“I won’t hurt you,” she whispered in the quiet of the bathroom. “I’m not mommy material. I’m gonna suck at this. But I won’t hurt you. I’d never intentionally hurt you.”
She paused, sighed heavily, felt her denial take the first delicate step toward acceptance.
“But you’re gonna have to work with me on this. Okay? You’re not winning the mommy lottery here. So it’s gonna take some compromise on both our parts. Like maybe you could start letting me eat again, and in return, I’ll try to get to bed before midnight. It’s the best I can do. If you want a better offer, you need to return to the procreation pot and start over.
“Your mommy’s trying to find a little girl. And maybe you don’t care about that, but I do. Can’t help myself. This job’s in my blood.”
Another pause. She sighed heavily again, her fingers still stroking her stomach. “So I gotta do what I gotta do,” she whispered. “Because the world is a mess, and someone has to clean it up. Or girls like Sophie Leoni will never stand a chance. I don’t want to live in a world like that. And I don’t want you to grow up in a world like that. So let’s do this together. I’m going to shower, then I’m going to eat. How about some cereal?”
Her stomach didn’t immediately sour, which she took as a yes. “Cereal it is. Then back to work for both of us. Sooner we find Sophie, sooner I can take you home to your daddy. Who, at least once upon a time, mentioned wanting kids. Hope that’s still true. Ah geez. We’re all gonna need a little faith here. All right, let’s get this done.”
D.D. turned on the shower spray.
Later, she ate Cheerios, then left her condo without throwing up
Good enough, she decided. Good enough.
Detective Butch Walthers lived up to his name. Heavyset face, massive shoulders, barrel gut of a former linebacker now gone to seed. He agreed to meet Bobby and D.D. at a small breakfast spot around the corner from his house, because it was his day off and as long as he was talking shop, he wanted a meal out of it.
D.D. walked in, hit a solid wall of cooked eggs and fried bacon and nearly walked back out. She’d always loved diners. She’d always loved eggs and bacon. To be reduced to instant nausea now was beyond cruel.
She took several steadying breaths through her open mouth. Then in a fit of inspiration, she fished peppermint gum out of her shoulder bag. Old trick learned from working countless homicide scenes—chewing minty gum overwhelms one’s sense of smell. She stuck three sticks into her mouth, felt the sharp peppermint flavor flood the back of her throat, and managed to make it to the rear of the diner, where Bobby was already sitting across from Detective Walthers in a side booth.
Both men stood as she approached. She introduced herself to Walthers, nodded at Bobby, then slid into the booth first, so she could be closest to the window. She was in luck, the double-hung appeared to actually open. She immediately went to work on the latches.
“Little hot,” she commented. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Both men watched her curiously, but said nothing. The diner was hot, D.D. thought defensively, and the rush of crisp March air smelled of snow and nothing else. She leaned closer to the narrow opening.
“Coffee?” Bobby asked.
“Water,” D.D. said.
He arched a brow.
“Already had java,” she lied. “Don’t want the jitters.”
Bobby wasn’t buying it. She should’ve known. She turned to Walthers before Bobby could ask about breakfast. D.D. turning down a meal probably signaled the end of the universe as he knew it.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” D.D. said. “Especially on your day off.”
Walthers nodded accommodatingly. His bulbous nose was lined with broken red capillaries. Drinker, D.D. deduced. One of the old-time veterans nearing the end of his policing career. If he thought life was hard now, she thought with a trace of sympathy, wait till he tried retirement. So many empty hours to fill with memories of the good old days, and regrets over the ones that got away.
“Surprised to get a call ’bout the Howe shooting,” Walthers said now. “Worked a lotta cases in my time. Never considered that investigation to be an interesting one.”
“Seemed pretty clear-cut?”
Walthers shrugged. “Yes and no. Physical evidence was FUBAR, but background on Tommy Howe was straightforward—Tessa Leoni wasn’t the first girl he’d attacked; just the first who’d fought back.”
“Really?” D.D. was intrigued.
The waitress appeared, gazing at them expectantly. Walthers ordered the Trailblazer Special with four links of sausage, two fried eggs, and half a plate of home fries. Bobby seconded the order. D.D., feeling brave, went with orange juice.
Now Bobby was definitely staring at her.
“So walk us through the case,” D.D. said to Walthers, the moment the waitress left.
“Call came into nine-one-one. The mom, that’s my memory, quite hysterical. First responder found Tommy Howe dead from a single gunshot wound in the family room, the parents and his sister gathered round in their bathrobes. The mother was sobbing, father trying to console, younger sister shell-shocked. Parents didn’t know nothing ’bout anything. They’d woken up to a noise, father had gone downstairs, found Tommy’s body, and that had been that.
“Sister, Juliana, was the one with the answers, but it took a bit to get them. She’d had a friend sleeping over—”
“Tessa Leoni,” D.D. supplied.
“Exactly. Tessa had fallen asleep on the couch while they were watching movies. Juliana had gone upstairs to bed. Shortly after one a.m., she’d also heard a noise. She’d come downstairs and saw her brother and Tessa on the couch. In her own words, she wasn’t sure what was going on, but then she heard a gunshot and Tommy staggered back. He fell to the floor, and Tessa got off the sofa, still holding the gun.”
“Juliana saw Tessa shoot her brother?” D.D. asked.
“Yep. Juliana was pretty messed up. She said Tessa claimed Tommy had attacked her. Juliana didn’t know what to do. Tommy was bleeding everywhere, she could hear her father coming down the stairs. She panicked, told Tessa to go home, which Tessa did.”
“Tessa ran home in the middle of the night?” Bobby spoke up with a frown.
“Tessa lived on the same street, five houses down. Not a big distance to cover. When the dad made it downstairs, he yelled at Juliana to have her mom call nine-one-one. Which is the scene I walked into. Bloody family room, dead teenager, missing shooter.”
“Where was Tommy shot?”
“Upper left thigh. Bullet nicked his femoral artery and he bled out. Bad luck, if you think about it—dying from a single GSW to the leg.”
“Only one shot?”
“That’s all it took.”
Interesting, D.D. thought. At least Brian Darby had earned three in the chest. What a difference twenty-five weeks of intensive firearms training could make.
“So where was Tessa?” D.D. asked.
“After Juliana’s statement, I proceeded to the Leoni residence, where Tessa answered on the first knock. She’d showered—”
“No way!”
“Told you the physical evidence was FUBAR. Then again”—Walthers shrugged his burly shoulders—“she was sixteen years old. By her own admission, she’d been sexually assaulted, before shooting her attacker. Heading straight for the shower—can you blame her?”
D.D. still didn’t like it. “What physical evidence could you recover?”
“The twenty-two. Tessa handed it right over. Her prints were on the handle and ballistics matched the slug that killed Tommy Howe to the gun. We bagged and tagged her discarded clothes. No semen on the underwear—she claimed he didn’t, ahem, get to finish what he’d started. But some blood on her clothing, same type as Tommy Howe.”
“Test her hands for powder?”
“Negative—but then, she’d showered.”
“Rape kit?”
“She declined.”
“She declined?”
“She said she’d been through enough. I tried to convince her to let a nurse examine her for bruising, tried to explain it would be in her own best interest, but she wasn’t buying it. Girl was shaking like a leaf. You could see—she was done.”
“Where’s the father through all this?” Bobby wanted to know.
“He woke up when we entered the home. Apparently figuring out for the first time that his daughter had returned early from her sleepover and that there’d been an incident. He seemed a little … checked out. Stood in the kitchen in his boxers and wife-beater T-shirt, arms crossed over his chest, not saying a word. I mean, here’s his sixteen-year-old daughter talking about being attacked by a boy, and he’s just standing there like a goddamn statue. Donnie,” Walthers snapped his fingers as the name came to him, “Donnie Leoni. Owned his own garage. Never could figure him out. I was guessing drinking, but never confirmed it.”
“Mother?” D.D. asked.
“Dead. Six months earlier, heart failure. Not a happy household, but …” Again, Walthers shrugged. “Most of them aren’t.”
“So,” D.D. replayed the events in her mind, “Tommy Howe is dead from a single GSW in his family room. Tessa confesses to the crime, all cleaned up and unwilling to submit to a physical exam. I don’t get it. The DA simply took her word for it? Poor traumatized sixteen-year-old girl must be telling the truth?”
Walthers shook his head. “Between you and me?”
“By all means,” D.D. assured him. “Between friends.”
“I couldn’t make heads or tails of Tessa Leoni. I mean, on the one hand, she was sitting in her kitchen trembling uncontrollably. On the other hand … she delivered a precise recounting of every minute of the evening. In all my years, never had a victim recount so many details with such clarity, especially a victim of sexual assault. It bothered me, but what could I say: Honey, your memory is too good for me to take you seriously?” Walthers shook his head. “In this day and age, those kinds of statements can cost a detective his shield, and trust me—I got two ex-wives to support—I need my pension.”
“So why let her off with self-defense? Why not press charges?” Bobby asked, clearly as perplexed as D.D.
“Because Tessa Leoni might have been a questionable victim, but Tommy Howe was the perfect perpetrator. Within twenty-four hours, three different girls phoned in with accounts of being sexually assaulted by him. None of them wanted to make a formal statement, mind you, but the more we dug, the more we discovered Tommy had a clear reputation with the ladies: He didn’t take no for an answer. He didn’t necessarily use brute force, which is why so many of the girls were reluctant to testify. Instead, sounded like he would ply them with alcohol, maybe even spike their drinks. But a couple of the girls remembered clearly not being interested in Tommy Howe, and waking up in his bed anyway.”
“Rohypnol,” D.D. said.
“Probably. We never found any trace of it in his dorm room, but even his buddies agreed that what Tommy wanted, Tommy got, and the girl’s feelings on the subject weren’t of much interest to him.”
“Nice guy,” Bobby muttered darkly.
“His parents certainly thought so,” Walthers remarked. “When the DA announced he wasn’t pressing charges, tried to explain the mitigating circumstances … You would’ve thought we were claiming the Pope was an atheist. The father—James, James Howe—hit the roof. Screamed at the DA, called my lieutenant to rant how my shitty police work was allowing a cold-blooded murderer to go free. Jim had contacts, he’d get us all in the end.”
“Did he?” D.D. asked curiously.
Walthers rolled his eyes. “Please, he was corporate middle management for Polaroid. Contacts? He made a decent living, and I’m sure his underlings feared him. But he was only a king of an eight-by-eight cubicle and a two thousand square foot house. Parents.” Walthers shook his head.
“Mr. and Mrs. Howe never believed Tommy attacked Tessa Leoni?”
“Nope. They could never see their son’s guilt, which was interesting, ’cause Donnie Leoni could never see his daughter’s innocence. I heard through the grapevine that he kicked her out. Apparently, he’s one of those guys who believes the girl must be asking for it.” Walthers shook his head again. “What can you do?”
The waitress reappeared, bearing platters of food. She slid plates in front of Walthers and Bobby, then handed D.D. her glass of juice.
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.
They shook their heads; she departed.
The men dug in. D.D. leaned closer to the cracked window to escape the greasy odor of sausage. She removed her gum, attempted the orange juice.
So Tessa Leoni had shot Tommy Howe once in the leg. If D.D. pictured the scene in her mind, the choreography made sense. Tessa, sixteen years old, terrified, pressed down into the sofa cushions by the weight of a bigger, stronger male. Her right hand fumbling beside her, feeling the lump of her purse digging into her hip. Fishing for her father’s twenty-two, finally getting her hand around the grip, wedging it between their bodies …
Walthers had been right—damned unlucky for Tommy that he’d died from such a wound. All things considered, unlucky for Tessa, too, as she’d lost her father and her best friend over it.
It sounded like justifiable homicide, given the number of other women willing to corroborate Tommy’s history of sexual assault. And yet, for one woman to have now been involved in two fatal shootings … First one involving an aggressive teenage boy. Second one involving an abusive husband. First incident a single shot to the leg that just happened to prove fatal. Second incident three shots to the chest, center of the kill zone.
Two shootings. Two incidents of self-defense. Bad luck, D.D. mused, taking a second small sip of orange juice. Or learning curve?
Walthers and Bobby finished up their meals. Bobby grabbed the check, Walthers grunted his thanks. They exchanged cards, then Walthers went his way, leaving Bobby and D.D. standing alone on the sidewalk.
Bobby turned to her the second Walthers disappeared around the corner. “Something you want to tell me, D.D.?”
“No.”
He clenched his jaw, looked like he might press the matter, then didn’t. He turned away, studying the front awning of the diner. If D.D. didn’t know better, she’d think his feelings were hurt.
“Got a question for you,” D.D. said, to change the subject and ease the tension. “I keep coming back to Tessa Leoni, forced to kill two men in two separate incidents of self-defense. I’m wondering, is she that unlucky, or is she that smart?”
That caught Bobby’s attention. He turned back to her, expression intent.
“Think about it,” D.D. continued. “Tessa’s hung out to dry at sixteen, ends up pregnant and alone at twenty-one. But then, in her own words, she rebuilds her life. Sobers up. Gives birth to a beautiful daughter, becomes a respectable police officer, even meets a great guy. Until the first time he drinks too much and whacks her. Now what does she do?”
“Cops don’t confide in other cops,” Bobby said stiffly.
“Exactly,” D.D. agreed. “Violates the code of the patrol officer, who’s expected to handle all situations alone. Now, Tessa could leave her husband. Next time Brian shipped out, Tessa and Sophie would have a sixty-day window to get settled into their own place. Except, maybe having lived in a cute little house, Tessa doesn’t want to return to one-bedroom living. Maybe she likes the house, the yard, the expensive SUV, the fifty grand in the bank.”
“Maybe she doesn’t believe moving out will be enough,” Bobby countered levelly. “Not all abusive husbands are willing to take the hint.”
“All right,” D.D. granted him. “That, too. Tessa decides she needs a more permanent solution. One that removes Brian Darby from her and Sophie’s life forever, while preserving prime Boston real estate. So what does she do?”
Bobby stared at her. “You’re saying that based on her experience with Tommy Howe, Tessa decides to stage an attack where she can shoot her husband in self-defense??
??
“I’m thinking that thought should’ve crossed her mind.”
“Yeah. Except Tessa’s injuries aren’t staged. Concussion, fractured cheekbone, multiple contusions. Woman can’t even stand up.”
“Maybe Tessa goaded her husband into attacking. Not too hard to do. She knew he’d been drinking. Now all she has to do is incite him into whacking her a few times, and she’s safe to open fire. Brian gives in to his inner demon, and Tessa takes advantage.”
Bobby frowned, shook his head. “That’s cold. And still doesn’t hold water.”
“Why not?”
“Because of Sophie. So Tessa gets her husband to hit her. And Tessa shoots her husband. As you put it yesterday, that explains his body in the kitchen, and her visit with the EMTs in the sunroom. But what about Sophie? Where’s Sophie?”
D.D. scowled. Her arm rested across her stomach. “Maybe she wanted Sophie out of the house in case she witnessed the event.”
“Then she arranges for Sophie to stay with Mrs. Ennis.”
“Wait—maybe that’s the problem. She didn’t arrange for Sophie to stay with Mrs. Ennis. Sophie saw too much, then Tessa had to squirrel her away so we couldn’t question her.”
“Tessa has Sophie in hiding?”
D.D. thought about it. “It would explain why she was so slow to cooperate. She’s not worried about her child—she knows Sophie is safe.”
But Bobby was already shaking his head. “Come on, Tessa’s a trained police officer. She knows the minute she declares her child missing, the whole state goes on Amber Alert. What are the chances of successfully hiding a child whose photo is being beamed over every major news medium in the free world? Who would she even trust with that kind of request—It’s nine a.m. Sunday morning, I just shot my husband, so hey, want to run away with my six-year-old for a bit? This is a woman we’ve already established doesn’t have close family or friends. Her options would be Mrs. Ennis or Mrs. Ennis, and Mrs. Ennis doesn’t have Sophie.