second home. Least nothing he ever told me about!”
“You failed them. You introduced Brian Darby to Tessa and Sophie, and now Tessa is in a hospital beaten to a pulp and little Sophie’s most likely dead. You set these wheels in motion. Now man up, and help us find Sophie’s body. Where would he take her? What would he do? Tell us all of Brian Darby’s secrets.”
“He didn’t have secrets! I swear … Brian was a stand-up guy. Sailed the ocean blue, then returned home to his wife and stepdaughter. Never heard him raise his voice. Certainly, never saw him raise a fist.”
“Then what the hell happened?”
A heartbeat pause. Another long, shuddering breath.
“There is … There is another option,” Lyons said abruptly. He looked at both of them, face still ashen, hands flexing and unflexing around his Coke. “Not really talking out of school,” he babbled. “I mean, you’ll find out sooner or later from Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton. He’s the one who told me. Plus, it’s a matter of record.”
“Trooper Lyons! Spit it out!” D.D. yelled.
So he did. “What happened this morning … Well, let’s just say, this wasn’t the first time Trooper Leoni has killed a man.”
12
First thing I learned as a female police officer was that men were not the enemy I feared them to be.
A bunch of drunken rednecks at a bar? If my senior officer, Trooper Lyons, got out of the cruiser, they escalated immediately to more aggressive acts of machismo. If I appeared on the scene, however, they dropped their posturing and began to study their boots, a bunch of sheepish boys caught in the act by Mom. Rough-looking long-haul truckers? Can’t say yes, ma’am, or no, ma’am fast enough if I’m standing beside their rigs with a citation book. Pretty college boys who’ve tossed back a few too many brews? They stammer, hem and haw, then almost always end up asking me out on a date.
Most men have been trained since birth to respond to a female authority figure. They view someone like me either as the mom they have been prepped to obey, or maybe, given my age and appearance, as a desirable woman worthy of being pleased. Either way, I’m not a direct challenge. Thus, the most belligerent male can afford to step down in front of his buddies. And in situations overloaded with testosterone, my fellow troopers often called me directly for backup, counting on my woman’s touch to defuse the situation, as it
generally did.
Male parties might flirt a little, fluster a little, or both. But inevitably, they did what I said.
Females on the other hand …
Pull over the soccer mom doing ninety-five in her Lexus, and she’ll instantly become verbally combative, screeching shrilly about her need for speed in front of her equally entitled-looking two-point-two kids. Doing a civil standby, assisting while a guy under a restraining order fetches his last few things from the apartment, and the battered girlfriend will inevitably come flying at me, demanding to know why I’m letting him pack his own underwear and cursing and screaming at me as if I’m the one responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened in her life.
Men are not a problem for a female trooper.
It’s the women who will try to take you out, first chance they get.
My lawyer had been prattling away at my bedside for twenty minutes when Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren yanked back the privacy curtain. The state police liason, Detective Bobby Dodge, was directly behind her. His face was impossible to read. Detective Warren, however, wore the hungry look of a jungle cat.
My lawyer’s voice trailed off. He appeared unhappy with the sudden appearance of two homicide detectives, but not surprised. He’d been trying to explain to me my full legal predicament. It wasn’t good, and the fact I had yet to give a full statement to the police, in his expert opinion, made it worse.
Currently, my husband’s death was listed as a questionable homicide. Next course of action would be for the Suffolk County DA, working in conjunction with the Boston police, to determine an appropriate charge. If they thought I was a credible victim, a poor battered wife with a corroborating history of visits to the emergency room, they could view Brian’s death as justifiable homicide. I shot him, as I claimed, in self-defense.
But murder was a complicated business. Brian had attacked with a broken bottle; I had retaliated with a gun. The DA could argue that while I was clearly defending myself, I’d still used unnecessary force. The pepper spray, steel baton, and Taser I carried on my duty belt all would’ve been better choices, and for my trigger-happy ways, I’d be charged with manslaughter.
Or, maybe they didn’t believe I’d feared for my life. Maybe they believed Brian and I had been fighting and I’d shot and killed my husband in the heat of the moment. Homicide without premeditation, or Murder 2.
Those were the best-case scenarios. There was, of course, another scenario. One where the police determined my husband was not a violent wife beater, but instead, found me to be a master manipulator who shot my husband with premeditated malice and forethought. Murder 1.
Otherwise known as the rest of my life behind bars. Game over.
These were the concerns that had brought my lawyer to my bedside. He didn’t want me fighting the police for my husband’s remains. He wanted me to issue a statement to the press, a victimized wife extolling her innocence, a desperate mother pleading for her young daughter’s safe return. He also wanted me to start playing nicely with the detectives handling my case. As he pointed out, battered woman’s syndrome was an affirmative defense, meaning the burden of proof rested on my bruised shoulders.
Marriage, it turned out, boiled down to he said, she said, long after one of the spouses was dead.
Now the homicide detectives were back and my lawyer rose awkwardly to assume a defensive stance beside my bed.
“As you can see,” he began, “my client is still recovering from a concussion, not to mention a fractured cheekbone. Her doctor has ordered her to remain overnight for observation, and to get plenty of rest.”
“Sophie?” I asked. My voice came out strained. Detective Warren appeared too harsh to be approaching a mother with bad news. But then again …
“No word,” she said curtly.
“What time is it?”
“Seven thirty-two.”
“After dark,” I murmured.
The blonde detective stared at me. No compassion, no sympathy. I wasn’t surprised. There were so few women in blue, you’d think we’d help each other out. But women were funny that way. So willing to turn on one of their own, especially a female perceived as weak, such as one who served as her husband’s personal punching bag.
I couldn’t imagine Detective Warren ever tolerating domestic abuse. If a man hit her, I bet she’d hit back twice as hard. Or taser him in the balls.
Detective Dodge was on the move. He’d commandeered two low-slung chairs and positioned them next to the bed. He gestured for D.D. to take a seat, both of them pulling up close. Cargill took the hint and perched on the edge of his own chair, still looking uncomfortable.
“My client isn’t up to answering a lot of questions, just yet,” he said. “Of course, she wants to do anything she can to assist in the search for her daughter. Is there information you need relevant to that investigation?”
“Who is Sophie’s biological father?” Detective Warren asked. “And where is he?”
I shook my head, a motion that immediately caused me to wince.
“I need a name,” Warren said impatiently.
I licked my dry lips, tried again. “She doesn’t have a father.”
“Impossible.”
“Not if you’re a slut and an alcoholic,” I said.
Cargill shot me a startled glance. The detectives, however, appeared intrigued.
“You’re an alcoholic?” Bobby Dodge asked evenly.
“Yes.”
“Who knows?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, some of the guys.” I shrugged, trying not to move my bruised cheek. “I sobered up seven years ago, before I joined the force. It hasn’t been an issue.”
“Seven years ago?” D.D. repeated. “When you were pregnant with your daughter?”
“That’s right.”
“How old were you when you got pregnant with Sophie?”
“Twenty-one. Young and stupid. I drank too much, partied too hard. Then one day, I was pregnant and it turned out the people I thought were my friends only hung out with me because I was part of the circus. Minute I left the show, I never saw any of them again.”
“Male associates?” D.D. asked.
“Won’t help you. I didn’t sleep with men I knew. I slept with men I didn’t know. Generally older men who were interested in buying a young stupid girl plenty of alcohol. I got drunk. They got laid. Then we each went our own way.”
“Tessa,” my lawyer began.
I held up a hand. “It’s old news, and nothing that matters. I don’t know Sophie’s dad. I couldn’t have worked it out if I tried, and I didn’t want to try. I got pregnant. Then I grew up, wised up, and sobered up. That’s what matters.”
“Sophie ever ask?” Bobby asked.
“No. She was three when I met Brian. She started calling him Daddy within a matter of weeks. I don’t think she remembers anymore that we ever lived without him.”
“When did he first hit you?” D.D. asked. “One month into the marriage? Six? Maybe a whole year?”
I didn’t say anything, just stared up at the ceiling. I had my right hand under the thin green hospital blanket, gripping the blue button a nurse had retrieved for me.
“We’re going to need to see your medical records,” D.D. stated. She was staring at my lawyer, challenging him.
“I fell down the stairs,” I said, my lips twisting into a funny smile, because it was actually the truth, but they, of course, would interpret it as the appropriate lie. Irony. God save me from irony.
“Excuse me?”
“The bruise on my ribs … Should’ve de-iced the outdoor steps. Oops.”
Detective Warren gave me an incredulous look. “Sure. You fell. What, three, four times?”
“I think it was only twice.”
She didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. “Ever report your husband for battery?” she pressed.
I shook my head. Made the back of my skull ping-pong with pain while filling my good eye with tears.
“What
about to a fellow trooper? Say, Trooper Lyons. Sounds like he’s good at helping out around the house.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Female friend?” Bobby spoke up. “What about a minister, or a call to a hotline? We are asking these things to help you, Tessa.”
The tears built up more. I blinked them away.
“Wasn’t that bad,” I said finally, staring up at the white ceiling tiles. “Not in the beginning. I thought … I thought I could control him. Get things back on track.”
“When did your husband start lifting weights?” Bobby asked.
“Nine months ago.”
“Looks like he packed on some pounds. Thirty pounds over nine months. Was he using supplements?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“But he was bulking up. Actively working on increasing muscle mass?”
Miserably, I nodded my head. All the times I told him he didn’t need to work out that hard. That he already looked good, was plenty strong. I should’ve known better, his obsessive need for tidiness, his compulsive drive to organize even the soup cans. I should’ve read the signs. But I hadn’t. As the saying goes, the wife is always the last to know.
“When did he first hit Sophie?” D.D. asked.
“He did not!” I fired to life.
“Really? You’re seriously gonna tell me, with your bashed-up skull and shattered cheek, that your brute of a dead husband hit you and only you, for as long as you both shall live?”
“He loved Sophie!”
“But he didn’t love you. That was the problem.”
“Maybe he was on steroids.” It was something. I looked at Bobby.
“ ’Roid rage doesn’t discriminate,” D.D. drawled. “Then he’d definitely whack both of you.”
“I’m just saying … He’d only been home from his last tour a couple of weeks, and this time … this time something had definitely changed.” That much wasn’t a lie. In fact, I hoped they would trace that thread. I could use a couple of crack detectives on my side. Certainly, Sophie deserved investigators smarter than me coming to the rescue.
“He was more violent,” Bobby stated carefully.
“Angry. All the time. I was trying to understand, hoping he’d settle back in. But it wasn’t working.” I twisted the top blanket with one hand, squeezed the button beneath the blanket with the other. “I just … I don’t know how it got to this. And that’s the truth. We loved each other. He was a good husband and a good father. Then …” More tears. Honest ones this time. I let a single drop trace down my cheek. “I don’t know how it got to this.”