by Lisa Gardner
“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.”
“Must have screwed up the alarm. Just gotta shower, change, breakfast. I’m on my way.”
“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.
“I won’t hurt you,” she whispered in the quiet of the bathroom. “I’m not mommy material. I’m gonna suck at this. But I won’t hurt you. I’d never intentionally hurt you.”
She paused, sighed heavily, felt her denial take the first delicate step toward acceptance.
“But you’re gonna have to work with me on this. Okay? You’re not winning the mommy lottery here. So it’s gonna take some compromise on both our parts. Like maybe you could start letting me eat again, and in return, I’ll try to get to bed before midnight. It’s the best I can do. If you want a better offer, you need to return to the procreation pot and start over.
“Your mommy’s trying to find a little girl. And maybe you don’t care about that, but I do. Can’t help myself. This job’s in my blood.”
Another pause. She sighed heavily again, her fingers still stroking her stomach. “So I gotta do what I gotta do,” she whispered. “Because the world is a mess, and someone has to clean it up. Or girls like Sophie Leoni will never stand a chance. I don’t want to live in a world like that. And I don’t want you to grow up in a world like that. So let’s do this together. I’m going to shower, then I’m going to eat. How about some cereal?”
Her stomach didn’t immediately sour, which she took as a yes. “Cereal it is.
Then back to work for both of us. Sooner we find Sophie, sooner I can take you home to your daddy. Who, at least once upon a time, mentioned wanting kids. Hope that’s still true. Ah geez. We’re all gonna need a little faith here. All right, let’s get this done.”
D.D. turned on the shower spray.
Later, she ate Cheerios, then left her condo without throwing up
Good enough, she decided. Good enough.
Detective Butch Walthers lived up to his name. Heavyset face, massive shoulders, barrel gut of a former linebacker now gone to seed. He agreed to meet Bobby and D.D. at a small breakfast spot around the corner from his house, because it was his day off and as long as he was talking shop, he wanted a meal out of it.
D.D. walked in, hit a solid wall of cooked eggs and fried bacon and nearly walked back out. She’d always loved diners. She’d always loved eggs and bacon. To be reduced to instant nausea now was beyond cruel.
She took several steadying breaths through her open mouth. Then in a fit of inspiration, she fished peppermint gum out of her shoulder bag. Old trick learned from working countless homicide scenes—chewing minty gum overwhelms one’s sense of smell. She stuck three sticks into her mouth, felt the sharp peppermint flavor flood the back of her throat, and managed to make it to the rear of the diner, where Bobby was already sitting across from Detective Walthers in a side booth.
Both men stood as she approached. She introduced herself to Walthers, nodded at Bobby, then slid into the booth first, so she could be closest to the window. She was in luck, the double-hung appeared to actually open. She immediately went to work on the latches.
“Little hot,” she commented. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Both men watched her curiously, but said nothing. The diner was hot, D.D. thought defensively, and the rush of crisp March air smelled of snow and nothing else. She leaned closer to the narrow opening.
“Coffee?” Bobby asked.
“Water,” D.D. said.
He arched a brow.
“Already had java,” she lied. “Don’t want the jitters.”
Bobby wasn’t buying it. She should’ve known. She turned to Walthers before Bobby could ask about breakfast. D.D. turning down a meal probably signaled the end of the universe as he knew it.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” D.D. said. “Especially on your day off.”
Walthers nodded accommodatingly. His bulbous nose was lined with broken red capillaries. Drinker, D.D. deduced. One of the old-time veterans nearing the end of his policing career. If he thought life was hard now, she thought with a trace of sympathy, wait till he tried retirement. So many empty hours to fill with memories of the good old days, and regrets over the ones that got away.
“Surprised to get a call ’bout the Howe shooting,” Walthers said now. “Worked a lotta cases in my time. Never considered that investigation to be an interesting one.”
“Seemed pretty clear-cut?”
Walthers shrugged. “Yes and no. Physical evidence was FUBAR, but background on Tommy Howe was straightforward—Tessa Leoni wasn’t the first girl he’d attacked; just the first who’d fought back.”
“Really?” D.D. was intrigued.
The waitress appeared, gazing at them expectantly. Walthers ordered the Trailblazer Special with four links of sausage, two fried eggs, and half a plate of home fries. Bobby seconded the order. D.D., feeling brave, went with orange juice.
Now Bobby was definitely staring at her.
“So walk us through the case,” D.D. said to Walthers, the moment the waitress left.
“Call came into nine-one-one. The mom, that’s my memory, quite hysterical. First responder found Tommy Howe dead from a single gunshot wound in the family room, the parents and his sister gathered round in their bathrobes. The mother was sobbing, father trying to console, younger sister shell-shocked. Parents didn’t know nothing ’bout anything. They’d woken up to a noise, father had gone downstairs, found Tommy’s body, and that had been that.
“Sister, Juliana, was the one with the answers, but it took a bit to get them. She’d had a friend sleeping over—”
“Tessa Leoni,” D.D. supplied.
“Exactly. Tessa had fallen asleep on the couch while they were watching movies. Juliana had gone upstairs to bed. Shortly after one a.m., she’d also heard a noise. She’d come downstairs and saw her brother and Tessa on the couch. In her own words, she wasn’t sure what was going on, but then she heard a gunshot and Tommy staggered back. He fell to the floor, and Tessa got off the sofa, still holding the gun.”
“Juliana saw Tessa shoot her brother?” D.D. asked.
“Yep. Juliana was pretty messed up. She said Tessa claimed Tommy had attacked her. Juliana didn’t know what to do. Tommy was bleeding everywhere, she could hear her father coming down the stairs. She panicked, told Tessa to go home, which Tessa did.”
“Tessa ran home in the middle of the night?” Bobby spoke up with a frown.
“Tessa lived on the same street, five houses down. Not a big distance to cover. When the dad made it downstairs, he yelled at Juliana to have her mom call nine-one-one. Which is the scene I walked into. Bloody family room, dead teenager, missing shooter.”
“Where was Tommy shot?”
“Upper left thigh. Bullet nicked his femoral artery and he bled out. Bad luck, if you think about it—dying from a single GSW to the leg.”
“Only one shot?”
“That’s all it took.”
Interesting, D.D. thought. At least Brian Darby had earned three in the chest. What a difference twenty-five weeks of intensive firearms training could make.
“So where was Tessa?” D.D. asked.
“After Juliana’s statement, I proceeded to the Leoni residence, where Tessa answered on the first knock. She’d showered—”
“No way!”
“Told you the physical evidence was FUBAR. Then again”—Walthers shrugged his burly shoulders—“she was sixteen years old. By her own admission, she’d been sexually assaulted, before shooting her attacker. Heading straight for the shower—can you blame her?”
D.D. still didn’t like it. “What physical evidence could you recover?”
“The twenty-two. Tessa handed it right over. Her prints were on the handle and ballistics matched the slug that killed Tommy Howe to the gun. We bagged and tagged her discarded clothes. No semen on the underwear—she claimed he didn’t, ahem, get to finish what he’d started. But some blood on her clothing, same type as Tommy Howe.”
“Test her hands for powder?”
“Negative—but then, she’d showered.”
“Rape kit?”
“She declined.”
“She declined?”
“She said she’d been through enough. I tried to convince her to let a nurse examine her for bruising, tried to explain it would be in her own best interest, but she wasn’t buying it. Girl was shaking like a leaf. You could see—she was done.”
“Where’s the father through all this?” Bobby wanted to know.
“He woke up when we entered the home. Apparently figuring out for the first time that his daughter had returned early from her sleepover and that there’d been an incident. He seemed a little … checked out. Stood in the kitchen in his boxers and wife-beater T-shirt, arms crossed over his chest, not saying a word. I mean, here’s his sixteen-year-old daughter talking about being attacked by a boy, and he’s just standing there like a goddamn statue. Donnie,” Walthers snapped his fingers as the name came to him, “Donnie Leoni. Owned his own garage. Never could figure him out. I was guessing drinking, but never confirmed it.”
“Mother?” D.D. asked.
“Dead. Six months earlier, heart failure. Not a happy household, but …” Again, Walthers shrugged. “Most of them aren’t.”
“So,” D.D. replayed the events in her mind, “Tommy Howe is dead from a single GSW in his family room. Tessa confesses to the crime, all cleaned up and unwilling to submit to a physical exam. I don’t get it. The DA simply took he
r word for it? Poor traumatized sixteen-year-old girl must be telling the truth?”
Walthers shook his head. “Between you and me?”
“By all means,” D.D. assured him. “Between friends.”
“I couldn’t make heads or tails of Tessa Leoni. I mean, on the one hand, she was sitting in her kitchen trembling uncontrollably. On the other hand … she delivered a precise recounting of every minute of the evening. In all my years, never had a victim recount so many details with such clarity, especially a victim of sexual assault. It bothered me, but what could I say: Honey, your memory is too good for me to take you seriously?” Walthers shook his head. “In this day and age, those kinds of statements can cost a detective his shield, and trust me—I got two ex-wives to support—I need my pension.”
“So why let her off with self-defense? Why not press charges?” Bobby asked, clearly as perplexed as D.D.
“Because Tessa Leoni might have been a questionable victim, but Tommy Howe was the perfect perpetrator. Within twenty-four hours, three different girls phoned in with accounts of being sexually assaulted by him. None of them wanted to make a formal statement, mind you, but the more we dug, the more we discovered Tommy had a clear reputation with the ladies: He didn’t take no for an answer. He didn’t necessarily use brute force, which is why so many of the girls were reluctant to testify. Instead, sounded like he would ply them with alcohol, maybe even spike their drinks. But a couple of the girls remembered clearly not being interested in Tommy Howe, and waking up in his bed anyway.”
“Rohypnol,” D.D. said.
“Probably. We never found any trace of it in his dorm room, but even his buddies agreed that what Tommy wanted, Tommy got, and the girl’s feelings on the subject weren’t of much interest to him.”
“Nice guy,” Bobby muttered darkly.
“His parents certainly thought so,” Walthers remarked. “When the DA announced he wasn’t pressing charges, tried to explain the mitigating circumstances … You would’ve thought we were claiming the Pope was an atheist. The father—James, James Howe—hit the roof. Screamed at the DA, called my lieutenant to rant how my shitty police work was allowing a cold-blooded murderer to go free. Jim had contacts, he’d get us all in the end.”
