by Lisa Gardner
“Not kidding,” Neil said. “Her lawyer called the ME this afternoon, wanting to know how soon Tessa could get the body back. Don’t ask me.”
But D.D. stared at the lanky redhead anyway. “Brian Darby’s shooting is a questionable death. Of course his body must be autopsied, which Tessa knows as well as anyone.” She turned her gaze to Bobby. “State Troopers learn homicide one-oh-one right?”
Bobby made a show of scratching his head. “What? They cram ninety classes into twenty-five weeks of Academy training, and we’re supposed to graduate knowing basic investigative steps?”
“So why would she ask for the body back?” D.D. asked him. “Why even make that call?”
Bobby shrugged. “Maybe she thought the autopsy had already been performed.”
“Maybe she thought she’d get lucky,” Neil spoke up. “She’s a fellow member of law enforcement. Maybe she thought the ME would honor her request and return her husband’s body without the basic post-mortem.”
D.D. chewed her lower lip. She didn’t like it. Pretty and vulnerable aside, Tessa Leoni was a cool customer, amazingly lucid when she needed to be. If Tessa had made the call, there had to be a reason.
D.D. turned back to Neil. “What did the ME tell her?”
“Nothing. The ME was speaking to her lawyer, not Trooper Leoni. Ben reminded the lawyer that an autopsy had to be performed, which Cargill didn’t refute. My understanding is that they settled on a compromise—Ben would perform the autopsy first thing, to speed up the return of Darby’s body to his family.”
“So autopsy is happening sooner,” D.D. mused, “and body is being returned sooner. When will Darby’s body be released?”
Neil shrugged. “After the autopsy, an assistant will need to suture and clean up the corpse. Maybe as soon as end of day Monday, or Tuesday afternoon.”
D.D. nodded, still turning the matter around in her head, but not seeing the angle. For some reason, Tessa Leoni wanted her husband’s body sooner versus later. They would have to come back to that, as there must be a reason. There was always a reason.
D.D. returned to her taskforce. She demanded some good news. Nobody had any. She demanded some fresh leads. Nobody had any.
She and Bobby volunteered what they’d learned about Tessa Leoni’s misspent youth. Having to shoot to kill once in self-defense was bad luck. Twice seemed dangerously close to a pattern of behavior, though from a legal perspective, it would take three times to be the charm.
D.D. wanted to learn more about the shooting of Thomas Howe. First thing in the morning, she and Bobby would track down the officer in charge of the investigation. If possible, they’d also contact the Howe family and Tessa’s father. Last but not least, they wanted to identify Brian Darby’s gym and check out his exercise regimen and the possibility of steroid abuse. Man had bulked up relatively quickly, Mr. Sensitive becoming Mr. Tempermental. It was worth checking out.
With that, D.D. jotted down the next steps and handed out homework. Video team needed to complete their marathon viewing of Boston cameras. Phil needed to complete background reports, conduct property searches, and interview Brian Darby’s boss. Neil had autopsy duty as well as securing a warrant for matching Brian Darby’s boot against Tessa Leoni’s bruised hip.
Fuel squad got to play with gas consumption and Boston maps, creating a maximum search area for Sophie Leoni, while the hotline officers would continue running down old leads and mining for fresh information.
D.D. needed reports from today’s interviews on her desk within the hour. Get to documenting, she ordered her team, then return for duty at oh-dark-thirty. Sophie Leoni remained missing, which meant no rest for the weary.
The detectives filed out.
D.D. and Bobby stayed behind to brief the superintendent of homicide, then consult with the Suffolk County DA. Neither man was interested in details, as much as they wanted results. It was D.D.’s fun-filled job as lead detective to inform them she had not determined the events leading up to Brian Darby’s shooting, nor located six-year-old Sophie Leoni. But hey, pretty much every cop in Boston was currently working the case, so the taskforce was bound to have something … sometime.
The DA, who’d gone positively bug-eyed at the revelation that Tessa Leoni had already pleaded self-defense once before, agreed to D.D.’s request for more time before determining criminal charges. Given the differences between building a case for manslaughter versus Murder 1, additional information would be ideal and a deep bore into Tessa Leoni’s misspent youth a necessity.
They’d keep the media focused on the search for Sophie, and away from the particulars of Brian Darby’s death.
Twelve thirty-three in the morning, D.D. finally slunk back to her own office. Her boss was satisfied, the DA appeased, her taskforce engaged. And so it went, another day in another high profile case. The cogs of the criminal justice system churning round and round.
Bobby took the seat across from her. Without a word, he picked up the first typed report from the pile on her desk and began to read.
After another moment, D.D. joined him.
14
When Sophie was almost three, she locked herself in the trunk of my police cruiser. This happened before I ever met Brian, so I had only myself to blame.
We were living across the hall from Mrs. Ennis at the time. It was late fall, when the sun faded earlier and the nights were growing colder. Sophie and I had been outside, where we’d walked to the park and back. Now it was dinnertime, and I was fussing in the kitchen while assuming she was playing in the family room, where the TV was blaring Curious George.
I’d made a small salad, part of my program to introduce more vegetables into my child’s diet. Then I’d grilled two chicken breasts and baked Ore-Ida French fries—my compromise, Sophie could have her beloved fries as long as she ate some salad first.
This project took me twenty, twenty-five minutes. But a busy twenty-five minutes. I was occupied and apparently not paying attention to my toddler because when I walked into the family room to announce it was time for dinner, my child wasn’t there.
I didn’t panic right away. I’d like to say it was because I was a trained police officer, but it had more to do with being Sophie’s mom. Sophie started running at thirteen months and hadn’t slowed down since. She was the child who disappeared in grocery stores, bolted away from park swing sets, and made a quick beeline through a sea of legs in a crowded mall, whether I was following or not. In the past six months, I’d already lost Sophie several times. In a matter of minutes, however, we always found each other again.
I started with the basics—a quick walk through our tiny one bedroom. I called her name, then for good measure, checked the cupboards in the bathroom, both closets, and under the bed. She wasn’t in the apartment.
I checked the front door, which, sure enough, I’d forgotten to bolt, meaning the entire apartment complex had just become fair game. I crossed the hall, cursing myself silently and feeling the growing frustration that comes from being an overstretched single parent, responsible for all things at all times, whether I was up to the challenge or not.
I knocked on Mrs. Ennis’s door. No, Sophie wasn’t there, but she swore she’d just seen Sophie playing outside.
Outside I went. Sun had gone down. Streetlights blazed, as well as the spotlights on the front of the apartment building. It was never truly dark in a city like Boston. I took that to heart as I walked around the squat brick complex, calling my daughter’s name. When no laughing child came running around the corner, no high-pitched giggles erupted from a nearby bush, I grew more concerned.
I started to shiver. It was cold, I didn’t have a jacket, and given that I remembered seeing Sophie’s raspberry-colored fleece hanging next to the door in our apartment, she didn’t have a coat either.
My heart accelerated. I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to fight a growing well of dread. The whole time I’d been pregnant with Sophie, I’d lived in a state of fear. I hadn’t felt the mira
cle of life growing in my body. Instead, I saw the photo of my dead baby brother, a marble white newborn with bright red lips.
When I’d gone into labor, I didn’t think I’d be able to breathe through the terror clutching my throat. I would fail, my baby would die, there was no hope, no hope, no hope.
Except, then there was Sophie. Perfect, mottled red, screaming loudly Sophie. Warm and slippery and achingly beautiful as I cradled her against my breast.
My daughter was tough. And fearless and impulsive.
You didn’t panic with a kid like Sophie. You strategized: What would Sophie do?
I returned to the apartment complex, performed a quick door-to-door canvass. Most of my neighbors weren’t home from work yet; the few that answered hadn’t seen Sophie. I moved fast now, footsteps with purpose.
Sophie liked the park and might head there, except we’d already spent an afternoon playing on the swings and even she’d been ready to leave at the end. She liked the corner store and was positively fascinated by the Laundromat—she loved to watch the clothes spin.
I decided to head back upstairs. Another quick walk-through of our apartment to determine if anything else might be missing—a special toy, her favorite purse. Then I’d grab my car keys and tour the block.
I made it just inside the door, then discovered what she’d taken: The keys to my police cruiser were no longer sitting in the change dish.
This time, I hauled ass out of the apartment and down the front steps. Toddlers and police cruisers didn’t mix. Forget the radio, lights, and sirens in the front. I had a shotgun in the trunk.
I ran to the passenger’s side, peering in from the sidewalk. The interior of the cruiser appeared empty. I tried the door, but it was locked. I walked around more carefully, heart pounding, breathing shallow as I inspected each door and window. No sign of activity. Locked, locked, locked.
But she’d taken the keys. Think like Sophie. What button might she have hit on the key fob? What might she have done?
Then I heard her. A thump, thump, thump from the trunk. She was inside, banging against the lid.
“Sophie?” I called out.
The thumping stopped.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Sophie. Mommy’s here. Honey,” my voice had risen shrilly, despite my best intentions. “Are you all right?”
“Mommy,” my child replied calmly from inside the locked trunk. “Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”
I closed my eyes, exhaling my pent-up breath. “Sophie, honey,” I said as firmly as I could. “I need you to listen to Mommy. Don’t touch anything.”
“ ’Kay.”
“Do you still have the keys?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Are they in your hand?”
“No touching!”
“Well, you can touch the keys, honey. Hold the keys, just don’t touch anything else.”
“Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”
“I understand, honey. Would you like to get out?”
“Yes!”
“Okay. Hold the keys. Find a button with your thumb. Push it.”
I heard a click as Sophie did as she was told. I ran to the front door to check. Of course, she’d hit the lock key.
“Sophie, honey,” I called back. “Button next to it! Hit that one!”
Another click, and the front door unlocked. Expelling another breath, I opened the door, found the latch for the trunk and released it. Seconds later, I was standing above my daughter, who was curled up as a pink puddle in the middle of the metal locker holding my backup shotgun and a black duffel bag filled with ammo and additional policing gear.
“Are you all right?” I demanded to know.
My daughter yawned, held out her arms to me. “Hungry!”
I scooped her out of the trunk, placed her on her feet on the sidewalk, where she promptly shivered from the chill.
“Mommy,” she started to whine.
“Sophie!” I interrupted firmly, feeling the first edge of anger now that my child was out of immediate danger. “Listen to me.” I took the keys from her, held them up, shook them hard. “These are not yours. You never touch these keys. Do you understand? No touching!”
Sophie’s lower lip jutted out. “No touching,” she warbled. The full extent of what she’d done seemed to penetrate. Her face fell, she stared at the sidewalk.
“You do not leave the apartment without telling me! Look me in the eye. Repeat that. Tell Mommy.”
She looked up at me with liquid blue eyes. “No leave. Tell Mommy,” she whispered.
Reprimand delivered, I gave in to the past ten minutes of terror, scooped her back into my arms, and held her tight. “Don’t scare Mommy like that,” I whispered against the top of her head. “Seriously, Sophie. I love you. I never want to lose you. You are my Sophie.”
In response her tiny fingers dug into my shoulders, clutched me back.
After another moment, I set her down. I should’ve set the bolt lock, I reminded myself. And I’d have to move my keys to the top of a cabinet, or perhaps add them to the gun safe. More things to remember. More management in an already overstretched life.
My eyes stung a little, but I didn’t cry. She was my Sophie. And I loved her.
“Weren’t you scared?” I asked as I took her hand and led her back to the apartment for our now cold dinner.
“No, Mommy.”
“Not even locked in the dark?”
“No, Mommy.”
“Really? You’re a brave girl, Sophie Leoni.”
She squeezed my hand. “Mommy come,” she said simply. “I know. Mommy come for me.”
I reminded myself of that evening now, as I lay trapped in a hospital room, surrounded by beeping monitors and the constant hum of a busy medical center. Sophie was tough. Sophie was brave. My daughter was not terrified of the dark, as I’d let the detectives believe. I wanted them to fear for her, and I wanted them to feel for her. Anything that would make them work that much harder, bring her home that much sooner.
I needed Bobby and D.D., whether they believed me or not. My daughter needed them, especially given that her superhero mother currently couldn’t stand without vomiting.
It went against the grain, but there it was: My daughter was in jeopardy, lost in the dark. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
One a.m.
I fisted my hand around the blue button, held it tight.
“Sophie, be brave,” I whispered in the semi-darkened room, willing my body to heal faster. “Mommy’s coming. Mommy will always come for you.”
Then I forced myself to review the past thirty-six hours. I considered the full tragedy of the days behind. Then I contemplated the full danger of the days ahead.
Work the angles, anticipate the obstacles, get one step ahead.
Brian’s autopsy had been moved to first thing in the morning. A Pyrrhic victory—I had gotten my way, and in doing so, had certainly stuck my own head in the noose.
But it also fast-forwarded the timeline, took some of the control from them and gave it back to me.
Nine hours, I figured. Nine hours to physically recover, then ready or not, the games began.
I thought of Brian, dying on the kitchen floor. I thought of Sophie, snatched from our home.
Then I allowed myself one last moment to mourn my husband. Because once upon a time, we’d been happy.
Once upon a time, we’d been a family.
15
D.D. made it back to her North End condo at two-thirty in the morning. She collapsed on her bed, fully clothed, and set her alarm for four hours’ sleep. She woke up six hours later, glanced at the clock, and immediately panicked.
Eight-thirty in the morning? She never overslept. Never!
She bolted out of bed, gazed wild-eyed around her room, then grabbed her cellphone and dialed. Bobby answered after the second ring, and she expelled in a breathless rush: “I’m coming I’m coming I’m coming. I just need forty minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Fuck! The traffic!”
“D.D.,” Bobby said, more firmly. “It’s okay.”
“It’s eight-thirty!” she shouted back, and to her horror realized she was about to cry. She plopped back on the edge of her bed. Good God, she was a mess. What was happening to her?
“I’m still home,” Bobby said now. “Annabelle’s sleeping, I’m feeding the baby. Tell you what. I’ll call the lead detective from the Thomas Howe shooting. With any luck, we can meet in Framingham in two hours. Sound like a plan?”
D.D., sounding meek: “Okay.”
“Call you back in thirty. Enjoy the shower.”
D.D. should say something. In the old days, she would’ve definitely said something. Instead, she clicked off her cell and sat there, feeling like a balloon that had abruptly deflated.
After another minute, she trudged to the sleek master bath, where she stripped off yesterday’s clothes and stood in a sea of white ceramic tiles, staring at her naked body in the mirror.
She touched her stomach with her fingers, brushed her palms across the smooth expanse of her skin, tried to feel some sign of what was happening to her. Five weeks late, she didn’t detect any baby bump or gentle mound. If anything, her stomach appeared flatter, her body thinner. Then again, going from all you can eat buffets to broth and crackers could do that to a girl.
She switched her inspection to her face, where her rumpled blonde curls framed gaunt cheeks and bruised eyes. She hadn’t taken a pregnancy test yet. Given her missed cycle, then the intense fatigue interspersed with relentless nausea, her condition seemed obvious. Just her luck to end a three-year sex drought by getting knocked up.
Maybe she wasn’t pregnant, she thought now. Maybe she was dying instead.
“Wishful thinking,” she muttered darkly.
But the words brought her up short. She didn’t mean that. She couldn’t mean that.
She felt her stomach again. Maybe her waist was thicker. Maybe, right over here, she could feel a hint of round.… Her fingers lingered, cradled the spot gently. And for a second, she pictured a newborn, puffy red face, dark slitted eyes, rosebud lips. Boy? Girl? It didn’t matter. Just a baby. An honest to God baby.