Lisa Gardner: Touch & Go

Tessa climbed out of her car, wrapped herself in her long chocolate-brown wool coat, then found herself hesitating again.

Her first instinct was to shed her Glock. Stick it in the glove compartment. Wearing it into this scene, in front of Boston detectives, would only invite comment.

But then that pissed her off. Cop 101: Never let them see you sweat.

Chin up, shoulders back, Tessa slipped her legally registered firearm into her holster, and got to it.

Sun was up now, casting the row of redbricked and cream-painted town houses in a golden glow. Once back on Marlborough Street, she followed the redbrick sidewalk down to the Denbes’ residence, admiring all the front stoops still harboring dried cornstalks and various harvest decorations in honor of Thanksgiving. Most of the townhomes boasted small curbside gardens defined by ornate black wrought-iron fencing. This time of year, the plantings were reduced to miniature boxwoods, larger leafy green shrubs and, in some cases, dead mums. At least the temperature today wasn’t so bad, the sun promising some heat. But day by day, the sun would fall lower in the sky, the days growing shorter, the wind gaining bite as December dawned nearly painful with its early morning chill.

A young uniformed officer stood alone in front of the Denbe residence. He was juggling from foot to foot, maybe to keep himself warm, maybe to keep himself awake. This close, standing on the sidewalk before the striking cream-washed, black-trimmed town house, there was no sign of immediate tragedy. No crime-scene tape had been strewn across the front steps, no ME’s gurney stood waiting on the narrow front walk. Relatively speaking, the scene was quiet, which already made Tessa wonder what Boston police didn’t want people to know.

According to Tessa’s boss, the Denbe family’s housekeeper had placed the first call to police shortly after 5:30 A.M. She’d reported the residence appeared to have been broken into, at which point a Boston district detective had been deployed to the scene. What he’d found inside implied an incident a bit more urgent than a routine burglary, and had led to many more phone calls, including one from Justin Denbe’s company to Tessa’s boss.

Messy, Tessa had thought during her boss’s initial call. Now, staring at the gaping black walnut front door of the house, she amended that to complicated. Very complicated.

She squared off against the young officer, flashing her investigator’s shield. Predictably, he shook his head.

“Private party,” he informed her. “Boston uniforms only.”

“But I got a special invitation,” Tessa countered. “Direct from the family’s company, Denbe Construction. A firm that specializes in hundred-million-dollar building projects, handed directly to them by state senators and high-ranking Washington insiders. You know, the kind of people working stiffs like you and me can’t afford to piss off.”

Officer glared at her. “Which Washington insiders?”

“The kind of power brokers who’ve granted Justin Denbe a standing invitation to the presidential inauguration of his choice. Those kinds of insiders.” Actually, that might be stretching things a bit, but she felt it got her point across.

The officer shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Not completely buying the story of political connections, but given the residence’s location in wealthy Back Bay, not completely willing to discount it, either.

“Look,” Tessa pressed. “This family, this neighborhood. Hell, we’re all out of our league. Which is why Denbe’s company employed my company. Private firm to protect private interests. I’m not saying it’s right, or that you have to like it, but we both know in these circles, that’s how the world works.”

She was winning, she could tell she was winning. Which of course was the moment Boston Detective Sergeant D. D. Warren appeared.

The hard-edged blonde walked out the front door, peeled off two latex gloves, took in Tessa’s presence and openly smirked.

“Heard you became a rent-a-cop,” the homicide detective stated. Her short blond curls bounced in the morning sun as she descended the front steps. An investigator known for her fashion sense, D.D. wore dark-washed jeans, a light blue button-up shirt, and a caramel-colored leather jacket. Her matching boots had three-inch high heels and she still didn’t miss a beat.

“Heard you became a mom.”

“Married, too.” The detective flashed a blue sparkling band. She drew to a halt next to the uniformed officer, who was looking from side to side as if in search of a quick exit.

D.D. and Tessa had last seen each other in a hospital room two years ago. D.D. and her state partner, Bobby Dodge, had been interrogating Tessa regarding her husband’s shooting, her fellow trooper’s murder and two other deaths. Tessa hadn’t liked D.D.’s questions. D.D. hadn’t liked Tessa’s answers. Apparently, time had not changed either of their opinions.

Now D.D. jerked her chin toward the distinct bulge beneath Tessa’s open coat. “They seriously allow you to carry a gun?”

“That’s what happens when a court clears a person of all charges. Innocent in the eyes of the law and all that.”

D.D. rolled her eyes. She hadn’t bought that story two years ago, either. “Why are you here?” the city cop asked crisply.

“To take your case.”

“Can’t.”

Tessa didn’t say anything, silence being the best show of strength.

“Seriously,” D.D. continued. “Can’t take my case, ’cause it’s not my case.”

“What?” Tessa couldn’t help herself; the news was unexpected given D.D’s status as Boston’s reigning supercop.

D.D. jerked her head toward the front door of the brownstone. “Lead detective is Neil Cap. He’s inside if you want to take up matters with him.”

Tessa had to search her memory banks. “Wait a minute. The red-headed kid? The one who spent all his time at the ME’s office? That Neil?”

“I raised him right,” D.D. said modestly. “And for the record, he’s five years older than you, and doesn’t take well to being called a kid. Definitely, you’re gonna need better manners than that if you want to muscle in on his case.”

“I don’t need manners. I have permission from the owners to enter.”

D.D.’s turn to appear surprised. Her bright blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “The family? You’ve spoken to them? Because we’d really like to speak to them. Right away, in fact.”

“Not the family. Turns out, like a lot of rich guys, Justin Denbe didn’t purchase his own home. His company did.”

Detective Warren had always been a smart woman. “Shit,” the detective exhaled.

“As of six this morning,” Tessa filled in, “Denbe Construction retained Northledge Investigations to handle all matters related to this property. I’m authorized to enter the home, assess the scene and conduct an independent analysis of the incident. Now, we can all stand around waiting for the fax to reach your offices, or you can let me get to work. As I was explaining to this fine officer here, the Denbe family is just a little bit connected. Meaning you might as well let me enter and put my head on the chopping block. It’ll save you the time and effort later of finding someone else to blame.”

D.D. didn’t speak, just shook her head. The detective studied the brick walk for a second, maybe composing herself, but more likely coming up with the next line of attack.

“What’d you serve in the end, Tessa?” D.D. quizzed. “Four, five years as a patrol officer?”

“Four.”

The veteran detective looked up. Her expression wasn’t mocking, but frank. “Not enough experience for this kind of case,” she stated bluntly. “You’ve never processed evidence, let alone dissected a five-story crime scene, let alone taken on responsibility for this kind of situation. We’re not talking speed-trapping motor vehicles or administering breathalyzer tests to drunks. We’re talking an entire family, gone, including a teenage girl.”