The Detective D. D. Warren Series 5-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  They removed Kim on a stretcher, unconscious but breathing.

  My fourth attacker, the one who’d brought the shank, left in a body bag. I watched them zip it up. I felt nothing at all.

  Erica sobbed. Screamed and wailed and carried on to such an extent, they finally carted her off to Medical, where she would be heavily sedated and put under suicide watch. Others were questioned, but in the way these things worked, they had no idea what had just taken place.

  “In my cell the whole time …”

  “Never looked out …”

  “Heard some noises, though …”

  “Sounded like a lot of ass-whooping …”

  “I slept through the whole thing, Officer. Really, I did.”

  The male inmate, however, told anyone who would listen that I was the angel of death, and please God, please God, please God, keep me away from him.

  The assistant deputy superintendent finally halted in front of me. He studied me for a long time, his expression judging me more trouble than I was worth.

  He delivered my punishment as a single word. “Segregation.”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “Who attacked the CO, detainee?”

  “Mrs. Doubtfire.”

  “Mrs. Doubtfire, sir. Now, why did the inmate attack CO Watters?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “You’ve been in prison less than twenty-four hours. How’d you get a shank?”

  “Took it off the ho’ trying to kill me.” I paused. “Sir.”

  “All six of them?”

  “Don’t fuck with the state police. Sir.”

  He almost smiled. Instead, he jerked his thumb toward the ceiling and the multiple mounted cameras. “Here’s the thing about prison: Big Brother’s always watching. So last time, detainee, anything you want to tell me?”

  “Officer Watters owes me a thank you card.”

  He didn’t argue, so maybe he already knew more than he was letting on. “Medical,” he said now, gesturing to my sliced-up forearms.

  “Lawyer,” I repeated.

  “The request will be sent through proper channels.”

  “Don’t have time.” I looked the assistant deputy superintendent in the eye. “I have decided to cooperate fully with the Boston police,” I declared for all to hear. “Call Detective D. D. Warren. Tell her I will take her to my daughter’s body.”

  27

  “Fuck that!” D.D. exploded two hours later. She was at BDP headquarters, in a conference room with Bobby, the deputy superintendent of homicide, and Tessa Leoni’s lawyer, Ken Cargill. Cargill had called the meeting twenty minutes ago. Had a limited-time offer, he’d told them. Needed D.D.’s boss in the room, because if a decision was going to be made, it had to be made fast. Meaning, he was planning on negotiating for something above D.D.’s paygrade. Meaning, she should be letting the deputy superintendent, Cal Horgan, respond to his preposterous demand.

  D.D. had never been good at keeping silent.

  “We don’t give guided tours!” she continued hotly now. “Tessa wants to finally do the right thing? Good for her. Bobby and I can be cell-side in twenty minutes, and she can draw us a map.”

  Horgan said nothing, so maybe he agreed with her.

  “She can’t draw you a map,” Cargill answered steadily. “She doesn’t remember the precise location. She’d been driving for a bit before she pulled over. As it is, she may not be able to get you to the exact spot, but figures she can get fairly close, by looking for familiar landmarks.”

  “Can’t even get us to the exact spot?” Bobby spoke up, sounding as skeptical as D.D. felt.

  “I would arrange for a dog team to assist,” Cargill replied.

  “Cadaver team, you mean,” D.D. said bitterly. She sank back down in her chair, both arms crossed over her stomach. She had known, after the first twenty-four hours, that little Sophie Leoni with the curly brown hair, big blue eyes, and heart-shaped face was most likely dead. Still, to hear it said out loud, from Tessa’s lawyer of all people, that it was time to recover the body …

  There were days this job was just too hard.

  “How did she say Sophie died again?” Bobby asked.

  Cargill skewered him with a glance. “She didn’t.”

  “That’s right,” Bobby continued. “She’s not really telling us anything, is she? She’s just demanding that we spring her from prison and take her for a drive. Imagine that.”

  “She almost died this morning,” Cargill argued. “Coordinated attack, six female detainees going after her, while a male inmate took out the CO. If not for the quick response by Trooper Leoni, Officer Watters would be dead and probably Tessa, as well.”

  “Self-preservation,” Bobby said.

  “Another fanciful story,” D.D. added harshly.

  Cargill looked at her. “Not fanciful. Caught on tape. I’ve watched the video myself. Male inmate attacked the CO first, then six females rushed Tessa. She’s lucky to be alive. And you’re lucky that the shock of said events has led her to want to cooperate.”

  “Cooperate,” D.D. stated. “There’s that word again. ‘Cooperate,’ to me, means to assist others. For example, she could draw us a map, perhaps one based on recalled landmarks. That would be cooperating. She could tell us how Sophie died. That would be cooperating. She could also tell us, once and for all, what happened to her husband and child, yet another form of cooperation. Somehow, she doesn’t seem to be getting it.”

  Cargill shrugged. He stopped studying Bobby and D.D. and turned his attention to the deputy superintendent instead. “Like it or not, I don’t know how long my client is going to continue to want to cooperate. This morning she suffered a traumatic experience. By this afternoon, certainly by tomorrow morning, I can’t guarantee the impulse will remain. In the meantime, while my client may not feel like answering all your questions, I would imagine that the recovery of Sophie Leoni’s body would answer a great deal of them for you. You know—by supplying evidence. Or are you people still in the business of gathering evidence?”

  “She goes back to jail,” Horgan said.

  “Oh please.” D.D. blew out a puff of breath. “Never negotiate with terrorists.”

  Cargill ignored her, attention still on Horgan. “Understood.”

  “Shackled at all times.”

  “Never assumed otherwise.” Short pause. “You might, however, want to coordinate with the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department. From a legal perspective, she is under their custody, meaning they may want to be the ones providing escort.”

  Horgan rolled his eyes. Multiple law enforcement agencies, just what they needed.

  “How long a drive to the site?” Horgan asked.

  “No more than one hour.”

  D.D. glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten-thirty a.m. Sun set by five-thirty. Meaning time was already of the essence. She stared at her boss, not sure what she wanted anymore. Hating to give in to a suspect’s demands, and yet … She wanted to bring Sophie home. Yearned for that small piece of closure. As if it might ease some of the ache in her heart.

  “Pick her up at noon,” Horgan said abruptly. He turned to regard D.D. “Get a dog team. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Horgan, turning back to Cargill. “No runarounds. Your client cooperates, or all her existing prison privileges vanish. She’ll not only return to jail, but it’ll be hard time now. Understood?”

  Cargill smiled thinly. “My client is a decorated member of law enforcement. She understands. And may I congratulate you on getting her out of jail, while she’s still alive to assist in your efforts.”

  ———

  There were a lot of things D.D. wanted to do right now—kick, storm, rage. Given the day’s tight time frame, however, she restrained herself and contacted the Northern Massachusetts Search & Recovery Canine Team.

  Like most canine teams, the Mass. group was comprised of all volunteers. They had eleven members, including Nelson Bradley and his German shepherd, Q
uizo, who was one of only several hundred trained cadaver dogs in the world.

  D.D. needed Nelson and Quizo and she needed them now. Good news, team president Cassondra Murray agreed to have the whole crew mobilized within ninety minutes. Murray and possibly Nelson would meet the police in Boston, and follow caravan style. Other members of the team would arrive once they had a location, as they lived too far outside the city to make it downtown in a timely manner.

  That worked for D.D.

  “What d’ya need?” D.D. asked by phone. She hadn’t worked with a dog team in years and then it’d been a live rescue, not a body recovery. “I can get you clothing from the child, that sort of thing.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “ ’Cause it’s a body,” D.D. filled in.

  “Nope. Doesn’t matter. Dogs are trained to identify human scent if it’s a rescue and cadaver scent if it’s a recovery. Mostly, we need you and your team to stay out of our way.”

  “Okay,” D.D. drawled, a bit testily.

  “One search dog equals a hundred and fifty human volunteers,” Murray recited firmly.

  “Will the snow be an issue?”

  “Nope. Heat makes scent rise, cold keeps it lower to the ground. As handlers, we adjust our search strategy accordingly. From our dogs’ perspectives, however, scent is scent.”

  “How about time frame?”

  “If the terrain’s not too difficult, dogs should be able to work two hours, then they’ll need a twenty-minute break. Depends on the conditions, of course.”

  “How many dogs are you going to bring?”

  “Three. Quizo’s the best, but they’re all SAR dogs.”

  “Wait—I thought Quizo was the only cadaver dog.”

  “Not anymore. As of two years ago, all our dogs are trained for live, cadaver, and water. We start with live searches first, as that’s the easiest to teach a puppy. But once the dogs master that, we train them for cadaver recovery, then, water searches.”

  “Do I want to know how you train for cadaver?” D.D. asked.

  Murray laughed. “Actually, we’re lucky. The ME, Ben—”

  “I know Ben.”

  “He’s a big supporter. We give him tennis balls to place inside the body bags. Once the scent of decomp has transferred to the tennis balls, he seals them in airtight containers for us. That’s what we use to train. It’s a good compromise, as the fine state of Massachusetts frowns on private ownership of cadavers, and I don’t believe in synthetic ‘cadaver scent.’ Best scientists in the world agree that decomp is one of the most complicated scents on earth. God knows what the dogs are honing in on, meaning man shouldn’t tamper with it.”

  “Okay,” D.D. said.

  “Do you anticipate a water search?” Murray asked, “because that poses a couple of challenges this time of year. We take the dogs out in boats, of course, but given the temperatures, I’d still want them in special insulated gear in case they fall in.”

  “Your dogs work in boats?”

  “Yep. Catch the scent in the current of water, just like the drift of the wind. Quizo has found bodies in water a hundred feet deep. It does seem like voodoo, which again, is why I don’t like synthetic scent. Dogs are too damn smart to train by lab experiment. Do you anticipate water?”

  “Can’t rule anything out,” D.D. said honestly.

  “Then we’ll bring full gear. You said search area was probably within an hour drive of Boston?”

  “Best guess.”

  “Then I’ll bring my book of Mass. topographic maps. Topography is everything when working scents.”

  “Okay,” D.D. said again.

  “Is the ME or a forensic anthropologist gonna be on-site?”

  “Why?”

  “Sometimes the dogs hit on other remains. Good to have someone there who can make the call right away that it’s human.”

  “These remains … less than forty-eight hours old,” D.D. said. “In below freezing conditions.”

  A moment of silence. “Well, guess that rules out the anthropologist,” Murray said. “See you in ninety.”

  Murray hung up. D.D. went to work on assembling the rest of the team.

  28

  Tuesday, twelve p.m. I stood shackled in the processing area of the Suffolk County Jail. No sheriff’s van parked in the garage this time. Instead, a Boston detective’s Crown Vic had rolled into the secured loading bay. Despite myself, I was impressed. I had assumed the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department would be in charge of transport. I wonder how many heads had rolled and markers had been called in to place me in Detective D. D. Warren’s custody.

  She got out of the car first. Derisive glance flicked my way, then she approached the command center, handing over paperwork to the waiting COs. Detective Bobby Dodge had opened the passenger’s door. He came around the vehicle toward me, his face impossible to read. Still waters that ran deep.

  No pedestrian clothes for my road trip. Instead, my previously issued pants and top had been replaced with the traditional orange prison jumpsuit, marking my status for the world to see. I’d asked for a coat, hat, and gloves. I’d been granted none of the above. Apparently, the sheriff’s department worried less about frostbite and more about escape. I would be shackled for the full length of my sojourn into society. I would also be under direct supervision of a law enforcement officer at all times.

  I didn’t fight these conditions. I was tense enough as it was. Keyed up for the afternoon events to come, while simultaneously crashing from the morning’s misadventures. I kept my gaze forward and my head down.

  The key to any strategy is not to overplay your hand.

  Bobby arrived at my side. The female CO who’d been standing guard relinquished my arm. He seized it, leading me back to the Crown Vic.

  D.D. had finished the paperwork. She arrived at the cruiser, staring at me balefully as Bobby opened the back door and I struggled to slide gracefully into the backseat with my hands and legs tied. I tilted back too far, got stuck like a beetle with its legs in the air. Bobby had to reach down, place one hand on my hip, and shove me over.

  D.D. shook her head, then took her place behind the steering wheel.

  Another minute and the massive garage door slowly creaked up. We backed up, onto the streets of Boston.

  I turned my face to the gray March sky and blinked my eyes against the light.

  Looks like snow, I thought, but didn’t say a word.

  D.D. drove to the nearby hospital parking lot. There, a dozen other vehicles, from white SUVS to black-and-white police cruisers were waiting. She pulled in and they formed a line behind us. D.D. looked at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Start talking,” she said.

  “I’d like a coffee.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I smiled then, couldn’t help myself. I had become my husband, with a Good Tessa and a Bad Tessa. Good Tessa had saved Kim Watters’s life. Good Tessa had fought off evil attacking inmates and had felt, for just one moment, like a proud member of law enforcement.

  Bad Tessa wore prison orange and sat in the back of a police cruiser. Bad Tessa … Well, for Bad Tessa, the day was very young.

  “Search dogs?” I asked.

  “Cadaver dogs,” D.D. emphasized.

  I smiled again, but it was sad this time, and for a second, I felt my composure crack. A yawning emptiness bloomed inside. All the things I had lost. And more I could still lose.

  All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.…

  “You should’ve found her,” I murmured. “I was counting on you to find her.”

  “Where?” D.D. snapped.

  “Route two. Westbound, toward Lexington.”

  D.D. drove.

  “We know about Trooper Lyons,” D.D. said curtly, talking from the front seat. We’d taken Route 2 past Arlington, exchanging urban jungle for suburban pipe dreams. Next up, the old money of Lexington and Concord, to be followed by the quaint, country charm of Harvard, Mass.

  “What do you kn
ow?” I asked. I was genuinely curious.

  “That he beat you up, in order to substantiate your claim of spousal abuse.”

  “Have you ever hit a girl?” I asked Detective Dodge.

  Bobby Dodge twisted in his seat. “Tell me about the hit man, Tessa. Find out how much I’m willing to believe.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Can’t?”

  I leaned forward, best I could with my hands tied. “I’m going to kill him,” I said somberly. “And it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Oh please,” D.D. interjected crossly. “You sound like a Looney Tune.”

  “Well, I have taken some blows to the head.”

  The eye roll again. “You’re no more crazy than I’m kindhearted,” D.D. snapped. “We know all about you, Tessa. The gambling-addicted husband who cleaned out your savings accounts. The horny teenage brother of your best friend, who figured he might get lucky one night. You seem to have a history of attracting the wrong men, then shooting them.”

  I didn’t say anything. The good detective did have a way of cutting to the heart of the matter.

  “But why your daughter?” she asked relentlessly. “Trust me, I don’t fault you for plugging Brian with three in the chest. But what the hell made you turn on your own kid?”

  “What did Shane have to say?” I asked.

  D.D. frowned at me. “You mean before or after your loser friend tried to deck me?”

  I whistled low. “See, this is what happens. You hit your first woman, and it gets easier after that.”

  “Were you and Brian arguing?” Bobby spoke up now. “Maybe the fight turned physical. Sophie got in the way.”

  “I reported for duty Friday night,” I said, looking out the window. Fewer houses, more woods. We were getting close. “I haven’t seen my daughter alive since.”

  “So Brian did it? Why not just blame him? Why cover it up, concoct such an elaborate story?”

  “Shane didn’t believe me. If he couldn’t, then who would?”

  Red-painted apple stand, off to the left. Empty now, but sold the best glasses of cider in the fall. We had come here just seven months ago, drinking apple cider, going on a hay ride, then visiting the pumpkin patch. Is that what had brought me back, Saturday afternoon when my heart had been pounding and the daylight fading and I had felt like a Looney Tune, crazed by grief and panic and sheer desperation? I’d had to move, fast, fast, fast. Less thinking. More doing.