No guilt, no whining, no recriminations. Just genuine support.
His text made her weepy, which she blamed squarely on her condition, because no man had made D. D. Warren cry in at least twenty years and like hell she’d start now.
Bobby kept looking at her ubiquitous water bottle, then at her, then at her water bottle. If he did it again, she was going to dump the contents of said bottle over his head. The thought cheered her up, and she’d almost pulled herself together by the time they found parking.
Bobby grabbed a fresh cup of black coffee, then they headed upstairs to the homicide unit. D.D. and her fellow detectives were lucky. BPD headquarters had been built only fifteen years ago, and while the location was still subject to debate, the building itself was modern and well maintained. The homicide unit appeared less NYPD Blue and more MetLife Insurance Company. Sensible dividers carved out brightly lit work spaces. Broad expanses of gray metal files were covered in green plants, family photos, and personal knickknacks. A Red Sox foam finger was mounted here, a Go Pats banner hung there.
The secretary had a thing for cinnamon potpourri, while the detectives had a fetish for coffee, so the space even smelled nice—a cinnamon, coffee blend that made one of the newer guys nickname the reception area Starbucks. In typical cop fashion, the nickname stuck and now the secretary had Starbucks stickers, napkins, and paper cups all positioned on the front counter, which had confused more than one witness arriving to make a statement.
D.D. found her squad and a leader from each investigative team already gathered in the conference room. She moved to the head of the table, next to the large white board that would become their case bible for the coming days. She set down her water, picked up a black marker, and they were off and running.
The search for Sophie Leoni was highest priority. Hotline was ringing nonstop and had generated two dozen tips which officers were chasing down as they spoke. Nothing significant as of yet. Canvassing of neighbors, local businesses, and community medical centers was proceeding along the same lines—some leads, but nothing significant as of yet.
Phil had run background on Sophie’s caretaker, Brandi Ennis, which had come back clean. Coupled with D.D. and Bobby’s personal interview, they felt they could rule her out as a suspect. Initial backgrounds on the school administration and Sophie’s teacher raised no red flags. They were starting on parents next.
The video team had studied seventy-five percent of the outtakes from various cameras within a two-mile radius of the Leoni residence. They had yet to see any sign of Sophie, Brian Darby, or Tessa Leoni. Their search had broadened to include any visual of Brian Darby’s white GMC Denali.
Given the crime lab’s findings that a body had most likely been placed in the back of Darby’s vehicle, retracing the last twenty-four hours of the Denali was their best lead. D.D. assigned two detectives to pore through credit card records to see if they could determine the last time the Denali had been fueled up. Based on that date and how many gallons were currently left in the tank, they could work out the largest possible distance Brian Darby would’ve been able to drive with a body in the back of his vehicle. Also, the same two detectives would check for any parking tickets, speeding citations, or Fast Lane/E-Z Pass (toll booth) records that might help place the Denali Friday night through Sunday morning.
Finally, D.D. would leak details about the Denali to the press, encouraging eye witnesses to phone in with new details.
Phil agreed to search for any properties that might be owned by Brian Darby or a family member. His initial background reports on the family hadn’t revealed any red flags. Brian Darby had no arrests or warrants under his name. Couple of speeding tickets scattered over the past fifteen years, other than that he appeared to be a law-abiding citizen. He’d worked the past fifteen years for the same company, ASSC, as a merchant marine. He had a two hundred thousand dollar mortgage on the home, a thirty-four thousand dollar loan on the Denali, four grand in consumer debt, and over fifty grand in the bank, so not a bad financial picture.
Phil had also made initial contact with Brian Darby’s boss, who agreed to a phone interview tomorrow morning at eleven a.m. By phone, Scott Hale had expressed shock at Darby’s death, and total disbelief the man had beat his wife. Hale had also been dismayed by Sophie’s disappearance and was going to ask ASSC to increase the amount of money currently being offered as a reward.
D.D., who’d written across the top of the board, Did Brian Darby Beat His Wife? added a check to the No column.
Which made her other squadmate, Neil, raise his hand for the Yes column. Neil had spent the day at the hospital, where he’d subpoenaed Tessa Leoni’s medical records. While there wasn’t a long history of “accidents,” today’s admittance alone had revealed multiple injuries from multiple time frames. Tessa Leoni presented with bruised ribs, probably from an incident at least one week ago (the fall down the front steps, D.D. had retorted, already rolling her eyes). The doctor had also made a notation he was concerned that one fractured rib had healed improperly due to “inadequate medical attention,” which would support Tessa’s assertion that she didn’t seek outside assistance, but dealt with the consequences of each beating on her own.
In addition to her concussion and fractured cheekbone, her medical chart listed a multitude of contusions, including a bruise in the shape of a rounded work boot.
“Does Brian Darby have steel-toed work boots?” D.D. asked excitedly.
“Went back to the house and retrieved one pair,” Neil said. “Asked the lawyer if we could match the boots against the bruise on Leoni’s hip. He considered that an invasion of privacy and requested we get a warrant.”
“Invasion of privacy!” D.D. snorted. “This is the sort of discovery that helps her. Establishes pattern of abuse, meaning she won’t end up in jail for twenty to life.”
“He didn’t argue that. Just said she was under doctor’s orders to rest, so he wanted to wait until she’s recovered from her concussion.”
“Please! Then the bruise is faded and we’ve lost our match and she’s lost her corroboration. Screw the lawyer. Get a warrant. Get it done.”
Neil agreed, though it would have to wait till midmorning, as he’d be starting his day at the ME’s office with the autopsy of Brian Darby. The autopsy was now scheduled for seven a.m., given that Tessa Leoni was requesting the return of her husband’s remains ASAP, in order to plan an appropriate funeral.
“What?” D.D. exclaimed.
“Not kidding,” Neil said. “Her lawyer called the ME this afternoon, wanting to know how soon Tessa could get the body back. Don’t ask me.”
But D.D. stared at the lanky redhead anyway. “Brian Darby’s shooting is a questionable death. Of course his body must be autopsied, which Tessa knows as well as anyone.” She turned her gaze to Bobby. “State Troopers learn homicide one-oh-one right?”
Bobby made a show of scratching his head. “What? They cram ninety classes into twenty-five weeks of Academy training, and we’re supposed to graduate knowing basic investigative steps?”
“So why would she ask for the body back?” D.D. asked him. “Why even make that call?”
Bobby shrugged. “Maybe she thought the autopsy had already been performed.”
“Maybe she thought she’d get lucky,” Neil spoke up. “She’s a fellow member of law enforcement. Maybe she thought the ME would honor her request and return her husband’s body without the basic post-mortem.”
D.D. chewed her lower lip. She didn’t like it. Pretty and vulnerable aside, Tessa Leoni was a cool customer, amazingly lucid when she needed to be. If Tessa had made the call, there had to be a reason.
D.D. turned back to Neil. “What did the ME tell her?”
“Nothing. The ME was speaking to her lawyer, not Trooper Leoni. Ben reminded the lawyer that an autopsy had to be performed, which Cargill didn’t refute. My understanding is that they settled on a compromise—Ben would perform the autopsy first thing, to speed up the return of Darby’s
body to his family.”
“So autopsy is happening sooner,” D.D. mused, “and body is being returned sooner. When will Darby’s body be released?”
Neil shrugged. “After the autopsy, an assistant will need to suture and clean up the corpse. Maybe as soon as end of day Monday, or Tuesday afternoon.”
D.D. nodded, still turning the matter around in her head, but not seeing the angle. For some reason, Tessa Leoni wanted her husband’s body sooner versus later. They would have to come back to that, as there must be a reason. There was always a reason.
D.D. returned to her taskforce. She demanded some good news. Nobody had any. She demanded some fresh leads. Nobody had any.
She and Bobby volunteered what they’d learned about Tessa Leoni’s misspent youth. Having to shoot to kill once in self-defense was bad luck. Twice seemed dangerously close to a pattern of behavior, though from a legal perspective, it would take three times to be the charm.
D.D. wanted to learn more about the shooting of Thomas Howe. First thing in the morning, she and Bobby would track down the officer in charge of the investigation. If possible, they’d also contact the Howe family and Tessa’s father. Last but not least, they wanted to identify Brian Darby’s gym and check out his exercise regimen and the possibility of steroid abuse. Man had bulked up relatively quickly, Mr. Sensitive becoming Mr. Tempermental. It was worth checking out.
With that, D.D. jotted down the next steps and handed out homework. Video team needed to complete their marathon viewing of Boston cameras. Phil needed to complete background reports, conduct property searches, and interview Brian Darby’s boss. Neil had autopsy duty as well as securing a warrant for matching Brian Darby’s boot against Tessa Leoni’s bruised hip.
Fuel squad got to play with gas consumption and Boston maps, creating a maximum search area for Sophie Leoni, while the hotline officers would continue running down old leads and mining for fresh information.
D.D. needed reports from today’s interviews on her desk within the hour. Get to documenting, she ordered her team, then return for duty at oh-dark-thirty. Sophie Leoni remained missing, which meant no rest for the weary.
The detectives filed out.
D.D. and Bobby stayed behind to brief the superintendent of homicide, then consult with the Suffolk County DA. Neither man was interested in details, as much as they wanted results. It was D.D.’s fun-filled job as lead detective to inform them she had not determined the events leading up to Brian Darby’s shooting, nor located six-year-old Sophie Leoni. But hey, pretty much every cop in Boston was currently working the case, so the taskforce was bound to have something … sometime.
The DA, who’d gone positively bug-eyed at the revelation that Tessa Leoni had already pleaded self-defense once before, agreed to D.D.’s request for more time before determining criminal charges. Given the differences between building a case for manslaughter versus Murder 1, additional information would be ideal and a deep bore into Tessa Leoni’s misspent youth a necessity.
They’d keep the media focused on the search for Sophie, and away from the particulars of Brian Darby’s death.
Twelve thirty-three in the morning, D.D. finally slunk back to her own office. Her boss was satisfied, the DA appeased, her taskforce engaged. And so it went, another day in another high profile case. The cogs of the criminal justice system churning round and round.
Bobby took the seat across from her. Without a word, he picked up the first typed report from the pile on her desk and began to read.
After another moment, D.D. joined him.
14
When Sophie was almost three, she locked herself in the trunk of my police cruiser. This happened before I ever met Brian, so I had only myself to blame.
We were living across the hall from Mrs. Ennis at the time. It was late fall, when the sun faded earlier and the nights were growing colder. Sophie and I had been outside, where we’d walked to the park and back. Now it was dinnertime, and I was fussing in the kitchen while assuming she was playing in the family room, where the TV was blaring Curious George.
I’d made a small salad, part of my program to introduce more vegetables into my child’s diet. Then I’d grilled two chicken breasts and baked Ore-Ida French fries—my compromise, Sophie could have her beloved fries as long as she ate some salad first.
This project took me twenty, twenty-five minutes. But a busy twenty-five minutes. I was occupied and apparently not paying attention to my toddler because when I walked into the family room to announce it was time for dinner, my child wasn’t there.
I didn’t panic right away. I’d like to say it was because I was a trained police officer, but it had more to do with being Sophie’s mom. Sophie started running at thirteen months and hadn’t slowed down since. She was the child who disappeared in grocery stores, bolted away from park swing sets, and made a quick beeline through a sea of legs in a crowded mall, whether I was following or not. In the past six months, I’d already lost Sophie several times. In a matter of minutes, however, we always found each other again.
I started with the basics—a quick walk through our tiny one bedroom. I called her name, then for good measure, checked the cupboards in the bathroom, both closets, and under the bed. She wasn’t in the apartment.
I checked the front door, which, sure enough, I’d forgotten to bolt, meaning the entire apartment complex had just become fair game. I crossed the hall, cursing myself silently and feeling the growing frustration that comes from being an overstretched single parent, responsible for all things at all times, whether I was up to the challenge or not.
I knocked on Mrs. Ennis’s door. No, Sophie wasn’t there, but she swore she’d just seen Sophie playing outside.
Outside I went. Sun had gone down. Streetlights blazed, as well as the spotlights on the front of the apartment building. It was never truly dark in a city like Boston. I took that to heart as I walked around the squat brick complex, calling my daughter’s name. When no laughing child came running around the corner, no high-pitched giggles erupted from a nearby bush, I grew more concerned.
I started to shiver. It was cold, I didn’t have a jacket, and given that I remembered seeing Sophie’s raspberry-colored fleece hanging next to the door in our apartment, she didn’t have a coat either.
My heart accelerated. I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to fight a growing well of dread. The whole time I’d been pregnant with Sophie, I’d lived in a state of fear. I hadn’t felt the miracle of life growing in my body. Instead, I saw the photo of my dead baby brother, a marble white newborn with bright red lips.
When I’d gone into labor, I didn’t think I’d be able to breathe through the terror clutching my throat. I would fail, my baby would die, there was no hope, no hope, no hope.
Except, then there was Sophie. Perfect, mottled red, screaming loudly Sophie. Warm and slippery and achingly beautiful as I cradled her against my breast.
My daughter was tough. And fearless and impulsive.
You didn’t panic with a kid like Sophie. You strategized: What would Sophie do?
I returned to the apartment complex, performed a quick door-to-door canvass. Most of my neighbors weren’t home from work yet; the few that answered hadn’t seen Sophie. I moved fast now, footsteps with purpose.
Sophie liked the park and might head there, except we’d already spent an afternoon playing on the swings and even she’d been ready to leave at the end. She liked the corner store and was positively fascinated by the Laundromat—she loved to watch the clothes spin.
I decided to head back upstairs. Another quick walk-through of our apartment to determine if anything else might be missing—a special toy, her favorite purse. Then I’d grab my car keys and tour the block.
I made it just inside the door, then discovered what she’d taken: The keys to my police cruiser were no longer sitting in the change dish.
This time, I hauled ass out of the apartment and down the front steps. Toddlers and police cruisers didn’t mix. Forge
t the radio, lights, and sirens in the front. I had a shotgun in the trunk.
I ran to the passenger’s side, peering in from the sidewalk. The interior of the cruiser appeared empty. I tried the door, but it was locked. I walked around more carefully, heart pounding, breathing shallow as I inspected each door and window. No sign of activity. Locked, locked, locked.
But she’d taken the keys. Think like Sophie. What button might she have hit on the key fob? What might she have done?
Then I heard her. A thump, thump, thump from the trunk. She was inside, banging against the lid.
“Sophie?” I called out.
The thumping stopped.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Sophie. Mommy’s here. Honey,” my voice had risen shrilly, despite my best intentions. “Are you all right?”
“Mommy,” my child replied calmly from inside the locked trunk. “Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”
I closed my eyes, exhaling my pent-up breath. “Sophie, honey,” I said as firmly as I could. “I need you to listen to Mommy. Don’t touch anything.”
“ ‘Kay.”
“Do you still have the keys?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Are they in your hand?”
“No touching!”
“Well, you can touch the keys, honey. Hold the keys, just don’t touch anything else.”
“Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”
“I understand, honey. Would you like to get out?”
“Yes!”
“Okay. Hold the keys. Find a button with your thumb. Push it.”
I heard a click as Sophie did as she was told. I ran to the front door to check. Of course, she’d hit the lock key.
“Sophie, honey,” I called back. “Button next to it! Hit that one!”
Another click, and the front door unlocked. Expelling another breath, I opened the door, found the latch for the trunk and released it. Seconds later, I was standing above my daughter, who was curled up as a pink puddle in the middle of the metal locker holding my backup shotgun and a black duffel bag filled with ammo and additional policing gear.