Lisa Gardner - Love You More

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” D.D. said crossly.

“She seems deliberate with her replies.”

“Please. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she doesn’t trust cops.”

“Well, advanced rates of alcoholism, suicide, and domestic violence aside, what’s not to love?”

D.D. grimaced, but got his point. Law enforcement officers weren’t exactly walking advertisements for well-adjusted human beings. Lotta cops graduated from the school of hard knocks. And most of them swore that’s what it took to work these streets.

“She changed her story,” D.D. said.

“Noticed that myself.”

“We’ve gone from her shooting her husband first, then discovering that her daughter was missing, to she discovered Sophie was missing first, then ended up killing her husband.”

“Different timelines, same results. Either way Trooper Leoni was beaten to a pulp, and either way, six-year-old Sophie is gone.”

D.D. shook her head. “Inconsistency about one detail makes you have to question all details. If she lied about the timeline, what other pieces of her story are false?”

“A liar is a liar is a liar,” Bobby said softly.

She glanced over at him, then tightened her hands on the wheel. Tessa’s sob story had gotten to him. Bobby had always had a weakness for damsels in distress. Whereas D.D. had been spot-on with her first impression of Tessa Leoni: pretty and vulnerable, which was trying D.D.’s nerves.

D.D. was tired. It was after eleven and her new, high maintenance body was begging for sleep. Instead, she and Bobby were returning to Roxbury for the first taskforce meeting. Clock was still ticking. Media needed a statement. DA demanded an update. Brass just wanted the homicide case closed and the missing child found, right now.

In the old days, D.D. would be brewing six pots of coffee and eating half a dozen donuts to get through the night. Now, instead, she was armed with a fresh bottle of water and a package of saltines. They weren’t getting the job done.

She’d texted Alex as they were leaving the hospital: Won’t see you tonight, sorry bout tomorrow . He’d texted back: Saw the news. Good luck .

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.