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

by Lisa Gardner

  “But you still help out?”

  “When Brian ships out. Those couple of months I come over, spend the night with Sophie, just like the old days. In the morning, I get her off to school. I’m also listed as an emergency contact, because with Tessa’s job, she can’t always be immediately available. So snow days, maybe Sophie isn’t feeling too good. I handle those days. And it’s no bother. As I said, Sophie’s like my own.”

  D.D. pursed her lips, regarded the elderly woman.

  “How would you describe Trooper Leoni as a mother?” she asked.

  “There isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for Sophie,” Mrs. Ennis replied immediately.

  “Trooper Leoni ever drink?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Gotta be stressful, though. Working, then coming home to a child. Sounds to me she never had a moment to herself.”

  “Never heard her complain,” Mrs. Ennis said stubbornly.

  “Ever get a call just because Tessa’s having a bad day, could use a little break?”

  “No, ma’am. If she wasn’t working, she wanted to be with her daughter. Sophie’s her world.”

  “Until she met her husband.”

  Mrs. Ennis was silent for a moment. “Honestly?”

  “Honestly,” D.D. said.

  “I think Tessa loved Brian because Sophie loved Brian. Because, at least in the beginning, Brian and Sophie got along so well.”

  “In the beginning,” D.D. prodded.

  The older woman sighed, looked down at her tea. “Marriage,” she said, a weight of emotion behind the word. “It always starts out so fresh.…” She sighed again. “I can’t tell you what goes on behind closed doors, of course.”

  “But …” D.D. prodded again.

  “Brian and Tessa and Sophie made one another happy in the beginning. Tessa would come home with stories of hikes and picnics and bike rides and cookouts, all the good stuff. They played well together.

  “But marriage is more than playing. It also became Brian shipping out, and now Tessa’s in a house with a yard and the lawn mower is broken or the leaf blower is broken and she’s gotta figure it all out because he’s gone and she’s here and houses have to be taken care of, just like kids and dogs and state police jobs. I saw her … I saw her get frazzled more. Life with Brian home was better for her, I think. But life with Brian gone grew a lot harder. She had more to deal with, more to take care of, than when it had just been her and Sophie in a little one-bedroom apartment.”

  D.D. nodded. She could see that. There was a reason she didn’t have a yard, a plant, or a goldfish.

  “And for Brian?”

  “Of course, he never confided in me,” Mrs. Ennis said.

  “Of course.”

  “But, from comments Tessa made … He worked when he shipped out. Twenty-four/seven, apparently, no days off. So when he came home, he didn’t always want to go straight to house chores or lawn tending or even child rearing.”

  “He wanted to play,” D.D. stated.

  “Man needed some time to relax. Tessa changed the schedule, so the first week he was home, I’d still come over to help Sophie in the mornings. But Brian didn’t like that either—said he couldn’t relax with me in the house. So we went back to the old routine. They were trying,” Mrs. Ennis spoke up earnestly. “But their schedules were tough. Tessa had to work when she had to work and she didn’t always come home when she was supposed to come home. Then Brian disappeared for sixty days, then reappeared for sixty days … I don’t think it was easy on either of them.”

  “Ever hear them fight?” D.D. asked.

  Mrs. Ennis studied her tea. “Not fight … I could feel the tension. Sophie sometimes … When Brian came home, she’d have a couple of days where she’d be unusually quiet. Then he’d leave again, and she’d perk up. A father who came and went, that’s not easy for a child to understand. And the stress of the household … kids can feel that.”

  “He ever hit her?”

  “Heavens no! And if I so much as suspected such a thing, I would’ve reported him myself.”

  “To whom?” D.D. asked curiously.

  “Tessa, of course.”

  “He ever hit her?”

  Mrs. Ennis hesitated. D.D. eyed the older woman with renewed interest.

  “I don’t know,” the older woman said.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Sometimes, I noticed some bruising. Once or twice, not so long ago, Tessa seemed to limp. But when I asked her about it—she fell down the icy steps, had a minor accident snowshoeing. They’re an active family. Sometimes, active people get injured.”

  “But not Sophie.”

  “Not Sophie!” Mrs. Ennis said fiercely.

  “Because you would’ve done something about that.”

  For the first time, the woman’s mouth trembled. She looked away, and in that moment, D.D. could see the woman’s shame.

  “You did suspect he was hitting her,” D.D. stated levelly. “You worried Tessa was being abused by her husband, and you did nothing about it.”

  “Six, eight weeks ago … It was clear something had happened, she wasn’t moving well, but was also refusing to acknowledge it. I tried to bring it up.…”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she fell down the front steps. She’d forgotten to salt them, it was all her fault.…” Mrs. Ennis pursed her lips, clearly skeptical. “I couldn’t figure it out,” the older woman said at last. “Tessa’s a police officer. She’s had training, she carries a gun. I told myself, if she really needed help, she’d tell me. Or maybe another officer. She spends all day with the police. How could she not ask for help?”

  Million dollar question, D.D. thought. She could tell from the look on Bobby’s face he thought the same. He leaned forward, caught Mrs. Ennis’s attention.

  “Did Tessa ever mention Sophie’s biological father? Maybe he contacted her recently, showed interest in his child?”

  Mrs. Ennis shook her head. “Tessa never spoke of him. I always assumed the man didn’t have any interest in being a father. He had a better offer, she said, and left it at that.”

  “Tessa ever mention being worried about an arrest she’d made recently?”

  Mrs. Ennis shook her head.

  “What about trouble on the job, maybe with another trooper? Couldn’t have been easy to be the only female in the Framingham barracks.”

  Again, Mrs. Ennis shook her head. “She never spoke of work. Least not to me. Tessa was proud of her job, though. I could see that, just watching her leave for patrol each night. Maybe she picked the state police because she thought it would help her child, but it helped her, too. A strong job for a strong woman.”

  “You think she could’ve shot her husband?” D.D. asked bluntly.

  Mrs. Ennis wouldn’t answer.

  “What if he hurt her child?”

  Mrs. Ennis looked up sharply. “Oh dear Lord. You can’t mean …” She covered her mouth with her hand. “You think Brian killed Sophie? You think she’s dead? But the Amber Alert … I thought she was just missing. Maybe run off because of the confusion …”

  “What confusion?”

  “The news said there was an incident. Left one dead. I thought maybe there was a break-in, a struggle. Maybe Sophie ran away, to be safe.”

  “Who would break in?” D.D. asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s Boston. Burglars, gangsters … These things happen.”

  “There’s no sign of break-in,” D.D. said quietly, giving Mrs. Ennis time to let that news settle in. “Tessa has confessed to shooting her husband. What we’re trying to determine is what led up to that event, and what happened to Sophie.”

  “Oh my Lord. Oh my … Oh my …” Mrs. Ennis’s hands moved from her mouth to her eyes. Already, she had started crying. “But I never thought … Even if Brian had … lost his temper a few times, I never suspected things had gotten so bad. I mean, he went away, right? If things had gotten so bad, why didn’t she and Sophie just leave him
when he was away? I would’ve helped. Surely she knew that!”

  “Excellent question,” D.D. agreed softly. “Why didn’t she and Sophie just leave once he’d shipped out?”

  “Sophie ever talk much about school?” Bobby spoke up. “Did she seem happy there, or have any concerns?”

  “Sophie loved school. First grade. Mrs. DiPace. She’d just started reading all the Junie B. Jones novels with a little help. I mean reading, just like that. She’s a bright child. And a good girl, too. I can … I can get you the principal’s name, teachers, I have the whole school list since I dropped her off half the time. Everyone only ever has wonderful things to say about her, and oh my, just …”

  Mrs. Ennis was out of her seat, walking in a tight circle before she seemed to remember what she needed to do. She crossed to a little end table next to the sofa, opened the top drawer, and started pulling out information.

  “What about after-school activities?” D.D. asked.

  “They had an after-school art program. Every Monday. Sophie loved that.”

  “Parents volunteer as part of that?” Bobby probed.

  D.D. nodded, following his train of thought. Parents who they could grind through more background checks.

  Mrs. Ennis returned to them, holding several pieces of paper—a school calendar, contact information for administrative personnel, a phone tree of other parents to notify in the event of snow days.

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Sophie?” D.D. asked as gently as she could.

  Mrs. Ennis shook her head, her face still stricken.

  “If she ran away, can you think of where she’d hide?”

  “In the tree,” Mrs. Ennis said immediately. “When she wanted time alone, she always climbed the big oak in the backyard. Tessa said she used to do the same thing as a child.”

  Bobby and D.D. nodded. They had both studied the bare limbed tree. Six-year-old Sophie had not been perched among the branches.

  “How do you get to the house?” D.D. thought to ask, as she and Bobby rose out of their chairs.

  “The bus.”

  “Has Sophie ever ridden it with you? Does she understand mass transit?”

  “We have been on the bus. I don’t think she would know how.…” Mrs. Ennis paused, her dark eyes brightening. “But she does know her coins. The last few times we rode, she counted out the money. And she’s very adventurous. If she thought she needed to get on the bus for some reason, I could see her trying it alone.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ennis. If you think of anything else …” D.D. handed the woman her card.

  Bobby had opened the door. At the last moment, just as D.D. was exiting into the hall, Bobby turned back.

  “You said another officer introduced Tessa and Brian. Do you remember who that was?”

  “Oh, it was at a cookout.…” Mrs. Ennis paused, searched her memory banks. “Shane. That’s what Tessa called him. She’d gone to Shane’s house.”

  Bobby thanked the woman, then followed D.D. down the stairs.

  “Who’s Shane?” D.D. asked, the moment they were outside, puffing out frosty breaths of air and tugging on their gloves.

  “I’m guessing Trooper Shane Lyons, out of the Framingham barracks.”

  “The union rep!” D.D. stated.

  “Yep. As well as the officer who made the initial call.”

  “Then that’s who we’ll be interviewing next.” D.D. glanced at the distant horizon, noticed for the first time the rapidly fading daylight, and felt her heart sink. “Oh no. Bobby … It’s nearly dark!”

  “Then we’d better work faster.”

  Bobby turned down the walk. D.D. followed quickly behind him.

  10

  I was dreaming. In a hazy sort of way, I understood that, but didn’t jolt myself awake. I recognized the fall afternoon, the golden wisps of memory, and I didn’t want to leave it. I was with my husband and daughter. We were together, and we were happy.

  In my dream/memory, Sophie is five years old, her dark hair pulled into a stubby ponytail beneath her helmet as she rides her pink bike with big white training wheels through the neighborhood park. Brian and I trail behind her, holding hands. Brian’s face is relaxed, his shoulders down. It’s a beautiful fall day in Boston, the sun is out, the leaves are bright copper, and life is good.

  Sophie comes to the top of a hill. She waits for us to catch up, wanting an audience. Then, with a squeal, she kicks off against the pavement and sails her bike down the small incline, pedaling madly for maximum speed.

  I shake my head at my daughter’s madcap ways. Never mind that my stomach clenched the moment she took off. I know better than to let anything show on my face. My nervousness only encourages her, “scaring Mommy” a favorite game both she and Brian like to play.

  “I want to go faster!” Sophie announces at the bottom.

  “Find a bigger hill,” Brian says.

  I roll my eyes at both of them. “That was plenty fast, thank you very much.”

  “I want to take off my training wheels.”

  I pause, do a little double take. “You want to remove your training wheels?”

  “Yes.” Sophie is adamant. “I want to ride like a big girl. On two wheels. Then I’ll be faster.”

  I’m not sure what I think. When did I lose my training wheels? Five, six, I don’t remember. Probably sooner versus later. I was always a tomboy. How can I blame Sophie for sharing the same trait?

  Brian is already beside Sophie’s bike, checking out the setup.

  “Gonna need tools,” he declares, and that quickly, it’s settled. Brian trots home for a set of wrenches, Sophie bounds around the park, announcing to all strangers and at least half a dozen squirrels that she’s going to ride on two wheels. Everyone is impressed, particularly the squirrels, who chatter at her, before scampering up trees.

  Brian returns within fifteen minutes; he must have run the whole way to our house and back and I feel a rush of gratitude. That he loves Sophie that much. That he understands a five-year-old’s impulsiveness so well.

  Removing training wheels turns out to be remarkably easy. Within minutes, Brian has tossed the wheels into the grass, and Sophie is back on her bike, feet flat on the ground as she tightens the straps of her red helmet and regards us solemnly.

  “I’m ready,” she declares.

  And I have a moment, my hand pressed against my stomach, thinking, But I’m not. I’m really not. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she was this tiny little baby that fit on the curve of my shoulder? Or maybe a careening ten-month-old, taking that first wild step? How did she get this tall and where did all those years go and how do I get them back?

  She’s my whole world. How will I handle it if she falls?

  Brian is already stepping forward. He instructs Sophie to mount her bike. He has one hand on the handlebars, keeping them straight, another hand on the back of the banana seat to hold the bike steady.

  Sophie sits on the seat, both feet on the pedals. She appears both somber and fierce. She’s going to do this, it’s only a question of how many crashes until she gets it right.

  Brian is talking to her. Murmuring some instructions I can’t hear, because it’s easier if I stand back, distance myself from what is about to happen. Mothers hold close, fathers let go. Maybe that’s the way of the world.

  I try to remember again my first experience without training wheels. Did my father help me? Did my mother come out to witness the event? I can’t remember. I want to. Any kind of memory of my father providing words of advice, my parents paying attention.

  But I come up blank. My mother is dead. And my father made it clear ten years ago that he never wanted to see me again.

  He doesn’t know he has a granddaughter named Sophie. He doesn’t know his only child became a state police officer. His son died. His daughter, he threw away.

  Brian has Sophie lined up. The bike is trembling a little. Her nervousness. Maybe his. They are both wired, intent. I remain on the sidelines, una
ble to speak.

  Sophie starts to peddle. Beside her, Brian breaks into a jog, hands on the bike, assisting with balance as Sophie gains momentum. She’s going faster. Faster, faster.

  I hold my breath, both hands clenched into fists. Thank God for the helmet. It’s all I can think. Thank God for the helmet and why didn’t I cocoon my entire child in bubble wrap before letting her mount up?

  Brian lets go.

  Sophie surges forward, pedaling strong. Three feet, four feet, six, eight. Then, at the last second she glances down, seems to realize that Brian is no longer beside her, that she really is on her own. In the next instant, the handlebars twist and down she goes. A startled cry, an impressive crash.

  Brian is already there, on his knees beside her before I can take three steps. He untangles Sophie from her bike, gets her to standing, inspects each limb.

  Sophie’s not crying. Instead, she turns to me, as I hustle down the bike path toward her.

  “Did you see me?” my wild child squeals. “Mommy, did you see me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I hasten to assure her, finally arriving at the scene and inspecting my child for damage. She’s safe; I’ve lost twenty years off my life.

  “Again!” my child demands.

  Brian laughs as he straightens out her bike and helps her climb aboard. “You’re crazy,” he tells her, shaking his head.

  Sophie simply beams.

  By the end of the afternoon, she’s sailing around the park, training wheels nothing but a distant memory. Brian and I can no longer stroll behind her; she’s too fast for us. Instead, we climb up on a picnic table, where we can sit and watch her bike exuberant laps.

  We’re holding hands again, snuggled shoulder to shoulder against the late afternoon chill. I place my head on his shoulder as Sophie goes racing by.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “She’s a nut,” he answers.

  “I don’t think I could’ve done that.”

  “Hell, my heart’s still hammering in my chest.”