by Lisa Gardner
“Done.”
“I love them,” Shane whispered. “I’m a fuckup, but I love my family. I just want them to be okay.”
My turn not to talk.
“I’m sorry about Brian, Tessa. Really, didn’t think they’d do that. Didn’t think they’d harm him. Or go after Sophie. I never shoulda gambled. Never shoulda picked up one fucking card.”
“The name, Shane. Who killed Brian? Who took my daughter?”
He studied my battered face, finally seemed to wince. Then he nodded, sat up a little straighter, squared his shoulders. Once, Shane had been a good cop. Once, he’d been a good friend. Maybe he was trying to find that person again.
“John Stephen Purcell,” he told me. “An enforcer. A guy who works for guys. Find Purcell, and he’ll have Sophie. Or at least know where she is.”
“His address?”
Slight hesitation. “Take off the cuffs and I’ll get it.”
His pause was enough warning for me. I shook my head. “You never should’ve harmed my daughter,” I said softly, bringing up the Glock.
“Tessa, come on. I told you what you needed to know.” He rattled his cuffed wrists. “Jesus Christ, this is crazy. Let me go. I’ll help you get your daughter back. We’ll find Purcell together. Come on…”
I smiled, but it was sad. Shane made it all sound so easy. Of course, he could’ve made that offer on Saturday. Instead, he’d informed me to sit down, shut up, and oh yeah, he’d be by in the morning for my beating.
Good Brian. Bad Brian.
Good Shane. Bad Shane.
Good Tessa. Bad Tessa.
Maybe for all of us, that line between good and bad is thinner than it ought to be. And maybe for all of us, once that line’s been crossed, there’s no going back. You were who you were, and now you are who you are.
“Shane,” I murmured. “Think of your sons.”
He appeared confused, then I saw him connect the dots. Such as cops who died in the line of duty received death benefits for their families, while cops who went to jail for embezzling funds and engaging in criminal activities didn’t.
As Shane had said, he was a fuckup, but not a total failure.
Good Shane thought of his three sons. And I could tell when he reached the logical conclusion, because his shoulders came down. His face relaxed.
Shane Lyons looked at me one last time.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“Me, too,” I said.
Then, I pulled the trigger.
Afterward, I drove the cruiser out of the driveway and onto the street, eventually pulling in behind a darkened warehouse, the kind of place a cop might go if he spotted suspicious activity. I climbed into the back, ignoring the stench of blood, the way Shane’s body still felt warm and pliable.
I dug through his pockets, then his duty belt. I discovered a scrap of paper with digits that resembled GPS coordinates tucked beside his cellphone. I used the computer in the front seat to look up the coordinates, then wrote down the corresponding address and directions.
I returned to the backseat, uncuffing Shane’s hands, then placing his duty belt back around him. I’d done him a favor, shooting him with Brian’s Glock. I could’ve used his own Sig Sauer, raising the possibility that his death was suicide. In which case, Tina and the boys would’ve received nothing.
I’m not that hard yet, I thought. Not that stone cold.
My cheeks felt funny. My face curiously numb.
I kept myself focused on the business at hand. The night was young yet, and I had plenty of work to do.
I moved around the cruiser and popped the trunk. State troopers believed in being prepared and Shane did not disappoint. A case of water, half a dozen protein bars, and even some MREs lined one side. I dumped the food in my duffel bag, half a protein bar already stuffed into my mouth, then used Shane’s keys to open the long metal gun locker.
Shane stocked a Remington shotgun, M4 rifle, half a dozen boxes of ammo, and a KA-BAR knife.
I took it all.
37
Bobby and D.D. were halfway to Trooper Lyons’s house when they heard the call-Officer down, officer down, all officers respond…
Dispatch rattled off an address. D.D. plugged it into her computer. She paled as the local map appeared on the screen in front of her.
“That’s right by Tessa’s house,” she murmured.
“And Trooper Lyons’s,” Bobby said.
They stared at each other.
“Shit.”
Bobby hit the lights, floored the gas. They sped toward the address in utter silence.
By the time they arrived, ambulances and police cruisers had already bottlenecked the scene. Lots of officers milling about, no one really doing anything. Which meant only one thing.
Bobby and D.D. climbed out of the car. The first officer they came to was a state trooper, so Bobby did the honors.
“Situation?” he asked.
“Trooper Shane Lyons, sir. Single GSW to the head.” The young trooper swallowed hard. “Deceased, sir. Declared at the scene. Nothing the EMTs could do.”
Bobby nodded, glancing in D.D.’s direction.
“Was he on a call?” she asked.
“Negative. Hadn’t reported in yet to the duty desk. Detective Parker”-the kid gestured to a man dressed in a gray heavy wool coat and standing inside the crime-scene tape-“is leading the investigation. Might want to talk to him, sir, ma’am.”
They nodded, thanked the kid, and moved forward.
Bobby knew Al Parker. He and D.D. flashed their creds for the uniformed officer handling the murder log, then they ducked under the yellow tape and approached the lead detective.
Parker, a thin, gangly man, straightened at their arrival. He shook Bobby’s hands with his leather gloves still on, then Bobby introduced D.D.
The snow was finally slowing down. A couple of inches remained on the pavement, revealing a churn of footprints as officers and EMTs had rushed to assist. Only one set of tire tracks, though. That was D.D.’s first thought. Another vehicle would’ve left some kind of imprint behind, but she didn’t see anything.
She related this to Detective Parker, who nodded.
“Appears Trooper Lyons drove behind the building,” he said. “Not officially on duty yet. Nor did he notify dispatch that he was responding to signs of suspicious activity…”
Detective Parker let that statement explain itself.
Officers on duty always called in. It was imprinted into their DNA. If you grabbed coffee, peed, or spied a burglary in progress, you called it in. Meaning whatever had brought Trooper Lyons to this remote destination hadn’t been professional, but personal.
“Single GSW,” Detective Parker continued. “Left temple. Shot fired from the front seat. Trooper Lyons was in the back.”
D.D. startled. Bobby, as well.
Seeing their looks, Detective Parker waved them over to the cruiser, which sat with all four doors open. He started with the bloodstain in the backseat, then worked backwards for the trajectory of the shot.
“He was wearing his duty belt?” Bobby asked with a frown.
Parker nodded. “Yes, but there are marks on his wrists consistent with restraints. Bracelets were no longer present when the first officer arrived, but at some point this evening, Trooper Lyons’s hands were cuffed.”
D.D. didn’t like that image-a bound officer, sitting in the back of his cruiser, staring down the barrel of a gun. She hunkered deeper inside her winter coat, feeling cold snowflakes whisper across her eyelashes.
“His weapon?” she asked.
“Sig Sauer is in his holster. But check this out.”
Parker led them around to the rear of the cruiser, where he popped the trunk. It was empty. D.D. instantly understood the significance. No cop, uniformed or otherwise, had an empty trunk. There should be some basic supplies, not to mention at least a rifle or shotgun or both.
She glanced at Bobby for confirmation. “Remington shotgun and M4 rifle are s
tandard issue,” he muttered, nodding. “Somebody was looking for weapons.”
Parker studied both of them, but neither she nor Bobby said another word. It went without saying between them who that somebody was, a person who knew Trooper Lyons, could lure him out to his cruiser, and desperately needed fire power.
“Trooper Lyons’s family?” Bobby asked now.
“Colonel went over to notify.”
“Shit,” Bobby murmured.
“Three boys. Shit,” Parker agreed.
D.D.’s cellphone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was local, so she excused herself to answer.
A minute later, she returned to Bobby and Parker.
“Gotta go,” she said, tapping Bobby lightly on the arm.
He didn’t ask, not in front of the other detective. He simply shook Parker’s hand, thanked him for his time, then they were off.
“Who?” Bobby asked, once they were out of hearing.
“Believe it or not, Shane’s widow. She has something for us.”
Bobby arched a brow.
“Envelope,” D.D. clarified. “Apparently, Shane handed it to her Sunday evening. Said if anything happened to him, she was to call me, and only me, and hand it over. Colonel has just left. The widow is now complying with her husband’s final wishes.”
Every light blazed in Shane Lyons’s house. Half a dozen cars crowded the street, including two parked illegally on the front yard. Family, D.D. guessed. Wives of other troopers. The support system, kicking into gear.
She wondered if Shane’s boys had woken up yet. She wondered if their mother had already broken the news that their father would never again be coming home.
She and Bobby stood shoulder to shoulder at the front door, faces carefully schooled, because that’s how these things worked. They mourned the passing of any law enforcement officer, felt the pain of the officer’s family, and tended to duty anyway. Trooper Shane Lyons was a victim who was also a suspect. Nothing easy about this kind of case or this kind of investigation.
An older woman came to the door first. Judging by age and facial features, D.D. pegged her to be Tina Lyons’s mom. D.D. flashed her credentials; Bobby, too.
The older woman appeared confused. “Surely you don’t have questions for Tina right now,” she said softly. “At least give my daughter a day or two-”
“She called us, ma’am,” D.D. said.
“What?”
“We’re here because she asked us to come,” D.D. reiterated. “If you could just let her know Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren is here, we don’t mind waiting outside.”
Actually, she and Bobby preferred outside. Whatever Tina had for them was the kind of thing best not shown in front of witnesses.
Minutes passed. Just when D.D. was beginning to think that Tina had changed her mind, the woman appeared. Her face was haggard, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping. She wore a fluffy pink bathrobe, the top clutched closed with one hand. In the other, she held a plain white catalog-sized envelope.
“Do you know who killed my husband?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
Tina Lyons thrust the envelope toward D.D. “That’s all I want to know. I mean it. That’s all I want to know. Find that out, and we’ll speak again.”
She retreated back to the tenuous comfort of her family and friends, leaving D.D. and Bobby on the front stoop.
“She knows something,” Bobby said.
“She suspects,” D.D. corrected quietly. “She doesn’t want to know. I believe that was the whole point of her statement.”
D.D. clutched the envelope with gloved hands. She looked around the snowy driveway. After midnight in a quiet residential area, the sidewalk studded with streetlights, and yet pools of darkness loomed everywhere.
She felt suddenly conspicuous and overexposed.
“Let’s go,” she muttered to Bobby.
They moved carefully down the street toward their parked car. D.D. carried the envelope in her gloved hands. Bobby carried his gun.
Ten minutes later, they’d conducted basic evasive maneuvers around a maze of Allston-Brighton streets. Bobby was content no one had followed them. D.D. was dying to know the contents of the envelope.
They found a convenience store buzzing with college students, not deterred by either the weather or the late hour. The cluster of vehicles made their Crown Vic less conspicuous, while the students provided plenty of eyewitnesses to deter ambush.
Satisfied, D.D. exchanged her winter gloves for a latex pair, then worked the flap of the envelope, easing it carefully open in order to preserve evidence.
Inside, she found a dozen five-by-seven color photos. The first eleven appeared to be of Shane Lyons’s family. Here was Tina at the grocery store. There was Tina walking into a building holding a yoga mat. Here was Tina picking up the boys from school. There were the boys, playing on the school playground.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to get the message. Someone had been stalking Shane’s family and that person wanted him to know about it.
Then D.D. came to the last photo. She sucked in her breath, while beside her, Bobby swore.
Sophie Leoni.
They were staring at Sophie Leoni, or rather, she was staring directly at the camera, clutching a doll with one mangled blue button eye. Sophie’s lips were pressed together, the way a child might do when trying hard not to cry. But she had her chin up. Her blue gaze seemed to be trying for defiance, though there were streaks of dirt and tears on her cheeks and her pretty brown hair now looked like a rat’s nest.
The photo was cropped close, providing only the hint of wood paneling in the background. Maybe a closet or other small room. A windowless dark room, D.D. thought. That’s where someone would imprison a child.
Her hand started to tremble.
D.D. flipped over the photo, looking for other clues.
She found a message scrawled in black marker: Don’t Let This Be Your Kid, Too.
D.D. flipped the photo back over, took one more look at Sophie’s heart-shaped face, and her hands now shook so badly she had to set the photo on her lap.
“Someone really did kidnap her. Someone really did…” Then her next jumbled thought. “And it’s been more than three fucking days! What are our odds of finding her after three fucking days!”
She whacked the dash. The blow stung her hand and didn’t do a thing to dampen her rage.
She whirled on her partner. “What the fuck is going on here, Bobby? Who the fuck kidnaps one police officer’s child, while threatening the family of a second officer? I mean, who the hell does that?”
Bobby didn’t answer right away. His hands were clutching the steering wheel, and all his knuckles had turned white.
“What did Tina say when she called?” he demanded suddenly. “What were Shane’s instructions to her?”
“If something happened to him, she was to give this envelope to me.”
“Why you, D.D.? With all due respect, you’re a Boston cop. If Shane needed help, wouldn’t he turn to his own friends in uniform, his supposed brothers in blue?”
D.D. stared at him. She remembered the first day of the case, the way the state police had closed ranks, even against her, a city cop. Then her eyes widened.
“You don’t think…” she began.
“Not that many criminals have the cajones to threaten one, let alone two, state troopers. But another cop would.”
“Why?”
“How much is missing from the troopers’ union?”
“Quarter mil.”
Bobby nodded.
“In other words, two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to betray the uniform. Two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to kill Brian Darby, kidnap Sophie Leoni, and threaten Shane Lyons.”
D.D. considered it. “Tessa Leoni shot Trooper Lyons. He betrayed the uniform, but even worse he betrayed her family. Now the question is, did she get from Lyons the information she was after?”
“Name and address of the p
erson who has her daughter,” Bobby filled in.
“Lyons was a minion. Maybe Brian Darby, too. They pilfered the troopers’ union to fund their gambling habit. But somebody else helped them-the person calling the shots.”
Bobby glanced at Sophie’s photo, seemed to be formulating his thoughts. “If it was Tessa Leoni who shot Trooper Lyons, and she’s made it this far, that means she must have a vehicle.”
“Not to mention a small arsenal of weapons.”
“So maybe she did get a name and address,” Bobby added.
“She’s going after her daughter.”
Bobby finally smiled. “Then for the criminal mastermind’s sake, the bastard better hope that we find him first.”
38
Some things are best not to think about. So I didn’t. I drove. Mass Pike to 128, 128 southbound to Dedham. Eight more miles, half a dozen turns, I was in a heavily wooded residential area. Older homes, larger properties. The kind of place where people had trampolines in the front yard and laundry lines in the back.
Good place to hold a kid, I thought, then stopped thinking again.
I missed the address the first time. Didn’t see the numbers in the falling snow. When I realized I’d gone too far, I hit the brakes, and the old truck fishtailed. I turned into the spin, a secondhand reflex that calmed my nerves and returned my composure.
Training. That’s what this came down to.
Thugs didn’t train.
But I did.
I parked my truck next to the road. In plain sight, but I needed it accessible for a quick getaway. I had Brian’s Glock.40 tucked in the back waistband of my pants. The KA-BAR knife came with a lower leg sheath. I strapped it on.
Then I loaded the shotgun. If you’re young, female, and not terribly large, shotgun is always the way to go. You could take down a water buffalo without even having to aim.
Checking my black gloves, tugging down my black cap. Feeling the cold, but as something abstract and far away. Mostly, I could hear a rushing sound in my ears, my own blood, I supposed, powered through my veins by a flood of adrenaline.
No flashlight. I let my eyes adjust to the kind of dark that exists only on rural roads, then I darted through the woods.
