Touch & Go

  Tessa Leoni lay on the left side of her bed as her phone began a louder, tumbling cascade of chimes. Her hand was outstretched, she realized. Not reaching toward her phone, but toward the empty half of the bed. As if even two years after his death, she still reached for the husband who once slept there.

  Her phone chirped louder, more obnoxiously. She forced herself to roll toward the nightstand, noting that actual sleep turned out to be more disorienting than chronic insomnia.

  She answered her phone just as the last chime was fading. She registered her boss’s voice, a third surprise as he was rarely the one who initiated contact. Then the last of her fogginess faded and years of training took over. She nodded, asked the questions she needed to ask, then had the phone down and clothes on.

  A final moment’s hesitation. Firearm or no firearm? Not a requirement anymore, unlike the days when she’d been a Massachusetts state police trooper, but still sometimes practical in her new line of work. She contemplated the brief amount of information her boss had relayed—the situation, the timeline, the number of known unknowns—and made her decision. Gun safe, back of her closet. She rolled the combo with practiced fingers in the dark, withdrawing her Glock and slipping it into her shoulder harness.

  Saturday morning, 6:28 A.M., she was ready to go.

  She picked up her cell phone, slipped it into her jacket pocket, then crossed the hall to alert her live-in housekeeper/nanny/longtime friend.

  Mrs. Ennis was already awake. As with many older women, she had a nearly preternatural ability to know when she’d be needed and generally operated one step ahead. Now she was sitting upright, bedside lamp snapped on, notepad in her hands for last-minute instructions. She slept in an ankle-length red-and-green-plaid flannel nightgown Sophie had given her last year for Christmas. All she needed was a small white cap, and Mrs. Ennis would look just like the grandmother in “Little Red Riding Hood.”

  “I’ve been called in,” Tessa said, an obvious statement.

  “What should I tell her?” Mrs. Ennis asked. “Her” meant Sophie, Tessa’s eight-year-old daughter. Having lost the only father she’d ever known to violence two years ago, Sophie wasn’t keen on letting her mother out of her sight. It was for Sophie’s sake, as much as her own, that Tessa had resigned from being a state trooper after Brian’s death. Her daughter had needed more stability, to know at least one parent would be coming home at night. Tessa’s new job in corporate investigations generally allowed for nine-to-five hours. Of course, this morning’s call…

  Tessa hesitated. “From what I can tell, the situation is urgent,” she admitted. “Meaning it might be a day or two before I return. Depends on what kind of juggling I have to do to gain traction.”

  Mrs. Ennis nodded, didn’t speak.

  “Tell Sophie she can text me,” Tessa said at last. “I don’t know if I’ll always be able to answer my phone, but she can touch base by text and I’ll answer.”

  Tessa nodded as she said the words, satisfied with that answer. Sophie needed to be able to reach her mother. Whether with the touch of her hand, or the push of a button, Sophie simply needed to know, at all times, that her mother was there.

  Because once, Tessa hadn’t been, and even two years later, those kinds of wounds left a mark.

  “She has gymnastics this morning,” Mrs. Ennis said. “Perhaps she can invite a friend over afterward. That’ll keep her busy.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try to call before dinner, definitely before bedtime.”

  “Don’t worry about us.” Mrs. Ennis sounded brisk now. She’d been caring for Sophie since she was a newborn, including the long years Tessa had spent patrolling on graveyard shift. There was nothing involving the household or Sophie that Mrs. Ennis couldn’t handle, and she knew it.

  “Go on now,” Mrs. Ennis said, waving her hand dismissively toward the door. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you.” Tessa meant it.

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “Always.” She meant that, too.

  Tessa eased down the darkened hallway. Her footsteps moved slower than she would’ve liked, pausing before her daughter’s room. Going in, waking her sleeping child would be an act of selfishness. So she contented herself with standing in the open doorway, peering across the dusky room until she could make out the tumble of her daughter’s dark brown hair across her light green pillow.

  Two night lights burned, as Sophie was no longer comfortable with the dark. Tucked between her hands was her favorite doll, a Raggedy Ann–like toy named Gertrude with brown yarn hair and dark button eyes. After Brian’s death, Gertrude wore a Band-Aid on her chest. Because her heart hurt, Sophie would say, and Tessa would nod in understanding.

  Sophie wasn’t the only one with scars from two years ago. Each time Tessa walked out the door now, whether heading to work, going for a run or popping down to the grocery story, she felt the separation from her child as a physical ache, a tearing of herself in half so that she couldn’t be whole until she returned home again. And sometimes she still dreamed of snow and blood, of reaching for her husband’s falling form. But just as often, she dreamed of herself still holding the gun, still pulling the trigger.

  Tessa made it down the hallway. She paused in the kitchen long enough to scrawl a simple note and place it on her daughter’s chair. She wrote: Love you. Be home soon…

  Then she took a deep breath and walked out the door.

  TESSA HADN’T BEEN ONE OF THOSE KIDS who grew up dreaming of being a cop. Her father was the neighborhood mechanic, a blue-collar guy much more interested in his daily Jack Daniel’s than his only daughter. Her mother had existed as a shadowy figure who rarely left the back bedroom. She’d died young, leaving Tessa to mourn the idea of her more than the actual person.

  Left to her own devices, Tessa had made the kinds of decisions that had left her alone, pregnant and destitute. And just like that, she’d grown up. Failing herself had never seemed such a big deal, but there was no way she was going to fail her child. First order of business, identify a career path suitable for a single mom equipped with little more than a GED. That had led her to the police academy, where she’d spent six long months learning to shoot, fight and strategize. She’d surprised herself by proving to have a knack for all three.

  Even more so, she’d loved it. The job, the uniform, the camaraderie. Four years, she’d patrolled the highways of Massachusetts, collaring drunks, defusing fights and handling domestic disputes. Four whole years, she’d had a purpose and felt as if she was genuinely making a difference. She’d been happy.

  She trusted in her training now, as she turned into downtown Boston, searching for a parking space while simultaneously beginning her analysis of the crime scene. The Denbes lived in Back Bay, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Boston, as would befit the head of a hundred-million-dollar company. The area featured elegant rows of stately townhomes, nestled close enough together that someone should have heard something, but expensive enough that the walls were no doubt filled with some insulation specially designed to give the rich the feeling of being on their own deserted island even amid the sea of downtown urban living.

  No ME vehicle and no mobile command center, she noted, which made sense, given the call had come in as a simple B and E. On the other hand, she counted over six patrol cars, plus several unmarked detectives’ vehicles. Lot of manpower for a break-in. Not to mention the presence of multiple detectives… Clearly the police were moving along from their initial assessment of the situation.

  Tessa pulled around Marlborough Street to the back alley where lucky Back Bay residents had reserved parking, and even luckier ones, private garages. She found an empty space and grabbed it. Totally illegal, of course, but given that she now spotted additional detectives’ vehicles, she wasn’t the first investigator to take advantage. She grabbed her placard identifying her vehicle as Special Investigations and stuck it on the dash of her Lexus. She’d probably get ticketed out of spite, but it was what it was.


  Tessa climbed out of her car, wrapped herself in her long chocolate-brown wool coat, then found herself hesitating again.

  Her first instinct was to shed her Glock. Stick it in the glove compartment. Wearing it into this scene, in front of Boston detectives, would only invite comment.

  But then that pissed her off. Cop 101: Never let them see you sweat.

  Chin up, shoulders back, Tessa slipped her legally registered firearm into her holster, and got to it.

  Sun was up now, casting the row of redbricked and cream-painted town houses in a golden glow. Once back on Marlborough Street, she followed the redbrick sidewalk down to the Denbes’ residence, admiring all the front stoops still harboring dried cornstalks and various harvest decorations in honor of Thanksgiving. Most of the townhomes boasted small curbside gardens defined by ornate black wrought-iron fencing. This time of year, the plantings were reduced to miniature boxwoods, larger leafy green shrubs and, in some cases, dead mums. At least the temperature today wasn’t so bad, the sun promising some heat. But day by day, the sun would fall lower in the sky, the days growing shorter, the wind gaining bite as December dawned nearly painful with its early morning chill.

  A young uniformed officer stood alone in front of the Denbe residence. He was juggling from foot to foot, maybe to keep himself warm, maybe to keep himself awake. This close, standing on the sidewalk before the striking cream-washed, black-trimmed town house, there was no sign of immediate tragedy. No crime-scene tape had been strewn across the front steps, no ME’s gurney stood waiting on the narrow front walk. Relatively speaking, the scene was quiet, which already made Tessa wonder what Boston police didn’t want people to know.

  According to Tessa’s boss, the Denbe family’s housekeeper had placed the first call to police shortly after 5:30 A.M. She’d reported the residence appeared to have been broken into, at which point a Boston district detective had been deployed to the scene. What he’d found inside implied an incident a bit more urgent than a routine burglary, and had led to many more phone calls, including one from Justin Denbe’s company to Tessa’s boss.

  Messy, Tessa had thought during her boss’s initial call. Now, staring at the gaping black walnut front door of the house, she amended that to complicated. Very complicated.

  She squared off against the young officer, flashing her investigator’s shield. Predictably, he shook his head.

  “Private party,” he informed her. “Boston uniforms only.”

  “But I got a special invitation,” Tessa countered. “Direct from the family’s company, Denbe Construction. A firm that specializes in hundred-million-dollar building projects, handed directly to them by state senators and high-ranking Washington insiders. You know, the kind of people working stiffs like you and me can’t afford to piss off.”

  Officer glared at her. “Which Washington insiders?”

  “The kind of power brokers who’ve granted Justin Denbe a standing invitation to the presidential inauguration of his choice. Those kinds of insiders.” Actually, that might be stretching things a bit, but she felt it got her point across.

  The officer shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Not completely buying the story of political connections, but given the residence’s location in wealthy Back Bay, not completely willing to discount it, either.

  “Look,” Tessa pressed. “This family, this neighborhood. Hell, we’re all out of our league. Which is why Denbe’s company employed my company. Private firm to protect private interests. I’m not saying it’s right, or that you have to like it, but we both know in these circles, that’s how the world works.”

  She was winning, she could tell she was winning. Which of course was the moment Boston Detective Sergeant D. D. Warren appeared.

  The hard-edged blonde walked out the front door, peeled off two latex gloves, took in Tessa’s presence and openly smirked.

  “Heard you became a rent-a-cop,” the homicide detective stated. Her short blond curls bounced in the morning sun as she descended the front steps. An investigator known for her fashion sense, D.D. wore dark-washed jeans, a light blue button-up shirt, and a caramel-colored leather jacket. Her matching boots had three-inch high heels and she still didn’t miss a beat.

  “Heard you became a mom.”

  “Married, too.” The detective flashed a blue sparkling band. She drew to a halt next to the uniformed officer, who was looking from side to side as if in search of a quick exit.

  D.D. and Tessa had last seen each other in a hospital room two years ago. D.D. and her state partner, Bobby Dodge, had been interrogating Tessa regarding her husband’s shooting, her fellow trooper’s murder and two other deaths. Tessa hadn’t liked D.D.’s questions. D.D. hadn’t liked Tessa’s answers. Apparently, time had not changed either of their opinions.

  Now D.D. jerked her chin toward the distinct bulge beneath Tessa’s open coat. “They seriously allow you to carry a gun?”

  “That’s what happens when a court clears a person of all charges. Innocent in the eyes of the law and all that.”

  D.D. rolled her eyes. She hadn’t bought that story two years ago, either. “Why are you here?” the city cop asked crisply.

  “To take your case.”

  “Can’t.”

  Tessa didn’t say anything, silence being the best show of strength.

  “Seriously,” D.D. continued. “Can’t take my case, ’cause it’s not my case.”

  “What?” Tessa couldn’t help herself; the news was unexpected given D.D’s status as Boston’s reigning supercop.

  D.D. jerked her head toward the front door of the brownstone. “Lead detective is Neil Cap. He’s inside if you want to take up matters with him.”

  Tessa had to search her memory banks. “Wait a minute. The red-headed kid? The one who spent all his time at the ME’s office? That Neil?”

  “I raised him right,” D.D. said modestly. “And for the record, he’s five years older than you, and doesn’t take well to being called a kid. Definitely, you’re gonna need better manners than that if you want to muscle in on his case.”

  “I don’t need manners. I have permission from the owners to enter.”

  D.D.’s turn to appear surprised. Her bright blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “The family? You’ve spoken to them? Because we’d really like to speak to them. Right away, in fact.”

  “Not the family. Turns out, like a lot of rich guys, Justin Denbe didn’t purchase his own home. His company did.”

  Detective Warren had always been a smart woman. “Shit,” the detective exhaled.

  “As of six this morning,” Tessa filled in, “Denbe Construction retained Northledge Investigations to handle all matters related to this property. I’m authorized to enter the home, assess the scene and conduct an independent analysis of the incident. Now, we can all stand around waiting for the fax to reach your offices, or you can let me get to work. As I was explaining to this fine officer here, the Denbe family is just a little bit connected. Meaning you might as well let me enter and put my head on the chopping block. It’ll save you the time and effort later of finding someone else to blame.”

  D.D. didn’t speak, just shook her head. The detective studied the brick walk for a second, maybe composing herself, but more likely coming up with the next line of attack.

  “What’d you serve in the end, Tessa?” D.D. quizzed. “Four, five years as a patrol officer?”

  “Four.”

  The veteran detective looked up. Her expression wasn’t mocking, but frank. “Not enough experience for this kind of case,” she stated bluntly. “You’ve never processed evidence, let alone dissected a five-story crime scene, let alone taken on responsibility for this kind of situation. We’re not talking speed-trapping motor vehicles or administering breathalyzer tests to drunks. We’re talking an entire family, gone, including a teenage girl.”

  Tessa kept her face impassive. “I know.”

  “How’s Sophie?” the Boston detective asked abruptly.

  “S
he’s doing well, thank you.”

  “My son’s name is Jack.”

  “How old?”

  “Eleven months.”

  Tessa had to smile. “Love him more than you ever thought you could love someone? Till you wake up the next day and realize you love him even more?”

  D.D. didn’t look away. “Yes.”

  “Told you so.”

  “I remember, Tessa. And you know what? I still think you were wrong. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed. As a cop, you knew that better than anyone, and you still shot a person in cold blood. Whether out of love, or out of hate, murder is never right.”

  “Allegedly,” Tessa replied coolly. “Allegedly shot a person in cold blood.”

  D.D. did not look amused. She continued, voice slightly softer, “But…you got your daughter back. And there are days now, just like you said there would be, when I look at my son, and… I don’t know. If he was in danger, if I feared for his life… Well, let’s just say I still don’t agree with what you did, but maybe I understand your actions better.”

  Tessa remained impassive. As apologies went, this was as close as D. D. Warren was ever going to get. Which already made Tessa suspicious of what the Boston detective would do next.

  Sure enough: “Look, obviously, I can’t stop you from entering the house and conducting your independent analysis, given that the owner of the house has granted you permission,” D.D. said. “But respect our efforts, okay? Neil’s a solid detective, backed by a seasoned squad. Better yet, we have a head start on evidence processing, and if what we think happened, happened, the fate of this family depends on us getting our acts together. Pronto.”

  Tessa waited a heartbeat. “It’s not like you to use your nice voice.”

  “And it’s not like you to be stupid.”

  “True.”

  “Got a deal?”

  The sun was all the way up now. Warming the brick sidewalk, illuminating the cream-painted town house, reaching fingers for the yawning solid walnut door. Such a beautiful street, Tessa thought, for such a terrible crime. But then, she knew better than most that no one ever knew what really went on behind closed doors, even in a supposedly happy family, even among the wealthy Boston elite.