Lisa Gardner - Love You More

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.

But then she shook her head. “Nah, he didn’t gain thirty pounds in muscle sitting around all day. Speaking of which, where’s the weight set?”

They looked around. Of all the toys, no dumbbells or free weight systems.

“Must belong to a gym,” Bobby said.

“We’ll have to check that out,” D.D. concurred. “So Brian is a doer. But his wife and child are also busy. So maybe he does some stuff on his own to pass the time. Unfortunately, he still comes home to an empty house, which leaves him restless. So first he cleans the place within an inch of its life…”

“Then,” Bobby finished, “he tosses back a couple of beers.”

D.D. was frowning. She walked toward the far corner, where the concrete floor appeared darker. She bent down, touched the spot with her fingertips. Felt damp.

“Leak?” she murmured, trying to inspect the corner wall where moisture might be penetrating, but of course, the cinder-block surface was obscured by more Peg-Board.

“Could be.” Bobby crossed to where she knelt. “This whole corner is built into the hillside. Could have drainage issues, even a leak from a pipe above.”

“Have to watch it, see if it grows.”

“Concerned the house will fall down on your watch?”

She looked at him. “No, concerned it’s not water from a leak. Meaning, it came from something else, and I want to know what.”

Unexpectedly, Bobby smiled. “I don’t care what the other staties say: Trooper Leoni is lucky to have you on her case, and Sophie Leoni is even luckier.”

“Oh, fuck you,” D.D. told him crossly. She straightened, more discomfited by praise than she was ever riled by criticism. “Come on. We’re heading out.”

“The pattern of the water stain told you where Sophie is?”

“No. Given that Tessa Leoni’s lawyer hasn’t magically called with permission to interview her yet, we’re gonna focus on Brian Darby. I want to talk to his boss. I want to know exactly what kind of man needs to color-code his closet and Peg-Board his garage.”

“A control freak.”

“Exactly. And when something or someone undermines that control-”

“Just how violent does he get,” Bobby finished for her. They stood in the middle of the garage.

“I don’t think a stranger abducted Sophie Leoni,” D.D. stated quietly.

Bobby paused a heartbeat. “I don’t think so either.”

“Meaning it’s him, or it’s her.”

“He’s dead.”

“Meaning, maybe Trooper Leoni finally wised up.”

A woman never forgets the first time she is hit.

I was lucky. My parents never whacked me. My father never slapped my face for talking back, or spanked my behind for willful disobedience. Maybe because I was never that disobedient. Or maybe, because by the time my father got home at night, he was too tired to care. My brother died and my parents became shells of their former selves, using up all their energy just getting through the day.