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

  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 standard 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. Ther
e 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 person 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.

  Moving felt good. After the first twenty-four hours, confined to a hospital bed, followed by another twenty-four hours stuck in jail, to finally be out, moving, getting the job done, felt right.

  Somewhere ahead was my daughter. I was going to save her. I was going to kill the man who had taken her. Then we were both going home.

  Unless, of course …

  I stopped thinking again.

  The woods thinned. I burst onto a snowy yard and drew up sharply, eyeing the flat, sprawling ranch that appeared in front of me. All windows were dark, not a single light glowing in welcome. It was well after midnight by now. The kind of hour when honest people were asleep.

  Then again, my subject didn’t make an honest living, did he?

  Motion-activated outdoor lights, I guessed after another second. Floodlights that would most likely flare to life the second I approached. Probably some kind of security system on the doors and windows. At least basic defensive measures.

  It’s like that old adage—liars expect others to lie. Enforcers who kill expect to be killed and plan appropriately.

  Getting inside the house undetected probably was not an option.

  Fine, I would draw him out instead.

  I started with the vehicle I found parked in the driveway. A black Cadillac Esplanade with all the bells and whistles. But of course. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction to drive the butt of the shotgun through the driver’s-side window.

  Car alarm whistled shrilly. I darted from the SUV to the side of the house. Floodlights blazed to life, casting the front and side yard into blinding white relief. I tucked my back against the side of the house facing the Cadillac, edging as close as I could toward the rear of the home, where I guessed Purcell would ultimately emerge. I held my breath.

  An enforcer such as Purcell would be too smart to dash out into the snow in his underwear. But he would be too arrogant to let someone get away with stealing his wheels. He would come. Armed. And, he probably thought, prepared.

  It took a full minute. Then I heard a low creak of a back screen door, easing open.

  I held the shotgun loosely, cradled in the crook of my left arm. With my right hand, I slowly withdrew the KA-BAR knife.

  Never done wet work. Never been up this close and personal.

  I stopped thinking again.

  My hearing had already acclimated to the shrill car alarm. That made it easier for me to pick up other noises: the faint crunch of snow as the subject took his first step, then another. I took one second to check behind m
e, in case there were two of them in the house, one creeping from the front, one stalking from the back, to circle around.

  I heard only one set of footsteps, and made them my target.

  Forcing myself to inhale through my nose, take the air deep into my lungs. Slowing my own heartbeat. What would happen would happen. Time to let go.

  I crouched, knife at the ready.

  A leg appeared. I saw black snow boots, thick jeans, the red tail of a flannel shirt.

  I saw a gun held low against the man’s thigh.

  “John Stephen Purcell?” I whispered.

  A startled face turning toward me, dark eyes widening, mouth opening.

  I stared up at the man who’d killed my husband and kidnapped my child.

  I slashed out with the knife.

  Just as he opened fire.

  ———

  Never bring a knife to a gunfight.

  Not necessarily. Purcell hit my right shoulder. On the other hand, I severed the hamstring on his left leg. He went down, firing a second time, into the snow. I kicked the gun out of his hand, leveled the shotgun, and except for thrashing wildly in pain, he made no move against me.

  Up close and personal, Purcell appeared to be mid-forties to early fifties. An experienced enforcer, then. Kind of guy with some notches on his brass knuckles. He obviously took some pride in his position, because even as his jeans darkened with a river of blood, he set his lips in a hard line and didn’t say a word.

  “Remember me?” I said.

  After a moment, he nodded.

  “Spend the money yet?”

  He shook his head.

  “Shame, because that was the last shopping trip you had left. I want my daughter.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  So I placed the end of the shotgun against his right kneecap—the leg I hadn’t incapacitated. “Say goodbye to your leg,” I told him.

  His eyes widened. His nostrils flared. Like a lot of tough guys, Purcell was better at dishing it out than taking it.

  “Don’t have her,” he rasped out suddenly. “Not here.”

  “Let’s see about that.”