by Lisa Gardner
The detectives fell quiet. My lawyer had relaxed beside me. I think he liked the tears, and probably the mention of possible steroid abuse, as well. That was a good angle.
“Where’s Sophie?” D.D. asked, less hostile now, more intent.
“Don’t know.” Another honest answer.
“Her boots are gone. Coat, too. Like someone bundled her up, took her away.”
“Mrs. Ennis?” I spoke up hopefully. “She’s Sophie’s caretaker—”
“We know who she is,” D.D. interjected. “She doesn’t have your child.”
“Oh.”
“Does Brian have a second home? Old ski lodge, fishing shack, anything like that?” Bobby this time.
I shook my head. I was getting tired, feeling my fatigue in spite of myself. I needed to get my endurance up. Build up my strength for the days and nights to come.
“Who else might know Sophie, remove her from your home?” D.D. insistent, not letting it go.
“I don’t know—”
“Brian’s family?” she persisted.
“He has a mother, four sisters. The sisters are scattered, his mother lives in New Hampshire. You’d have to ask, but we never saw them that much. His schedule, mine.”
“Your family?”
“I don’t have a family,” I said automatically.
“That’s not what the police file said.”
“What?”
“What?” my lawyer echoed.
Neither detective looked at him. “Ten years ago. When you were questioned by the police for the death of nineteen-year-old Thomas Howe. According to the paperwork, it was your own father who supplied the gun.”
I stared at D. D. Warren. Just stared and stared and stared.
“Those records are sealed,” I said softly.
“Tessa …” my lawyer began again, not sounding happy.
“But I told Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton about the incident when I first started on the force,” I stated levelly. “I didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”
“You mean, like one of your fellow officers discovering you’d shot and killed a kid?”
“Shot and killed a kid?” I mimicked. “I was sixteen. I was the kid! Why the hell do you think they sealed the records? Anyway, the DA never brought charges, ruling it justifiable homicide. Thomas assaulted me. I was just trying to get away.”
“Shot him with a twenty-two,” Detective Warren continued as if I’d never spoken. “Which you just so happened to have on you. Also, no signs of physical assault—”
“You have been speaking to my father,” I said bitterly. I couldn’t help myself.
D.D. tilted her head, eyeing me coolly. “He never believed you.”
I didn’t say anything. Which was answer enough.
“What happened that night, Tessa? Help us understand, because this really doesn’t look good for you.”
I clutched the button tighter. Ten years was a long time. And yet, not long enough.
“I was spending the night at my best friend’s house,” I said at last. “Juliana Howe. Thomas was her older brother. The last few times I’d been over, he’d made some comments. If we were alone in a room together, he stood too close, made me feel uncomfortable. But I was sixteen. Boys, particularly older boys, made me uncomfortable.”
“Then why’d you spend the night?” D.D. wanted to know.
“Juliana was my best friend,” I said quietly, and in that moment I felt it all again. The terror. Her tears. My loss.
“You brought a gun,” the detective continued.
“My father gave me the gun,” I corrected. “I’d gotten a job in the food court at the mall. I often worked till eleven, then had to walk out to my car in the dark. He wanted me to have some protection.”
“So he gave you a gun?” D.D. sounded incredulous.
I smiled. “You’d have to know my father. Picking me up in person would have meant getting involved. Handing me a twenty-two semiauto I had no idea how to use, on the other hand, got him off the hook. So that’s what he did.”
“Describe that night.” Bobby spoke up quietly.
“I went to Juliana’s house. Her brother was out; I was happy. We made popcorn and had a Molly Ringwald movie marathon—Sixteen Candles, followed by Breakfast Club. I fell asleep on the sofa. When I woke up all the lights were off and someone had put a blanket over me. I assumed Juliana had headed up to bed. I was just going to follow when her brother walked through the front door. Thomas was drunk. He spotted me. He …”
Both detectives and my lawyer waited.
“I tried to get around him,” I said finally. “He cornered me against the sofa, pressed me down into it. He was bigger, stronger. I was sixteen. He was nineteen. What could I do?”
My voice trailed off again. I swallowed.
“May I have some water?” I asked.
My lawyer found the pitcher bedside, poured me a glass. My hand was shaking when I raised the plastic cup. I figured they couldn’t blame me for the show of nerves. I drank the whole cup, then set it down again. Given how long it had been since I’d last given a statement, I had to think this through. Consistency was everything, and I couldn’t afford a mistake this late in the game.
Three pairs of eyes waited for me.
I took another deep breath. Gripped the blue button and thought about life, the patterns we made, the cycles we couldn’t escape.
Sacrifice judiciously.
“Just about when … Thomas was going to do what he was going to do, I felt my purse, against my hip. He had me pinned with the weight of his body while he worked on the zipper of his jeans. So I reached down with my right hand. I found my purse. I got the gun. And when he wouldn’t get off me, I pulled the trigger.”
“In the living room of your best friend’s house?” Detective Warren said.
“Yes.”
“Must’ve made a helluva mess.”
“Twenty-two’s not that big of a gun,” I said.
“What about your best friend? How’d she take all this?”
I kept my gaze on the ceiling. “He was her brother. Of course she loved him.”
“So … DA clears you. Court seals the records. But your father, your best friend. They never forgave you, did they.”
She made it a statement, not a question, so I didn’t answer.
“Is that when you started drinking?” Detective Dodge asked.
I nodded wordlessly.
“Left home, dropped out of school …” he continued.
“I’m hardly the first officer with a misspent youth,” I retorted stiffly.
“You got pregnant,” Detective Warren said. “Grew up, wised up, and sobered up. That’s a lotta sacrifice for a kid,” she commented.
“No. That’s love for my daughter.”
“Best thing that ever happened to you. Only family you have left.”
D.D. still sounded skeptical, which I guess was warning enough.
“You ever hear of decomposition odor analysis?” the detective continued, her voice picking up. “Arpad Vass, a research chemist and forensic anthropologist, has developed a technique for identifying the more than four hundred body vapors that emanate from decaying flesh. Turns out, these vapors get trapped in soil, fabrics—even, say, the carpet in the back of a vehicle. With the use of an electronic body sniffer, Dr. Vass can identify the molecular signature of body decomp left behind. For example, he can scan carpet that has been removed from a vehicle and actually see the vapors formed into the shape of a child’s dead body.”
I made a noise. Might have been a gasp. Might have been a moan. Beneath the sheet, my hand tightened.
“We just sent Dr. Vass the carpet from your husband’s SUV. What’s he gonna find, Tessa? Is this going to be your last glimpse of your daughter’s body?”
“Stop. That is insensitive and inappropriate!” My lawyer was already on his feet.
I didn’t really hear him. I was remembering pulling back the covers, gazing, horrified, at Sophi
e’s empty bed.
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.…
“What happened to your daughter!” Detective Warren demanded to know.
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“You came home? She was already gone?”
“I searched the house,” I whispered. “The garage, sunroom, attic, yard. I searched and searched and searched. I demanded that he tell me what he did.”
“What happened, Tessa? What did your husband do to Sophie?”
“I don’t know! She was gone. Gone! I went to work and when I came home …” I stared at D.D. and Bobby, feeling my heart beat wildly again. Sophie. Vanished. Just like that.
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth.…
“What did he do, Trooper Leoni? Tell us what Brian did.”
“He ruined our family. He lied to me. He betrayed us. He destroyed … everything.”
Another deep breath. I looked both detectives in the eye: “And that’s when I knew he had to die.”
13
“What do you think of Tessa Leoni?” Bobby asked five minutes later, as they headed back to HQ.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” D.D. said crossly.
“She seems deliberate with her replies.”
“Please. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she doesn’t trust cops.”
“Well, advanced rates of alcoholism, suicide, and domestic violence aside, what’s not to love?”
D.D. grimaced, but got his point. Law enforcement officers weren’t exactly walking advertisements for well-adjusted human beings. Lotta cops graduated from the school of hard knocks. And most of them swore that’s what it took to work these streets.
“She changed her story,” D.D. said.
“Noticed that myself.”
“We’ve gone from her shooting her husband first, then discovering that her daughter was missing, to she discovered Sophie was missing first, then ended up killing her husband.”
“Different timelines, same results. Either way Trooper Leoni was beaten to a pulp, and either way, six-year-old Sophie is gone.”
D.D. shook her head. “Inconsistency about one detail makes you have to question all details. If she lied about the timeline, what other pieces of her story are false?”
“A liar is a liar is a liar,” Bobby said softly.
She glanced over at him, then tightened her hands on the wheel. Tessa’s sob story had gotten to him. Bobby had always had a weakness for damsels in distress. Whereas D.D. had been spot-on with her first impression of Tessa Leoni: pretty and vulnerable, which was trying D.D.’s nerves.
D.D. was tired. It was after eleven and her new, high maintenance body was begging for sleep. Instead, she and Bobby were returning to Roxbury for the first taskforce meeting. Clock was still ticking. Media needed a statement. DA demanded an update. Brass just wanted the homicide case closed and the missing child found, right now.
In the old days, D.D. would be brewing six pots of coffee and eating half a dozen donuts to get through the night. Now, instead, she was armed with a fresh bottle of water and a package of saltines. They weren’t getting the job done.
She’d texted Alex as they were leaving the hospital: Won’t see you tonight, sorry bout tomorrow. He’d texted back: Saw the news. Good luck.
No guilt, no whining, no recriminations. Just genuine support.
His text made her weepy, which she blamed squarely on her condition, because no man had made D. D. Warren cry in at least twenty years and like hell she’d start now.
Bobby kept looking at her ubiquitous water bottle, then at her, then at her water bottle. If he did it again, she was going to dump the contents of said bottle over his head. The thought cheered her up, and she’d almost pulled herself together by the time they found parking.
Bobby grabbed a fresh cup of black coffee, then they headed upstairs to the homicide unit. D.D. and her fellow detectives were lucky. BPD headquarters had been built only fifteen years ago, and while the location was still subject to debate, the building itself was modern and well maintained. The homicide unit appeared less NYPD Blue and more MetLife Insurance Company. Sensible dividers carved out brightly lit work spaces. Broad expanses of gray metal files were covered in green plants, family photos, and personal knickknacks. A Red Sox foam finger was mounted here, a Go Pats banner hung there.
The secretary had a thing for cinnamon potpourri, while the detectives had a fetish for coffee, so the space even smelled nice—a cinnamon, coffee blend that made one of the newer guys nickname the reception area Starbucks. In typical cop fashion, the nickname stuck and now the secretary had Starbucks stickers, napkins, and paper cups all positioned on the front counter, which had confused more than one witness arriving to make a statement.
D.D. found her squad and a leader from each investigative team already gathered in the conference room. She moved to the head of the table, next to the large white board that would become their case bible for the coming days. She set down her water, picked up a black marker, and they were off and running.
The search for Sophie Leoni was highest priority. Hotline was ringing nonstop and had generated two dozen tips which officers were chasing down as they spoke. Nothing significant as of yet. Canvassing of neighbors, local businesses, and community medical centers was proceeding along the same lines—some leads, but nothing significant as of yet.
Phil had run background on Sophie’s caretaker, Brandi Ennis, which had come back clean. Coupled with D.D. and Bobby’s personal interview, they felt they could rule her out as a suspect. Initial backgrounds on the school administration and Sophie’s teacher raised no red flags. They were starting on parents next.
The video team had studied seventy-five percent of the outtakes from various cameras within a two-mile radius of the Leoni residence. They had yet to see any sign of Sophie, Brian Darby, or Tessa Leoni. Their search had broadened to include any visual of Brian Darby’s white GMC Denali.
Given the crime lab’s findings that a body had most likely been placed in the back of Darby’s vehicle, retracing the last twenty-four hours of the Denali was their best lead. D.D. assigned two detectives to pore through credit card records to see if they could determine the last time the Denali had been fueled up. Based on that date and how many gallons were currently left in the tank, they could work out the largest possible distance Brian Darby would’ve been able to drive with a body in the back of his vehicle. Also, the same two detectives would check for any parking tickets, speeding citations, or Fast Lane/E-Z Pass (toll booth) records that might help place the Denali Friday night through Sunday morning.
Finally, D.D. would leak details about the Denali to the press, encouraging eye witnesses to phone in with new details.
Phil agreed to search for any properties that might be owned by Brian Darby or a family member. His initial background reports on the family hadn’t revealed any red flags. Brian Darby had no arrests or warrants under his name. Couple of speeding tickets scattered over the past fifteen years, other than that he appeared to be a law-abiding citizen. He’d worked the past fifteen years for the same company, ASSC, as a merchant marine. He had a two hundred thousand dollar mortgage on the home, a thirty-four thousand dollar loan on the Denali, four grand in consumer debt, and over fifty grand in the bank, so not a bad financial picture.
Phil had also made initial contact with Brian Darby’s boss, who agreed to a phone interview tomorrow morning at eleven a.m. By phone, Scott Hale had expressed shock at Darby’s death, and total disbelief the man had beat his wife. Hale had also been dismayed by Sophie’s disappearance and was going to ask ASSC to increase the amount of money currently being offered as a reward.
D.D., who’d written across the top of the board, Did Brian Darby Beat His Wife? added a check to the No column.
Which made her other squadmate, Neil, raise his hand for the Yes column. Neil had spent the day at the hospital, where he’d subpoenaed Tessa Leoni’s medical records. While there wasn’
t a long history of “accidents,” today’s admittance alone had revealed multiple injuries from multiple time frames. Tessa Leoni presented with bruised ribs, probably from an incident at least one week ago (the fall down the front steps, D.D. had retorted, already rolling her eyes). The doctor had also made a notation he was concerned that one fractured rib had healed improperly due to “inadequate medical attention,” which would support Tessa’s assertion that she didn’t seek outside assistance, but dealt with the consequences of each beating on her own.
In addition to her concussion and fractured cheekbone, her medical chart listed a multitude of contusions, including a bruise in the shape of a rounded work boot.
“Does Brian Darby have steel-toed work boots?” D.D. asked excitedly.
“Went back to the house and retrieved one pair,” Neil said. “Asked the lawyer if we could match the boots against the bruise on Leoni’s hip. He considered that an invasion of privacy and requested we get a warrant.”
“Invasion of privacy!” D.D. snorted. “This is the sort of discovery that helps her. Establishes pattern of abuse, meaning she won’t end up in jail for twenty to life.”
“He didn’t argue that. Just said she was under doctor’s orders to rest, so he wanted to wait until she’s recovered from her concussion.”
“Please! Then the bruise is faded and we’ve lost our match and she’s lost her corroboration. Screw the lawyer. Get a warrant. Get it done.”
Neil agreed, though it would have to wait till midmorning, as he’d be starting his day at the ME’s office with the autopsy of Brian Darby. The autopsy was now scheduled for seven a.m., given that Tessa Leoni was requesting the return of her husband’s remains ASAP, in order to plan an appropriate funeral.
“What?” D.D. exclaimed.