Brian sliding down, down, down. Me, now standing over him, and watching the light dim in his eyes.
“I love you,” I had whispered to my husband, right before the light fled. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you.…”
There is pain, then there was pain.
The machine started to move. I closed my eyes and I allowed myself one last memory of my husband. His final words, as he died on our kitchen floor.
“Sorry,” Brian had gasped, three bullets in his torso. “Tessa … love you … more.”
7
With Brian Darby’s body removed, and Tessa Leoni whisked off to the hospital, the immediate practicalities of the homicide investigation began to wind down while the search for six-year-old Sophie Leoni ramped up.
With that in mind, D.D. summoned the taskforce officers to the white command van and began cracking the whip.
Witnesses. D.D. wanted a short list from all the uniformed officers of any and all neighbors worth a second interview. She then assigned six homicide detectives to begin those interviews ASAP. If someone was a credible witness or potential suspect, she wanted them identified and talking in the next three minutes.
Cameras. Boston was riddled with them. City installed them to monitor traffic. Businesses installed them for security. D.D. formed a three-man team whose job was to do nothing but identify all cameras in a two mile radius and skim through all video footage from the past twelve hours, starting with the video cameras closest to the house and working out.
Known associates. Friends, family, neighbors, teachers, babysitters, employers; if someone had ever set foot on the property, D.D. wanted their name on her desk in the next forty-five minutes. In particular, she wanted all teachers, playmates, and caretakers of Sophie Leoni rounded up and cranked through the wringer. Full background checks, a search of their homes if the detective could talk his way through the door. Officers needed to be eliminating friends and identifying foes and they needed to be doing it now, now, now.
Other people out there knew this family. Enemies from the husband’s job, felons snagged in Trooper Leoni’s patrols, maybe partners in torrid affairs, or longtime personal confidantes. Other people knew Brian Darby and Tessa Leoni. And one of those people might know what had happened to a six-year-old girl who’d last been seen sleeping in her own bed.
Time was not on their side. Get out, hit the streets, beat the clock, D.D. ordered her crew.
Then she shut up and sent them back to work.
The Boston detectives scrambled. The brass nodded. She and Bobby returned to the house.
D.D. trusted her fellow investigators to begin the enormous task of sifting through all the nuances of an entire family’s existence. What she wanted most for herself, however, was to live and breathe the victims’ final hours. She wanted to absorb the crime scene into her DNA. She wanted to inundate herself with the tiniest little domestic details, from paint choices to decorative knickknacks. She wanted to set and reset the scene a dozen different ways in her mind, and she wanted to populate it with a little girl, a merchant marine father, and a state trooper mother. This one house, these three lives, these past ten hours. Everything came down to that. A home, a family, a collision course of multiple lives with tragic consequences.
D.D. needed to see it, feel it, live it. Then she could dissect the family down to its deepest darkest truth, which in turn would bring her Sophie Leoni.
D.D.’s stomach flip-flopped queasily. She tried not to think about it as she and Bobby once again entered the bloodstained kitchen.
By mutual consent, they started upstairs, which featured two dormered bedrooms, separated by a full bath. The bedroom facing the street appeared to be the master, dominated by a queen-sized bed with a simple wooden headboard and dark blue comforter. Bedding immediately struck D.D. as more his than hers. Nothing else in the room changed her opinion.
The broad dresser, a beat-up oak, screamed of bachelor days. It was topped by an old thirty-six inch TV which was tuned to ESPN. Plain white walls, stark wood floors. Not so much a domestic retreat, as a way station, D.D. thought. A place to sleep, change clothes, then exit.
D.D. tried the closet. Three-fourths of it yielded sharply pressed men’s shirts, arranged by color. Then came half a dozen neatly hanging blue jeans. Then a mishmash of cotton slacks and tops, two state police uniforms, one dress uniform, and one orange flower-printed sundress.
“He took up more space in the closet,” D.D. reported to Bobby, who was examining the dresser.
“Men have been killed for less,” he agreed.
“Seriously. Check this out. Color-coded shirts, pressed blue jeans. Brian Darby was beyond anal-retentive and bordering on just plain freaky.”
“Brian Darby was also getting seriously huge. Look at this.” Bobby held up a framed eight-by-ten portrait with his gloved hands. D.D. finished inspecting the empty gun safe she’d found in the left-hand corner of the closet, then crossed to him.
The framed picture featured Tessa Leoni in the orange sundress with a white sweater, holding a small bouquet of tiger lilies. Brian Darby stood beside her in a brown sports jacket, a single tiger lily pinned to his collar. A little girl, presumably Sophie Leoni, stood in front of both of them, wearing a dark green velvet dress with a ring of lilies in her hair. All three were beaming at the camera, happy family celebrating a happy day.
“Wedding photo,” D.D. murmured.
“That would be my guess. Now look at Darby. Check out his shoulders.”
D.D. obediently checked out the former groom and now dead husband. Good-looking guy, she decided. Had a military/cop vibe going on with the buzz-cut blonde hair, chiseled chin, squared shoulders. But the impression was balanced by warm brown eyes, crinkling at the corners from the impact of his smile. He looked happy, relaxed. Not the kind of guy you’d immediately suspect of battering his wife—or, for that matter, ironing his blue jeans.
D.D. handed the picture back to Bobby. “I don’t get it. So he was happy on his wedding day. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Nah. He was smaller on his wedding day. That Brian Darby is a fit one eighty. Bet he worked out, kept active. Dead Brian Darby, on the other hand …”
D.D. remembered what Bobby had told her earlier. “Big guy, you said. Two ten, two twenty, probably a weight lifter. So not that he got married and he got fat. You’re saying, he got married and he muscled up.”
Bobby nodded.
D.D. thought about the picture again. “It’s not easy to be in a relationship where the woman is the one who carries a gun,” she murmured.
Bobby didn’t touch that statement, and she was grateful.
“We should find his gym,” he said now. “Check out his regimen. Inquire about known supplements.”
“ ’Roid rage?”
“Worth asking about.”
They moved out of the master, into the adjoining bath. This room, at least, had a splash of personality. A brightly striped shower curtain was drawn around an old claw-foot tub. A yellow-duckie area rug dotted the tiled floor. Layers of blue and yellow towels warmed up wooden towel racks.
This room also displayed more signs of life—a Barbie toothbrush lying on the edge of the sink, a pile of purple hair elastics in a basket on the back of the toilet, a clear plastic spit cup declaring “Daddy’s Little Princess.”
D.D. checked the medicine cabinet. She found three prescription bottles, one made out to Brian Darby for Ambien, a sleep aid. One made out to Sophie Leoni, involving some kind of topical eye ointment. A third for Tessa Leoni, hydrocodone, a painkiller.
She showed the bottle to Bobby. He made a note.
“Have to follow up with the doc. See if she had an injury, maybe something from the job.”
D.D. nodded. Rest of the medicine cabinet held a plethora of lotions, shaving creams, razors, and colognes. Only thing of note, she thought, was the fairly impressive stash of first-aid supplies. Lotta Band-Aids, she thought, in a lotta different sizes. A battered wife, stockp
iling for inevitable repairs, or just life as an active family? She checked under the sink, found the usual mix of soap, toilet paper, feminine hygiene products, and cleaning supplies.
They moved on.
The next room clearly belonged to Sophie. Soft pink walls, with stenciled flowers in pale green and baby blue. A flower-shaped rug. A wall of bright white cubbies brimming with dolls, dresses, and glittering ballet shoes. Tessa and Brian lived in a dorm. Little Sophie, on the other hand, inhabited a magical garden complete with bunnies running along the floorboards and butterflies painted around the windows.
It was beyond obscene, D.D. thought, to stand in the middle of such a space, and start looking for signs of blood.
Her hand was pressed to her stomach. She didn’t even notice it as she carefully began her first visual inspection of the bed.
“Luminol?” she murmured.
“No hits,” Bobby responded.
Per protocol, the crime-scene techs had sprayed Sophie Leoni’s sheets with luminol, which reacted with bodily fluids such as blood and semen. The lack of hits meant the sheets were clean. Which didn’t mean Sophie Leoni had never been sexually assaulted; just meant she hadn’t been recently assaulted on this set of linens. The crime-scene techs would also check the laundry, even pull bedding out of the washing machine if necessary. Unless someone knew to clean all items in bleach, it was amazing what the luminol could find on “clean” linens.
More things D.D. didn’t want to know while standing in the middle of a magical garden.
She wondered who had painted this room. Tessa? Brian? Or maybe the three of them working together back in the days when the love was still new and the family felt fresh and committed to one another.
She wondered just how many nights had passed before Sophie woke up to the first sound of a distinct smack, a muffled scream. Or maybe Sophie hadn’t been sleeping at all. Maybe she’d been sitting at the kitchen table, or playing with a doll in the corner.
Maybe she’d run to her mother the first time. Maybe …
Ah, Jesus Christ. D.D. did not want to be working this case right now.
She fisted her hands, turned toward the window, and focused on the weak March daylight.
Bobby had stilled next to the wall. He was studying her, but didn’t say a word.
Once more, she was grateful.
“We should find out if there’s a favorite snuggle toy,” she said at last.
“Rag doll. Green dress, brown yarn hair, blue button eyes. Named Gertrude.”
D.D. nodded, scanning the room slowly. She identified a nightlight—Sophie’s terrified of the dark—but no snuggle toy. “I don’t see it.”
“Neither did the first responder. So far, we’re operating under the assumption the doll is missing, too.”
“Her pajamas?”
“Trooper Leoni said her daughter was wearing a long-sleeved set, pink with yellow horses. No sign of them.”
D.D. had a thought. “What about her coat, hat, and snow boots?”
“Don’t have that in my notes.”
For the first time, D.D. felt a glimmer of hope. “Missing coat and hat means she was roused out of bed in the middle of the night. Not given the time to change, but the chance to bundle up.”
“No need to bundle up a corpse,” Bobby remarked.
They left the room and pounded down the stairs. Inspected the coat closet, then the bin of shoes and winter accessories tucked by the front door. No little kid coat. No little kid hat. No little kid boots.
“Sophie Leoni was bundled up!” D.D. declared triumphantly.
“Sophie Leoni left the house alive.”
“Perfect. Now, all we gotta do is find her before nightfall.”
They returned upstairs long enough to examine the windows for signs of forced entry. Finding none, they headed downstairs for the same drill. Both doors featured relatively new hardware and bolt locks, none of which showed signs of tampering. The windows in the sunroom, they discovered, were so old and moisture-warped they refused to budge.
All in all, the house appeared secure. To judge from the look on Bobby’s face, he hadn’t expected anything different and neither had D.D. Sad rule in missing kid cases—most of the time, the trouble came from inside the home, not outside it.
They toured the family room, which reminded D.D. of the bedroom. Plain walls, wooden floors topped by a beige area rug. The black leather L-shaped sofa seemed more like a his purchase than a hers. A fairly new-looking laptop computer sat at one end of the couch, still plugged into the wall. Room also boasted a flat-screen TV, mounted above a sleek entertainment unit that housed a state-of-the-art audio system, Blu-ray DVD player, and Wii gaming console.
“Boys and their toys,” D.D. remarked.
“Engineer,” Bobby said again.
D.D. examined a small art table set up in the corner for Sophie. On one side of the table sat a stack of blank white paper. In the middle was a caddy filled with crayons. That was it. No works in progress on the table. No displays of completed genius on the walls. Very organized, she thought, especially for a six-year-old.
The starkness of the home was starting to wig her out. People did not live like this and people with kids definitely should not live like this.
They crossed into the kitchen, where D.D. stood as far away from the outline of the corpse as she could. Bloodstain, shattered glass, and toppled chairs aside, the kitchen was as meticulous as the rest of the house. Also tired and dated. Thirty-year-old dark wood cabinets, plain white appliances, stained Formica countertop. First thing Alex would do to this house, D.D. thought, was gut and modernize the kitchen.
But not Brian Darby. He spent his money on electronics, a leather sofa, and his car. Not the house.
“They made an effort for Sophie,” D.D. murmured out loud, “but not for each other.”
Bobby looked at her.
“Think about it,” she continued. “It’s an old vintage house that’s still an old vintage house. As you keep pointing out, he’s an engineer, meaning he’s probably got some basic skills with power tools. Combined household income is a good two hundred grand a year, plus Brian Darby has this whole sixty days of vacation thing going on. Meaning they have some expertise, some time, and some resources they could spend on the home. But they don’t. Only in Sophie’s room. She gets the fresh paint, new furniture, pretty bedding, etc. They made an effort for her, but not for themselves. Makes me wonder in how many other areas of their life that same rule applied.”
“Most parents focus on their kids,” Bobby observed mildly.
“They haven’t even hung a picture.”
“Trooper Leoni works long hours. Brian Darby ships out for months at a time. Maybe, when they’re home, they have other priorities.”
D.D. shrugged. “Like what?”
Bobby nodded. “Come on. I’ll show you the garage.”
The garage freaked D.D. out. The broad, two-bay space was lined on all three sides with the craziest Peg-Board system she’d ever seen. Seriously, floor to ceiling of Peg-Boards, which were then fitted with shelving brackets and bike holders and plastic bins for sporting goods and even a custom golf bag holder.
D.D. took in the space and was struck by two things at once: Brian Darby did apparently have a lot of outdoor hobbies, and he needed professional help for his anal-retentiveness.
“The floor is clean,” D.D. said. “It’s March, it’s snowy, and the entire city has been sanded within an inch of its life. How can the floor be this clean?”
“He parked his car on the street.”
“He parked his sixty thousand dollar SUV on one of the busiest streets in Boston rather than dirty his garage?”
“Trooper Leoni also parked her cruiser out front. Department likes us to keep our vehicles visible in the neighborhood—presence of a cop car is viewed as a deterrent.”
“This is nuts,” D.D. stated. She crossed to one wall, where she found a large broom and dustpan racked side by side. Next to them sat two
plastic garbage cans and a blue bin for recycling. Recycling bin revealed half a dozen green beer bottles. Garbage cans were already empty—the bags probably having been removed by the crime-scene techs. D.D. strolled by his and her dirt bikes, plus a pink number that clearly belonged to Sophie. She found a row of backpacks and a shelf dedicated to hiking boots of various weights and sizes, including a pink pair for Sophie. Hiking, biking, golfing, she determined.
Then, on the other side of the garage, she got to add skiing to the list. Six pairs of skis, three alpine, three cross country. And three sets of snowshoes.
“If Brian Darby was home, he was moving,” D.D. added to her mental profile.
“Wanting the family with him,” Bobby commented, gesturing to the wife and child sets that rounded out each trio.
“But,” D.D. mused, “Tessa already commented—she had work, Sophie had school. Meaning, Brian was often alone. No loving family to join him, no appreciative female audience to be dazzled by his manly prowess.”
“Stereotyping,” Bobby warned.
D.D. gestured around the garage. “Please. This is a stereotype. Engineer. Anal-retentive. If I stay in here much longer, my head will hurt.”
“You don’t iron your jeans?” he asked.
“I don’t label my power tools. Seriously, check this out.” She’d arrived at the workbench, where Brian Darby had arranged his power tools on a shelf bearing names for each item.
“Nice tools.” Bobby was frowning. “Very nice tools. An easy grand worth.”
“And yet he doesn’t fix up the house,” D.D. lamented. “So far, I’m siding with Tessa on this.”
“Maybe it’s not about the doing,” Bobby said. “Maybe it’s about the buying. Brian Darby likes having toys. Doesn’t mean he plays with them.”
D.D. considered it. Certainly an option, and would explain the pristine condition of the garage. Easy to keep it clean if you never parked in it, never worked in it, never retrieved any of the gear from it.