“Big guy,” D.D. agreed. “Very fit.”
“So attackers. At least one or two in the entryway. Element of surprise for the parents. Which just leaves the girl.”
“If you were the kidnappers, who would you tend to first? Parents or child?”
“Child,” Tessa said immediately. “Moment you control the child, you control the parents.”
“Yep. Which is where our guys almost made their first mistake. Girl’s room is on the third floor. Come on, follow me.”
Chapter 5
MY FATHER DIED THE SAME WEEKEND as my eleventh birthday. To this day, when I think of him, I taste Duncan Hines yellow cake, topped with sugary buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles. I smell the melting wax of my twin number-one birthday candles, shoved side by side into the top of my lopsided round cake. I hear music, “Happy Birthday,” to be exact. A song I’ve never sung to my own family and never will.
Motorcycle accident, it turned out. My father wasn’t wearing a helmet.
Darwinism, my mother would mutter, but her blue eyes were always drawn, her expression deeply saddened. My first experience that you can both hate a man and miss him terribly.
Losing a parent isn’t a great financial proposition. Up until that point, my father’s job as an electrician and my mother’s part-time work at the corner dry cleaners had kept us solidly blue collar. Cute little apartment in a working-class area of Boston. A single used POS car for my mom, the weekend motorcycle for my dad. We bought our clothes from J.C. Penney, or if my mother was feeling frisky, T.J. Maxx. I never worried about food on the table, or the roof over my head. My friends in the neighborhood were also working class, and if I didn’t have much, well, at least I had as much as they did.
Unfortunately, the working-class lifestyle generally leaves households with just enough income to meet monthly obligations, while not quite enough to fund such luxuries as savings accounts or, better yet, life insurance.
After my father died, my mother and I lost seventy percent of our family’s income. Social Security kicked in some survivor’s benefits, but not enough to bridge that gap. My mom went from part-time work to full-time hours. When that wasn’t enough, she started a cleaning service on the side. I’d go with her, two nights a week, plus every weekend, perfecting my own vacuuming, dusting and washing skills as we scoured our way toward one more meal on the table.
Good-bye, cute little apartment. Hello, one-bedroom subsidized living unit in a vast, soulless building where gunfire was a nightly occurrence and the cockroaches outnumbered the human occupants a thousand to one. On Friday nights, my mother would light the gas stove and I’d stand by with the can of Raid. We’d take out two to three dozen roaches at a time, then watch Seinfeld on a tiny black-and-white TV to celebrate.
Good times in the new world order.
I was lucky. My mom fought the good fight. Never gave in to hopelessness, at least not in front of me, though subsidized housing units have thin walls and many nights I woke up to the sound of her sobbing. Grief. Exhaustion. Stress. By rights, she was entitled to all three, and in the morning, I never spoke of it. Just got up, and continued on with the business of surviving.
I discovered art in high school. Had a great teacher, Mrs. Scribner, who wore bright-colored peasant skirts and stacks of silver and gold bracelets, as if a gypsy had gotten lost in inner-city Boston. Students made fun of her. But the second you entered her classroom, you couldn’t help but be transported. She covered the bone-white walls in Monet’s water lilies, Van Gogh’s sunflowers, Pollock’s splattered drips and Dali’s melting clocks. Color, flowers, shapes, patterns. The dingy halls and battered lockers and leaking drop ceilings of an underfunded public high school faded away. Her class became our refuge, and guided by her enthusiasm, we tried to find beauty in an existence that for most of us was harsh and, for many of us, tragically short.
When I told my mom I wanted to study art in college, I thought she was going to spit nails. Fine art, what kind of degree was fine art? For the love of God, at least study something practical like accounting, where one day I could get a real job, and earn enough money to get both of us out of this hellhole. Or, if I absolutely had to be creative, what about a marketing degree? But at least study something useful that would one day qualify me for doing more than asking, “Do you want fries with that?”
Mrs. Scribner brought her around. Not by arguing that I had talent worth pursuing, or dreams worth chasing, but by mentioning there were a number of scholarships available for inner-city youths. At that stage of the game, free money was the key to my mother’s heart. So I studied and painted and sculpted, exploring various artistic media, until one day I read about silver-infused clay and realized I could combine sculpting with jewelry design, the best of both worlds. My mother even liked it, because jewelry was tangible, something you could sell, maybe to some of her cleaning clients if it came down to it.
I got into college just in time for my mom to be diagnosed with lung cancer. Darwinism, she would mutter, while gazing longingly at her pack of cigarettes. She had options, but none that she pursued very hard. Honestly, I think she still missed my father. I think, nine years later, she just wanted to see him again.
I buried her my sophomore year. And just like that, I was twenty years old and alone in the world, armed with a college scholarship and the desperate need to create, to find some beauty in a world that was just so grim.
I did okay. My parents raised me right. By the time I met Justin, he marveled over both my innate resilience and inner vulnerability. I worked hard but accepted his helping hand. I never questioned his desire to work hundred-hour weeks, as long as he never questioned my need to be alone in an art studio, armed with precious-metal-infused clay. I never expected to be saved, you know, didn’t go looking for Prince Charming or think that once I met him, now I’d get to live happily ever after and never want for anything ever again.
And yet… I fell hard. Completely, passionately in love. And if this strong, handsome, incredibly hardworking guy wanted to give me the world, well, who was I to argue?
We had balance, I told myself. We had love, mutual respect and a whole lot of lust. Which was shortly followed by the Boston brownstone, the cars, the clothes, not to mention an entire lifestyle beyond my wildest dreams.
Then we had Ashlyn.
And if I’d once fallen hard for my husband, I fell even harder for my child. It was as if my entire life had been building to this one moment, my finest work, my greatest accomplishment, this tiny bundle of precious life.
That first night, her sleeping form bundled against my chest, I solemnly stroked her pudgy cheek, and shamelessly promised her the world. She would never want for anything—food, clothes, safety, security. She would not live forever haunted by the taste of birthday cake or the smell of melting wax. She would not fall asleep to pops of gunfire or wake up to the sound of her mother crying.
For her the skies would be bright, the horizon unlimited, the stars always within reach. Her parents would live forever. Her every need would be met.
This, and more, I promised her, my darling girl.
Back in the days when my husband and I were still in love and I was convinced that, together, we could handle anything.
Chapter 6
THE BASE OF THE STAIRCASE CURVED, but once on the second floor, it surrendered to the more traditional switchback approach. D.D. didn’t stop on the second floor, but continued climbing to the third.
Tessa still didn’t see any more detectives, and only a smattering of yellow evidence placards, most of which seemed to be identifying black scuff marks. From the attackers, she was more and more willing to bet. A good housekeeper would’ve cleaned up the marks before now, while a good wife would’ve demanded the offending boots be left by the front door.
“There’s an elevator,” D.D. said.
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Shoots all the way from the basement garage to the fourth-story rooftop patio. The beautifully woo
d-paneled double door you see off each hallway—the elevator door is tucked behind it. Panel slides to the right, you hit the button and voilà. I bet the wife uses it every time she returns home from yoga.”
Tessa didn’t say anything. Apparently, running a hundred-million-dollar construction firm had its perks.
“Also, in the basement,” D.D. continued, “a wine cellar, built-in gun safe and an au pair suite. Wine cellar and gun safe are both locked and appear undisturbed. The au pair suite wasn’t locked, but equally undisturbed.”
“Do they have a nanny?”
“Not anymore. Probably when Ashlyn was young, though. Now they just employ the housekeeper, Dina Johnson, and she doesn’t live on the property.”
“Big house for three people,” Tessa observed. “What are we looking at, about two thousand square feet per family member? How do they even find each other?”
D.D. shrugged. “A lot of families seem to prefer it that way.”
“Sophie still crawls into my bed half the time,” Tessa heard herself say.
“Really? I only wish Jack would sleep. Apparently, he’s on a five-year plan.”
“Don’t worry. Preschool will take the fight out of him. Toddlers chase other toddlers around all day, and next thing you know, they’re asleep by seven.”
“Great. Just two more years to go.”
“Assuming you’re only going to have one child.”
“Hah, I was doing good to reproduce at forty. As far as I’m concerned, the baby factory is out of business. You’re the youngster; you have a second, and I’ll borrow.”
They arrived on the third floor, the staircase dumping them into a wide hallway liberally sprinkled with doorways. Tessa immediately spotted half a dozen evidence placards, plus one lanky, carrot-topped detective leaning against the wall, surveying the scene.
“Neil,” D.D. called out. “Brought you a guest.”
Neil looked up, blinked his eyes. Tessa still thought the redhead looked approximately sixteen, but then he narrowed his gaze, and she saw crow’s-feet crinkle the corner of his blue eyes.
“What?”
She stepped forward, offering a hand. “Tessa Leoni. Northledge Investigations. The owner of the property, Denbe Construction, hired me to conduct an independent assessment of the situation.”
“The owner? Denbe Construction… Wait. Tessa Leoni? The Tessa Leoni?”
It had been only two years, and given the media attention at the time… Tessa waited patiently.
Neil swung his attention to D.D. “You let her in? Without asking me? If I’d done that when you were in charge, you would’ve skinned me alive with a rusty razor, then gotten out a shaker of salt.”
“I made her promise not to touch anything,” D.D. said mildly.
“I only want the computers,” Tessa interjected. “And I won’t even take them. Just need to check something first. You can watch. But”—she shot a glance at D.D. just for sport—“your turn to promise not to touch.”
Neil scowled at both of them. “This is a time-sensitive investigation!”
“Yes.”
“Not to mention a highly complex crime scene!”
“How many perpetrators do you think?” Tessa asked him.
“At least two. Taser guy. Boot guy. Wait. I don’t have to share any information with you.”
“True, but Denbe Construction would appreciate your cooperation, which in turn will help you later, when no doubt you’re going to need information from them.”
Neil scowled again, then pursed his lips, considering. Tessa wasn’t touching anything, and they would need help from Justin’s construction firm, with requests to view corporate financials and personnel files being on the top of any good detective’s next-steps list.
“I think there were three to four guys,” Neil said, more considerate now. “But I can’t pinpoint exactly why. That’s what I’m doing now. Staring at the walls and willing them to talk.”
Tessa understood. Police work often felt exactly like that. And sometimes, the walls did talk, at least forensically speaking.
Now she gestured to a collection of evidence placards, which seemed to mark a trail of water drops. “What spilled?”
“Urine.” Neil pointed toward a doorway at the end of the hall. “Girl’s bathroom. Looks like they surprised her in there. Must’ve made a noise, I don’t know. But she was peeing, as there’s also urine in the toilet, but no toilet paper.”
“Sure it wasn’t a guy?” D.D. asked.
“Well, not being a total idiot, I thought we’d test it to be sure,” Neil drawled, obviously still cranky with his mentor. “But most logical scenario: Ashlyn Denbe was peeing. They made a noise. Scared her. Startled her. Something. Either way, she didn’t take the time to flush, but grabbed hair spray and launched a counterattack.”
“Really?” Tessa was intrigued. “Can I see?”
“Look, don’t touch.”
Tessa took that to be a yes. She walked down the hall, D.D. behind her now. She passed a double door that appeared to lead to the master suite, then a single door that led to a study, currently occupied by an older detective who was already sitting at the computer she wanted. Next up, on the left, came an obviously female room, bright pink walls covered in rock star posters, while the plush-carpeted floor was covered in clothes. Three detectives stood in there, probably how many it took to determine which items were evidence and which items were everyday teenage mess.
She arrived at the bathroom. Keeping with the theme from the rest of the house, it was a luxurious, double-sinked affair, featuring miles of earthy Italian tile, a walk-in glass shower and a bunch of brushed-nickel fixtures Tessa had once seen in a TV commercial. If memory served, the shower fixture alone cost about as much as a small automobile.
If Tessa was impressed, apparently, Ashlyn Denbe could’ve cared less. Rather than revel in her gold-veined granite countertop, she’d buried it beneath piles of cosmetic must-haves. Hair scrunchies, brushes, lotions, sprays, makeup kits, acne solutions. You name it, Ashlyn Denbe had it piled across her long, double-sinked countertop. Countertop finally gave way to the toilet, the back of which was equally cluttered.
Now Tessa stared at the toilet, stared at the countertop, then turned and stared at the open door.
“Lights on or off?” she asked Neil.
“Technically?”
“Okay,” she dragged out, unsure what technically could mean.
“Technically,” he repeated briskly, “it appears the intruders tripped the circuit breakers in the master electrical panel, meaning that the entire downstairs was lights-off. We found a light switch flipped to the on position in the foyer, however, which I’m assuming is from when the parents first entered the home. You know, walk in, turn on a light.”
Tessa digested that. Made sense. First, that one of the Denbes would try to turn on a light. Second, that if the intruders were smart enough to override a state-of-the-art security system and come armed with Tasers, of course they’d killed the lights. “And up here?”
“Circuit was still working. Maybe they realized the girl was on this level and to suddenly plunge her into darkness might spook her. She’d call her father or something.”
“Got it. So, on this level then, hallway light on or off?”
“On.”
“Bathroom light?”
“Off.”
“Female point of view?” Tessa offered. “Ashlyn hadn’t closed the door. She was alone, her parents out, right? Ashlyn was all tucked in for the night. Probably not asleep, given we’re thinking ten P.M. on a Friday night. But wearing comfy clothes, all holed up in her bedroom. Then she had to pee. Pads in here, sits to do her thing. The kidnapper appeared. That’s what scared the crap out of her. She’s sitting here, peeing in the dark, then looks up, and there’s a guy standing in the doorway.”
“That would do it,” D.D. muttered.
“She grabbed the hair spray from the edge of the counter,” Tessa continued. “See this one empty s
pot? Bet it sat right there. Ashlyn grabbed it, jumped up and started spraying. Kidnapper, grown man, probably not expecting resistance from a kid, takes it in the face. He stumbles back, and she starts to run.”
Neil studied her, nodding thoughtfully. “She ran for the master bedroom,” he murmured.
Tessa felt a little catch in her throat, couldn’t quite stop the sigh. Fifteen years old, scared out of her mind, the kid had run automatically for her parents. Forgetting in the moment that they weren’t home, couldn’t help her, couldn’t, in fact, do a damn thing to save her.
She followed Neil out of the bathroom, down the hall into the master suite. If the girl’s room had looked like a refugee camp, the master suite, in soothing shades of rich beige and chocolate brown, was a calm oasis. Huge king-size bed bearing some kind of leather-studded headboard. Dramatic floor-to-ceiling drapes, a chaise longue situated perfectly in front of a master fireplace, framed with yet more Italian marble.
The massive desk in the left corner held the first signs of fight or flight. The overstuffed executive chair had been toppled, wheels now pointing sideways. A heavy gold desk lamp had fallen to the floor. She could see where a drawer had been pulled out, quickly rifled.
“Letter opener,” Neil said. “Girl was a quick thinker, I’ll give her that. She grabbed the brass letter opener and went back at him.”
“Blood?”
“Not that we’ve found, but it was enough to get her by him again. Next, she headed for her room.”
Back into the hallway they went, a somber trio. No urine drops leading to the girl’s room, which explained how Neil had known that Ashlyn had run for the master bedroom first. By now, clothing back in place, bladder recovered, the girl was shifting gears from initial panic to fledgling strategy.
Tessa stopped in the hall, considering. “Why her bedroom? Why not go for the stairs?”
“When we find her, I’ll ask her,” Neil said. “For the moment, my best guess is she went for her phone.”