by Lisa Gardner
“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 with 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?”
“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.”
