Love You More: A Novel

by Lisa Gardner

  “How you gonna do that?”

  I smiled, grimly this time. “Let’s just say, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts invested a lot of resources into my training, and they’re about to get their money’s worth. Vehicle, Dad. I don’t have much time, and neither does Sophie.”

  He didn’t move, just crossed his arms and peered down at me. “You lying to me?”

  I didn’t feel like arguing anymore. Instead, I stepped forward, wrapped my arms around his waist, and leaned my head against the bulk of his chest. He smelled of cigarettes, motor oil, and whiskey. He smelled of my childhood, and the home and mother I still missed.

  “Love you, Dad. Always have. Always will.”

  His frame shook. A slight tremor. I chose to believe that was his way of saying he loved me, too. Mostly because the alternative hurt too much.

  I stepped back. He unfolded his arms, crossed to the Peg-Board, and handed me a single key.

  “Blue Ford truck, out back. Gotta lotta miles, but its heart’s good. Four-wheel drive. You’re gonna need that.”

  For navigating the snowy road. Perfect.

  “Gas cans are against the outside wall. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Bring her,” he said suddenly. “When you find her, when you … get her back. I want … I want to meet my granddaughter.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  He startled at my hesitation, glared at me.

  I took the key, returning his look calmly. “From one alcoholic to another—gotta stop drinking, Dad. Then we’ll see.”

  “Hard-ass,” he muttered.

  I smiled one last time, then kissed him on his leathery cheek. “Get it from you,” I whispered.

  I palmed the key, picked up my duffel bag, then I was gone.

  35

  Why was the scene in the woods so horrific?” D.D. was saying fifteen minutes later. She answered her own question: “Because what kind of mom would kill her own child, then blow up the body? What kind of woman could do such a thing?”

  Bobby, standing beside her on Juliana Howe’s front porch, nodded. “Diversion. She needed to buy time to escape.”

  D.D. shrugged. “Except not really. She was already alone with Officer Fiske and they were a quarter of a mile away from the search team. She could’ve easily jumped Fiske without the diversion, and still had a solid thirty minutes head start. Which is why exploding the child’s remains seems so horrifying—it’s gratuitous. Why do such a terrible thing?”

  “Okay, I’ll bite: Why do such a thing?”

  “Because she needed the bones fragmented. She couldn’t afford for us to find the remains in situ. Then it would’ve been obvious the body didn’t belong to a child.”

  Bobby stared at her. “Excuse me? The pink bits of clothing, blue jeans, rib bone, tooth …”

  “Clothing was planted with the body. Rib bone is approximately the right size for a six-year-old—or a large breed of dog. Ben just finished spending some quality time studying bone fragments in the lab. Those bones aren’t human. They’re canine. Right size. Wrong species.”

  Bobby did a little double-take. “Fuck me,” he said, a man who hardly ever swore. “The German shepherd. Brian Darby’s old dog that passed away. Tessa buried that body?”

  “Apparently. Hence the strong scent of decomp in the white Denali. Again, according to Ben, the size and length of many bones in a large dog would match a six-year-old human. Of course, the skull would be all wrong, as well as minor details like tail and paws. An intact canine skeleton, therefore, would never get confused for a human one. Scrambled pieces of bone fragments, however … Ben apologizes for his error. He’s a bit embarrassed to tell you the truth. It’s been a while since he’s had a crime scene mess this much with his head.”

  “Wait a second.” Bobby held up a cautioning hand. “The cadaver dogs, remember? They wouldn’t hit on nonhuman remains. Their noses and training are better than that.”

  D.D. suddenly smiled. “Fucking clever,” she muttered. “Isn’t that what Juliana said? Tessa Leoni is very clever, gotta give her that.

  “Two front teeth,” she filled in for Bobby. “Also three bloody tampons, recovered from the scene after we left. Ben supplies some of the training materials used by the SAR teams. According to him, dog handlers are fairly creative at finding sources of ‘cadaver,’ since owning actual dead people is illegal. Turns out, teeth are like bone. So search handlers get teeth from a local dentist’s office, and use them to train the dogs. Same with used tampons. Tessa hid a dog body, but scattered the site with ‘human cadaver’—her daughter’s baby teeth topped with a dash of feminine hygiene.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Bobby said.

  “That’s ingenious,” D.D. countered.

  “But why?”

  D.D. had to think about it. “Because she knew we’d blame her. That’s been her experience, right? She didn’t shoot Tommy Howe, but the cops assumed she did. Meaning we were right before—the first experience ten years ago has informed her experience now. Another terrible thing happened in Tessa Leoni’s world. Her first instinct is that she will be blamed. Except this time she’ll probably be arrested. So she stages an elaborate scheme to get out of jail.”

  “But why?” Bobby repeated. “If she didn’t do anything, why not tell us the truth? Why … such a complicated ruse? She’s a cop now. Shouldn’t she have more faith in the system?”

  D.D. arched a brow.

  He sighed. “You’re right. We’re born cynics.”

  “But why not talk to us?” D.D. was continuing. “Let’s think about that. We assumed Tessa shot Tommy Howe ten years ago. We were wrong. We assumed she shot her husband, Brian, Saturday morning. Well, maybe we’re wrong about that, too. Meaning, someone else did it. That person shot Brian, took Sophie.”

  “Why kill the husband, but kidnap the child?” Bobby asked.

  “Leverage,” D.D. supplied immediately. “This does go back to gambling. Brian owed too much. Instead of shaking him down, however—the weak link—they’re going after Tessa instead. They shoot Brian to show they mean business, then grab Sophie. Tessa can have her daughter back if she pays up. So Tessa heads to the bank, takes out fifty grand—”

  “Clearly not enough,” Bobby commented.

  “Exactly. She needs more money, but also has to deal with the fact that her husband’s dead, shot by her gun, as ballistics was a match.”

  Bobby’s eyes widened. “She was home,” he said suddenly. “Only way they could’ve shot Brian with her gun. Tessa was home. Maybe even walked into the situation. Someone’s already holding her child. What can she do? Man demands that she turn over her Sig Sauer, then …”

  “Shoots Brian,” D.D. said softly.

  “She’s screwed,” Bobby continued quietly. “She knows she’s screwed. Her husband is dead by her service weapon, her child has been kidnapped, and she already has a previous history of shooting to kill. What are the odds of anyone believing her? Even if she said, Hey, some mobster offed my gambling-addicted husband with my state sidearm, and now I need your help to rescue my kid …”

  “I wouldn’t buy it,” D.D. said flaty.

  “Cops are born cynics,” Bobby repeated.

  “So she starts thinking,” D.D. continued. “Only way to get Sophie back is to get the money, and only way to get the money is to stay out of jail.”

  “Meaning, she needs to start planning ahead,” Bobby filled in.

  D.D. frowned. “So, based on the Tommy shooting, option A is to plead self-defense. That can be tricky, however, as spousal abuse is an affirmative defense, so she decides she needs a safety net, as well. Option A will be self-defense, and option B will be to hide dog bones in the woods, which she’ll claim are her daughter’s remains. If self-defense doesn’t work and she ends up arrested, then she can escape utilizing plan B.”

  “Clever,” Bobby commented. “As Juliana said, self-sufficient.”

  “Complicated.” D.D. was scowling. “Especially gi
ven that she’s now on the run, making it that much harder for her to get money and rescue Sophie. Would you risk that much when it’s your daughter’s life at stake? Wouldn’t it still be cleaner to fall on her sword and beg for our help? Get us tracking mobsters, get us to rescue Sophie, even if we arrest her first?”

  Bobby shrugged. “Maybe, like Juliana, she’s not impressed by other cops.”

  But D.D. suddenly had another thought. “Maybe,” she said slowly, “because another cop is part of the problem.”

  Bobby stared at her, then she could see him connect the dots.

  “Who beat her up?” D.D. asked now. “Who hit her so hard that for the first twenty hours she couldn’t even stand? Who was present the entire time we were at her house on Sunday morning, his hand on her shoulder? I thought he was showing his support. But maybe, he was reminding her to shut up.”

  “Trooper Lyons.”

  “The helpful ‘friend’ who fractured her cheekbone, and got her husband hooked on gambling in the first place. Maybe because Lyons was already spending a lot of quality time at Foxwoods.”

  “Trooper Lyons isn’t part of the solution,” Bobby muttered. “Trooper Lyons is the heart of the problem.”

  “Let’s get him!” D.D. said.

  She was already taking the first step off the front porch when Bobby grabbed her arm, drawing her up short.

  “D.D., you know what this means?”

  “I finally get to break Trooper Lyons?”

  “No, D.D. Sophie Leoni. She could still be alive. And Trooper Lyons knows where she’s at.”

  D.D. stilled. She felt a flare of emotion. “Then listen to me, Bobby. We need to do this right, and I have a plan.”

  36

  The old Ford didn’t like to shift or brake. Thankfully, given the winter storm alert and the late hour, the roads were mostly empty. I passed several snowplows, a couple of emergency vehicles, and various police cruisers tending to business. I kept my eyes forward and the speedometer at the exact speed limit. Dressed in black, baseball cap pulled low over my brow, I still felt conspicuous heading back into Boston, toward my home.

  I drove slowly by my house. Watched my headlights flash across the yellow crime-scene tape, which stood out garishly against the clean white snow.

  The house looked and felt empty. A walking advertisement for Something Bad Happened Here.

  I kept going until I found parking in an empty convenience store parking lot.

  Shouldering my bag, I set out the rest of the way on foot.

  Moving quickly now. Wanting the cover of darkness and finding little in a busy city liberally sprinkled with streetlights and brightly lit signs. One block right, one block left, then I was honing in on target.

  Shane’s police cruiser was parked outside his house. It was five till eleven, meaning he’d be appearing any time for duty.

  I took up position, crouched low behind the trunk, where I could blend into the shadow cast by the Crown Vic in the pool of streetlight.

  My hands were cold, even with gloves. I blew on my fingers to keep them warm; I couldn’t afford for them to be sluggish. I was going to get only one shot at this. I would either win, or I wouldn’t.

  My heart pounded. I felt a little dizzy and it suddenly occurred to me I hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours. Too late now. Front door opened. Patio light came on. Shane appeared.

  His wife, Tina, stood behind him in a fluffy pink bathrobe. Quick kiss to the cheek, sending her man off for duty. I felt a pang. I squashed it.

  Shane came down the first step, then the second. Door closed behind him, Tina not waiting for the full departure.

  I released the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and started the countdown in my head.

  Shane descended all the steps, crossing the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. Arriving at his cruiser, inserting the key in the lock, twisting, popping open the driver-side door.

  I sprung out from behind the cruiser and rammed my Glock .40 into the side of his neck.

  “One word and you’re dead.”

  Shane remained silent.

  I took his duty weapon. Then we both climbed into his police cruiser.

  I made him sit in the back, away from the radio and the instrument panel. I took the driver’s seat, the sliding security panel open between us. I kept the Glock on this side of the bulletproof barrier, away from Shane’s lunging reach, while pointing squarely on target. Normally, officers aimed for the subject’s chest—the largest mass. Given that Shane was already wearing body armor, I trained on the solid block of his head.

  At my command, he passed me his cellphone, his duty belt, then his pager. I piled it all in the passenger’s seat, helping myself to the metal bracelets, which I then passed back and had him place around his own wrists.

  Subject secured, I pulled my gaze from him long enough to start the car engine. I could feel his body tense, preparing for some kind of action.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said crisply. “I owe you, remember?” I gestured to my battered face. He sagged again, cuffed hands flopping back down onto his lap.

  Car engine roared to life. If Shane’s wife happened to glance out the window, she would see her husband warming up his cruiser while checking in with dispatch, maybe tending to a few messages.

  A five- to ten-minute delay wouldn’t be too unusual. Anything more than that, she might grow concerned, might even come out to investigate. Meaning, I didn’t have much time for this conversation.

  Still had to get a few digs in.

  “Shoulda hit me harder,” I said, turning back around, giving my former fellow officer my full attention. “Did you really think a concussion would be enough to keep me down?”

  Shane didn’t say anything. His eyes were on the Glock, not my bruised face.

  I felt myself growing angry. Like I wanted to crawl through the narrow opening in the security shield and pistol-whip this man half a dozen times, before beating him senseless with my bare hands.

  I had trusted Shane, a fellow officer. Brian had trusted him, a best friend. And he had betrayed us both.

  I’d called him Saturday afternoon, after paying off the hit man. My last hope in a rapidly disintegrating world, I’d thought. Of course I’d been told not to contact the police. Of course I’d been told to keep quiet or else. But Shane wasn’t just a fellow officer. He was my friend, he was Brian’s closest friend. He’d help me save Sophie.

  Instead, his voice cold, totally devoid of emotion on the other end of the phone: “You don’t take instruction too well, do you, Tessa? When these boys tell you to shut up, you shut up. Now stop trying to get us all killed, and do what they told you to do.”

  Turned out, Shane already knew Brian was dead. He’d received some instructions of his own over the matter, and now he spelled it all out for me: Brian was a wife beater. In the heat of the moment, he’d gone too far and I’d discharged my weapon in self-defense. No evidence of physical assault? Don’t worry, Shane would assist with that. I babbled that I’d been granted twenty-four hours to prepare for Sophie’s return. Fine, he’d said curtly. He’d be over first thing in the morning. A minor pummeling, then we’d contact the authorities together, Shane by my side every step of the way. Shane, keeping watch and reporting back.

  Of course, I’d realized then. Shane wasn’t just Brian’s friend, he was his partner in crime. And now he had to protect his own hide at any cost. Even if that involved sacrificing Brian, me, and Sophie.

  I was screwed and my daughter’s life hung in the balance. It’s amazing how clear-eyed you can suddenly become when your child needs you. How covering your husband’s dead body with snow makes all the sense in the world. As well as fetching Duke’s corpse from underneath the back deck, where Brian had stored the body while waiting for the spring thaw. And looking up bombs on the Internet …

  I let go of my denial. I embraced the chaos. And I learned that I was a much more ruthless person than I’d ever believed.

  “I know a
bout the money,” I told Shane now. Despite my best intentions for calm, I could feel my rage bubble up again. I remembered the first eye-shattering impact of Shane’s fist connecting with my face. The way he’d towered above me as I went down on the bloody kitchen floor. The endless minute, when I’d realized he could kill me, and then there would be no one to save Sophie. I’d cried. I’d begged. That’s what my “friend” had done to me.

  Now Shane’s gaze flickered to mine, his eyes rounding in surprise.

  “Did you think I’d never connect the dots?” I said. “Why did you demand this whole farce that I claim to have killed my own husband? Because you and your partners wanted me out of the way. You wanted to destroy my credibility, then frame me for the theft. Your mobster friends aren’t interested in shaking me down for money. You’re using me to cover your tracks, letting me take the fall for all the money you stole from the troopers’ union. You were gonna blame me for everything. Everything!

  He didn’t say a word.

  “You goddamn bastard!” I exploded. “If I went to prison, what would happen to Sophie? You signed her death warrant, you prick. You basically killed my daughter!”

  Shane blanched. “I didn’t … I wouldn’t. It never would’ve gone that far!”

  “That far? You stole from the troopers’ union. You screwed your friends, your career, and your family. That wasn’t letting things go too far?”

  “It was Brian’s idea,” Shane said automatically. “He needed the money. He’d lost a little too much … They’d kill him, he said. I was just trying to help. Honest, Tessa. You know how Brian can be. I was just trying to help.”

  In response, I grabbed his duty belt with my left hand, unclipped the Taser, and held it up.

  “One more lie, and you’re gonna dance. Do you understand me, Shane? Stop lying!”

  He swallowed, tongue darting out nervously to lick the corner of his mouth.

  “I don’t … Ah Christ,” he blurted out suddenly. “I’m sorry, Tessa. I don’t know how it came to this. At first, I’d go with Brian to Foxwoods to keep him under control. Which meant, of course, that sometimes I’d play, too. Then, coupla of times, I won. I mean, I won. Five grand, just like that. Bought Tina a new ring. She cried. And it felt … great. Wonderful. Like I was Superman. So, of course, I had to play again, except we didn’t always win. So then you play more because now you’re due. It’s your turn. One good hand, that’s all you need, one good hand.