Lisa Gardner - Love You More

“Preliminary report on Brian Darby’s vehicle,” she said sharply.

She flattened her hands on the table in front of Trooper Lyons and leaned down, till she was mere inches from his face.

“They found a collapsible shovel tucked into a rear compartment, still covered in dirt and bits of leaves.”

Lyons didn’t say anything.

“Found a brand-new air freshener as well, melon scented, the kind that plugs into a socket. Lab geeks thought that was strange, so they took it out.”

Lyons didn’t say anything.

“Odor became apparent in less than fifteen minutes. Very strong, they said. Very distinct. But being geeks, they call in a cadaver dog just to be sure.”

The officer paled.

“Decomp, Trooper Lyons. As in, the lab gurus are pretty damn certain a dead body was placed in the back of Brian Darby’s vehicle in the past twenty-four hours. Given the presence of the shovel, they further surmise the body was driven to an unknown location and buried. Brian got a second home? Lake house, hunting lodge, ski cabin? Maybe if you finally start talking to us, we can at least bring home Sophie’s body.”

“Ah no…” Lyons paled further.

“Where did Brian take his stepdaughter?”

“I don’t know! He doesn’t have a second home. Least nothing he ever told me about!”

“You failed them. You introduced Brian Darby to Tessa and Sophie, and now Tessa is in a hospital beaten to a pulp and little Sophie’s most likely dead. You set these wheels in motion. Now man up, and help us find Sophie’s body. Where would he take her? What would he do? Tell us all of Brian Darby’s secrets.”

“He didn’t have secrets! I swear… Brian was a stand-up guy. Sailed the ocean blue, then returned home to his wife and stepdaughter. Never heard him raise his voice. Certainly, never saw him raise a fist.”

“Then what the hell happened?”

A heartbeat pause. Another long, shuddering breath.

“There is… There is another option,” Lyons said abruptly. He looked at both of them, face still ashen, hands flexing and unflexing around his Coke. “Not really talking out of school,” he babbled. “I mean, you’ll find out sooner or later from Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton. He’s the one who told me. Plus, it’s a matter of record.”

“Trooper Lyons! Spit it out!” D.D. yelled.

So he did. “What happened this morning… Well, let’s just say, this wasn’t the first time Trooper Leoni has killed a man.”

First thing I learned as a female police officer was that men were not the enemy I feared them to be.

A bunch of drunken rednecks at a bar? If my senior officer, Trooper Lyons, got out of the cruiser, they escalated immediately to more aggressive acts of machismo. If I appeared on the scene, however, they dropped their posturing and began to study their boots, a bunch of sheepish boys caught in the act by Mom. Rough-looking long-haul truckers? Can’t say yes, ma’am , or no, ma’am fast enough if I’m standing beside their rigs with a citation book. Pretty college boys who’ve tossed back a few too many brews? They stammer, hem and haw, then almost always end up asking me out on a date.

Most men have been trained since birth to respond to a female authority figure. They view someone like me either as the mom they have been prepped to obey, or maybe, given my age and appearance, as a desirable woman worthy of being pleased. Either way, I’m not a direct challenge. Thus, the most belligerent male can afford to step down in front of his buddies. And in situations overloaded with testosterone, my fellow troopers often called me directly for backup, counting on my woman’s touch to defuse the situation, as it generally did.

Male parties might flirt a little, fluster a little, or both. But inevitably, they did what I said.

Females on the other hand…

Pull over the soccer mom doing ninety-five in her Lexus, and she’ll instantly become verbally combative, screeching shrilly about her need for speed in front of her equally entitled-looking two-point-two kids. Doing a civil standby, assisting while a guy under a restraining order fetches his last few things from the apartment, and the battered girlfriend will inevitably come flying at me, demanding to know why I’m letting him pack his own underwear and cursing and screaming at me as if I’m the one responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened in her life.

Men are not a problem for a female trooper.

It’s the women who will try to take you out, first chance they get.

My lawyer had been prattling away at my bedside for twenty minutes when Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren yanked back the privacy curtain. The state police liason, Detective Bobby Dodge, was directly behind her. His face was impossible to read. Detective Warren, however, wore the hungry look of a jungle cat.

My lawyer’s voice trailed off. He appeared unhappy with the sudden appearance of two homicide detectives, but not surprised. He’d been trying to explain to me my full legal predicament. It wasn’t good, and the fact I had yet to give a full statement to the police, in his expert opinion, made it worse.

Currently, my husband’s death was listed as a questionable homicide. Next course of action would be for the Suffolk County DA, working in conjunction with the Boston police, to determine an appropriate charge. If they thought I was a credible victim, a poor battered wife with a corroborating history of visits to the emergency room, they could view Brian’s death as justifiable homicide. I shot him, as I claimed, in self-defense.

But murder was a complicated business. Brian had attacked with a broken bottle; I had retaliated with a gun. The DA could argue that while I was clearly defending myself, I’d still used unnecessary force. The pepper spray, steel baton, and Taser I carried on my duty belt all would’ve been better choices, and for my trigger-happy ways, I’d be charged with manslaughter.

Or, maybe they didn’t believe I’d feared for my life. Maybe they believed Brian and I had been fighting and I’d shot and killed my husband in the heat of the moment. Homicide without premeditation, or Murder 2.

Those were the best-case scenarios. There was, of course, another scenario. One where the police determined my husband was not a violent wife beater, but instead, found me to be a master manipulator who shot my husband with premeditated malice and forethought. Murder 1.

Otherwise known as the rest of my life behind bars. Game over.

These were the concerns that had brought my lawyer to my bedside. He didn’t want me fighting the police for my husband’s remains. He wanted me to issue a statement to the press, a victimized wife extolling her innocence, a desperate mother pleading for her young daughter’s safe return. He also wanted me to start playing nicely with the detectives handling my case. As he pointed out, battered woman’s syndrome was an affirmative defense, meaning the burden of proof rested on my bruised shoulders.

Marriage, it turned out, boiled down to he said, she said, long after one of the spouses was dead.

Now the homicide detectives were back and my lawyer rose awkwardly to assume a defensive stance beside my bed.

“As you can see,” he began, “my client is still recovering from a concussion, not to mention a fractured cheekbone. Her doctor has ordered her to remain overnight for observation, and to get plenty of rest.”

“Sophie?” I asked. My voice came out strained. Detective Warren appeared too harsh to be approaching a mother with bad news. But then again…

“No word,” she said curtly.

“What time is it?”

“Seven thirty-two.”

“After dark,” I murmured.