by Lisa Gardner
Bobby nodded.
D.D. thought about the picture again. “It’s not easy to be in a relationship where the woman is the one who carries a gun,” she murmured.
Bobby didn’t touch that statement, and she was grateful.
“We should find his gym,” he said now. “Check out his regimen. Inquire about known supplements.”
“ ’Roid rage?”
“Worth asking about.”
They moved out of the master, into the adjoining bath. This room, at least, had a splash of personality. A brightly striped shower curtain was drawn around an old claw-foot tub. A yellow-duckie area rug dotted the tiled floor. Layers of blue and yellow towels warmed up wooden towel racks.
This room also displayed more signs of life—a Barbie toothbrush lying on the edge of the sink, a pile of purple hair elastics in a basket on the back of the toilet, a clear plastic spit cup declaring “Daddy’s Little Princess.”
D.D. checked the medicine cabinet. She found three prescription bottles, one made out to Brian Darby for Ambien, a sleep aid. One made out to Sophie Leoni, involving some kind of topical eye ointment. A third for Tessa Leoni, hydrocodone, a painkiller.
She showed the bottle to Bobby. He made a note.
“Have to follow up with the doc. See if she had an injury, maybe something from the job.”
D.D. nodded. Rest of the medicine cabinet held a plethora of lotions, shaving creams, razors, and colognes. Only thing of note, she thought, was the fairly impressive stash of first-aid supplies. Lotta Band-Aids, she thought, in a lotta different sizes. A battered wife, stockpiling for inevitable repairs, or just life as an active family? She checked under the sink, found the usual mix of soap, toilet paper, feminine hygiene products, and cleaning supplies.
They moved on.
The next room clearly belonged to Sophie. Soft pink walls, with stenciled flowers in pale green and baby blue. A flower-shaped rug. A wall of bright white cubbies brimming with dolls, dresses, and glittering ballet shoes. Tessa and Brian lived in a dorm. Little Sophie, on the other hand, inhabited a magical garden complete with bunnies running along the floorboards and butterflies painted around the windows.
It was beyond obscene, D.D. thought, to stand in the middle of such a space, and start looking for signs of blood.
Her hand was pressed to her stomach. She didn’t even notice it as she carefully began her first visual inspection of the bed.
“Luminol?” she murmured.
“No hits,” Bobby responded.
Per protocol, the crime-scene techs had sprayed Sophie Leoni’s sheets with luminol, which reacted with bodily fluids such as blood and semen. The lack of hits meant the sheets were clean. Which didn’t mean Sophie Leoni had never been sexually assaulted; just meant she hadn’t been recently assaulted on this set of linens. The crime-scene techs would also check the laundry, even pull bedding out of the washing machine if necessary. Unless someone knew to clean all items in bleach, it was amazing what the luminol could find on “clean” linens.
More things D.D. didn’t want to know while standing in the middle of a magical garden.
She wondered who had painted this room. Tessa? Brian? Or maybe the three of them working together back in the days when the love was still new and the family felt fresh and committed to one another.
She wondered just how many nights had passed before Sophie woke up to the first sound of a distinct smack, a muffled scream. Or maybe Sophie hadn’t been sleeping at all. Maybe she’d been sitting at the kitchen table, or playing with a doll in the corner.
Maybe she’d run to her mother the first time. Maybe …
Ah, Jesus Christ. D.D. did not want to be working this case right now.
She fisted her hands, turned toward the window, and focused on the weak March daylight.
Bobby had stilled next to the wall. He was studying her, but didn’t say a word.
Once more, she was grateful.
“We should find out if there’s a favorite snuggle toy,” she said at last.
“Rag doll. Green dress, brown yarn hair, blue button eyes. Named Gertrude.”
D.D. nodded, scanning the room slowly. She identified a nightlight—Sophie’s terrified of the dark—but no snuggle toy. “I don’t see it.”
“Neither did the first responder. So far, we’re operating under the assumption the doll is missing, too.”
“Her pajamas?”
“Trooper Leoni said her daughter was wearing a long-sleeved set, pink with yellow horses. No sign of them.”
D.D. had a thought. “What about her coat, hat, and snow boots?”
“Don’t have that in my notes.”
For the first time, D.D. felt a glimmer of hope. “Missing coat and hat means she was roused out of bed in the middle of the night. Not given the time to change, but the chance to bundle up.”
“No need to bundle up a corpse,” Bobby remarked.
They left the room and pounded down the stairs. Inspected the coat closet, then the bin of shoes and winter accessories tucked by the front door. No little kid coat. No little kid hat. No little kid boots.
“Sophie Leoni was bundled up!” D.D. declared triumphantly.
“Sophie Leoni left the house alive.”
“Perfect. Now, all we gotta do is find her before nightfall.”
They returned upstairs long enough to examine the windows for signs of forced entry. Finding none, they headed downstairs for the same drill. Both doors featured relatively new hardware and bolt locks, none of which showed signs of tampering. The windows in the sunroom, they discovered, were so old and moisture-warped they refused to budge.
All in all, the house appeared secure. To judge from the look on Bobby’s face, he hadn’t expected anything different and neither had D.D. Sad rule in missing kid cases—most of the time, the trouble came from inside the home, not outside it.
They toured the family room, which reminded D.D. of the bedroom. Plain walls, wooden floors topped by a beige area rug. The black leather L-shaped sofa seemed more like a his purchase than a hers. A fairly new-looking laptop computer sat at one end of the couch, still plugged into the wall. Room also boasted a flat-screen TV, mounted above a sleek entertainment unit that housed a state-of-the-art audio system, Blu-ray DVD player, and Wii gaming console.
“Boys and their toys,” D.D. remarked.
“Engineer,” Bobby said again.
D.D. examined a small art table set up in the corner for Sophie. On one side of the table sat a stack of blank white paper. In the middle was a caddy filled with crayons. That was it. No works in progress on the table. No displays of completed genius on the walls. Very organized, she thought, especially for a six-year-old.
The starkness of the home was starting to wig her out. People did not live like this and people with kids definitely should not live like this.
They crossed into the kitchen, where D.D. stood as far away from the outline of the corpse as she could. Bloodstain, shattered glass, and toppled chairs aside, the kitchen was as meticulous as the rest of the house. Also tired and dated. Thirty-year-old dark wood cabinets, plain white appliances, stained Formica countertop. First thing Alex would do to this house, D.D. thought, was gut and modernize the kitchen.
But not Brian Darby. He spent his money on electronics, a leather sofa, and his car. Not the house.
“They made an effort for Sophie,” D.D. murmured out loud, “but not for each other.”
Bobby looked at her.
“Think about it,” she continued. “It’s an old vintage house that’s still an old vintage house. As you keep pointing out, he’s an engineer, meaning he’s probably got some basic skills with power tools. Combined household income is a good two hundred grand a year, plus Brian Darby has this whole sixty days of vacation thing going on. Meaning they have some expertise, some time, and some resources they could spend on the home. But they don’t. Only in Sophie’s room. She gets the fresh paint, new furniture, pretty bedding, etc. They made an effort for her, b
ut not for themselves. Makes me wonder in how many other areas of their life that same rule applied.”
“Most parents focus on their kids,” Bobby observed mildly.
“They haven’t even hung a picture.”
“Trooper Leoni works long hours. Brian Darby ships out for months at a time. Maybe, when they’re home, they have other priorities.”
D.D. shrugged. “Like what?”
Bobby nodded. “Come on. I’ll show you the garage.”
The garage freaked D.D. out. The broad, two-bay space was lined on all three sides with the craziest Peg-Board system she’d ever seen. Seriously, floor to ceiling of Peg-Boards, which were then fitted with shelving brackets and bike holders and plastic bins for sporting goods and even a custom golf bag holder.
D.D. took in the space and was struck by two things at once: Brian Darby did apparently have a lot of outdoor hobbies, and he needed professional help for his anal-retentiveness.
“The floor is clean,” D.D. said. “It’s March, it’s snowy, and the entire city has been sanded within an inch of its life. How can the floor be this clean?”
“He parked his car on the street.”
“He parked his sixty thousand dollar SUV on one of the busiest streets in Boston rather than dirty his garage?”
“Trooper Leoni also parked her cruiser out front. Department likes us to keep our vehicles visible in the neighborhood—presence of a cop car is viewed as a deterrent.”
“This is nuts,” D.D. stated. She crossed to one wall, where she found a large broom and dustpan racked side by side. Next to them sat two plastic garbage cans and a blue bin for recycling. Recycling bin revealed half a dozen green beer bottles. Garbage cans were already empty—the bags probably having been removed by the crime-scene techs. D.D. strolled by his and her dirt bikes, plus a pink number that clearly belonged to Sophie. She found a row of backpacks and a shelf dedicated to hiking boots of various weights and sizes, including a pink pair for Sophie. Hiking, biking, golfing, she determined.
Then, on the other side of the garage, she got to add skiing to the list. Six pairs of skis, three alpine, three cross country. And three sets of snowshoes.
“If Brian Darby was home, he was moving,” D.D. added to her mental profile.
“Wanting the family with him,” Bobby commented, gesturing to the wife and child sets that rounded out each trio.
“But,” D.D. mused, “Tessa already commented—she had work, Sophie had school. Meaning, Brian was often alone. No loving family to join him, no appreciative female audience to be dazzled by his manly prowess.”
“Stereotyping,” Bobby warned.
D.D. gestured around the garage. “Please. This is a stereotype. Engineer. Anal-retentive. If I stay in here much longer, my head will hurt.”
“You don’t iron your jeans?” he asked.
“I don’t label my power tools. Seriously, check this out.” She’d arrived at the workbench, where Brian Darby had arranged his power tools on a shelf bearing names for each item.
“Nice tools.” Bobby was frowning. “Very nice tools. An easy grand worth.”
“And yet he doesn’t fix up the house,” D.D. lamented. “So far, I’m siding with Tessa on this.”
“Maybe it’s not about the doing,” Bobby said. “Maybe it’s about the buying. Brian Darby likes having toys. Doesn’t mean he plays with them.”
D.D. considered it. Certainly an option, and would explain the pristine condition of the garage. Easy to keep it clean if you never parked in it, never worked in it, never retrieved any of the gear from it.
But then she shook her head. “Nah, he didn’t gain thirty pounds in muscle sitting around all day. Speaking of which, where’s the weight set?”
They looked around. Of all the toys, no dumbbells or free weight systems.
“Must belong to a gym,” Bobby said.
“We’ll have to check that out,” D.D. concurred. “So Brian is a doer. But his wife and child are also busy. So maybe he does some stuff on his own to pass the time. Unfortunately, he still comes home to an empty house, which leaves him restless. So first he cleans the place within an inch of its life …”
“Then,” Bobby finished, “he tosses back a couple of beers.”
D.D. was frowning. She walked toward the far corner, where the concrete floor appeared darker. She bent down, touched the spot with her fingertips. Felt damp.
“Leak?” she murmured, trying to inspect the corner wall where moisture might be penetrating, but of course, the cinder-block surface was obscured by more Peg-Board.
“Could be.” Bobby crossed to where she knelt. “This whole corner is built into the hillside. Could have drainage issues, even a leak from a pipe above.”
“Have to watch it, see if it grows.”
“Concerned the house will fall down on your watch?”
She looked at him. “No, concerned it’s not water from a leak. Meaning, it came from something else, and I want to know what.”
Unexpectedly, Bobby smiled. “I don’t care what the other staties say: Trooper Leoni is lucky to have you on her case, and Sophie Leoni is even luckier.”
“Oh, fuck you,” D.D. told him crossly. She straightened, more discomfited by praise than she was ever riled by criticism. “Come on. We’re heading out.”
“The pattern of the water stain told you where Sophie is?”
“No. Given that Tessa Leoni’s lawyer hasn’t magically called with permission to interview her yet, we’re gonna focus on Brian Darby. I want to talk to his boss. I want to know exactly what kind of man needs to color-code his closet and Peg-Board his garage.”
“A control freak.”
“Exactly. And when something or someone undermines that control—”
“Just how violent does he get,” Bobby finished for her. They stood in the middle of the garage.
“I don’t think a stranger abducted Sophie Leoni,” D.D. stated quietly.
Bobby paused a heartbeat. “I don’t think so either.”
“Meaning it’s him, or it’s her.”
“He’s dead.”
“Meaning, maybe Trooper Leoni finally wised up.”
8
A woman never forgets the first time she is hit.
I was lucky. My parents never whacked me. My father never slapped my face for talking back, or spanked my behind for willful disobedience. Maybe because I was never that disobedient. Or maybe, because by the time my father got home at night, he was too tired to care. My brother died and my parents became shells of their former selves, using up all their energy just getting through the day.
By the time I was twelve, I’d come to terms with the morbid little household that passed as my own. I got into sports—soccer, softball, track team, anything that would keep me late after school and minimize the hours I spent on the homefront. Juliana liked sports, too. We were the Bobbsey twins, always in uniform, always rushing off somewhere.
I took some hits on the playing field. A line drive to the chest that knocked me flat on my back. I realized for the first time that you really do see stars when the breath has been knocked from your lungs and your skull ricochets against the hard earth.
Then there were miscellaneous soccer injuries, a head butt to the nose, cleats to the knee, the occasional elbow to the gut. Take it from me, girls can be tough. We dish out and man up with the best of them, particularly in the heat of battle, trying to score one for our team.
But those injuries were nothing personal. Just the kind of collateral damage that happens when you and your opponent both want the ball. After the game, you shook hands, slapped each other on the butt, and meant it.
First time I really had to fight was at the Academy. I knew I would receive rigorous training in hand-to-hand combat and I was looking forward to it. A lone female living in Boston? Hand-to-hand combat was an excellent idea, whether I made it as a trooper or not.
For two weeks, we practiced drills. Basic defensive stances for protecting our face, our kidney
s, and, of course, our sidearms. Never forget your weapon, we were lectured again and again. Most cops who lose their gun are then shot and killed with that gun. First line of defense, subdue the offending party before ever getting within arm’s length. But in the event things go sour and you find yourself in a personal combat situation, protect your weapon, and strike hard first chance you get.
Turned out, I didn’t know how to deliver a punch. Sounded easy enough. But I fisted my hand wrong, had a tendency to overuse my arm, versus throwing my whole body behind the blow by rotating at the waist. So there were a couple more weeks, teaching all of us, even the big guys, how to pack a punch.
Six weeks into it, the instructors decided we’d had enough drills. Time to practice what they’d preached.
They divvied us up into two teams. We all donned protective padding and, to start, were armed with padded bars the instructors affectionately referred to as pogo sticks. Then, they turned us loose.
Don’t believe for a second I got to fight another woman of my approximate size and weight. That would be too easy. As a female officer, I was expected to handle anything and anyone. So the trainers made their picks deliberately random. I ended up across from another recruit, named Chuck, who was six one, two hundred and forty pounds, and a former football player.
He didn’t even try to hit me. He just ran straight at me and knocked me flat on my ass. I went down like a ton of bricks, remembering once more that line drive to my chest as I struggled to regain my breath.
The instructor blew his whistle. Chuck offered me a hand up, and we tried again.
This time, I was aware of my fellow recruits watching. I registered my instructor’s scowl at my disappointing performance. I fixated on the fact this was supposed to be my new life. If I couldn’t defend myself, if I couldn’t do this, I couldn’t become a trooper. Then what would I do? How would I earn enough money for Sophie and me to live? How would I provide for my daughter? What would happen to us?
Chuck rushed. This time, I stepped to the side and slammed my pogo stick into his gut. I had approximately half a second to feel good about myself. Then two hundred and forty pounds of Chuck straightened, laughed, and came back at me.
