Love You More: A Novel (28 page)

Or did it come back to the husband? Had he accrued gambling debts no honest man could pay? Maybe embezzling state police monies was his idea and she’d been pressured into going along. Stand behind your man. Except then, once she had the cash, realized the full risk she’d taken, and considered the lure of total freedom … Why hand over the ill-gotten gains if you could keep them all for yourself?

She’d had a pretty good plan, too. Set up her husband as a child murderer and wife beater. Then off him in self-defense. Once the dust settled, Tessa could quietly resign from the police and move to another state, where she could be a widow who’d inherited two hundred and fifty thousand in life insurance.

Plan would’ve worked, D.D. thought, if the ME hadn’t noticed the cellular damage caused by freezing.

Maybe that’s why Tessa had been putting pressure on Ben to release her husband’s body. To try to avoid the autopsy altogether, or if it did happen, for it to be rushed. Ben would get in, out, done, and nobody would be the wiser.

Way to go, Ben, D.D. thought, then realized she was exhausted. She hadn’t eaten today, she hadn’t slept much last night. Her body was shutting down on her. She needed a nap. She needed to call Alex.

Dear God, what was she ever going to say to Alex?

Car door popped open. Bobby climbed in. He was holding a brown paper bag that wafted all sorts of curious scents. D.D. inhaled, and for once, her stomach didn’t rebel. She breathed in deeper, and just like that, she was starving.

“Falafel!” she ordered.

Bobby patted her hand, already digging out the wrap. “Now, who was saying men shouldn’t fuss.…”

“Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

“Love you, too, D.D. Love you, too.”

———

T
hey ate. Food was good. Food was energy. Food was power.

When they were done, D.D. demurely wiped her mouth, cleaned her hands, and returned the trash to the brown paper bag.

“I have a plan,” she said.

“Does it involve me going home to my wife and baby?”

“No. It involves going to Trooper Lyons’s house, and questioning him in front of his wife and children.”

“I’m in.”

She patted his hand. “Love you, too, Bobby. Love you, too.”

L
yons lived in a modest 1950s raised ranch, seven blocks over from Brian Darby. From the street, the house appeared dated but well maintained. Tiny front yard, currently cluttered with a collection of plastic snow shovels and sleek sleds. The remains of a snowman and what appeared to be a snow fort lined the driveway, where Lyons’s cruiser was parked at attention.

Bobby had to circle the block a couple of times for parking. When no spots became available, he parked illegally behind Lyons’s cruiser. What was the point of being a cop if you couldn’t bend a few rules?

By the time D.D. and Bobby got out of the car, Lyons was standing on the front porch. The burly trooper wore faded jeans, a heavy flannel shirt, and an unwelcoming scowl.

“What?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Got a couple of questions,” D.D. said.

“Not at my house you don’t.”

D.D. eased back, let Bobby take the lead. He was a fellow state officer, not to mention better at playing good cop.

“Not intruding,” Bobby said immediately, tone placating. “We were at the Darby house,” he lied, “thought of a couple of things, and since you’re right around the corner …”

“I don’t bring work home.” Lyons’s ruddy face was still guarded, but not as hostile. “I got three kids. They don’t need to be hearing about Sophie. They’re freaked out enough as it is.”

“They know she’s missing,” D.D. spoke up. He shot her a look.

“Heard it on the radio when their mother was driving them to school. Amber Alerts.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Can’t avoid ’em. Guess that’s the whole point. But they know Sophie. They don’t understand what could’ve happened to her.” His voice grew rougher. “They don’t understand why their father, the super-cop, hasn’t brought her home yet.”

“Then we’re all on the same page,” Bobby said. He and D.D. had made it to the front stoop. “We want to find Sophie, bring her home.”

Lyons’s shoulders came down. He seemed to finally relent. After another moment, he opened the door, gestured them inside.

They entered into a small mudroom, wood-paneled walls covered in coats, ceramic-tiled floor overrun with boots. House was small, and it only took D.D. a minute to figure out who ran the roost, three young boys, ages five to nine, who rushed into the crowded space to greet the newcomers, talking over one another in their excitement, before their mother, a pretty thirty-something woman with shoulder-length brown curls, tracked them down, looking exasperated.

“Bedtime!” she informed the boys. “To your rooms. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve brushed your teeth and changed into pajamas!”

Three boys stared at her, didn’t budge a muscle.

“Last one to the top of the stairs is a rotten egg!” the oldest boy suddenly yelled, and the three roared off like rockets, piling over one another in their haste to get to the stairs first.

Their mother sighed.

Shane shook his head.

“This is my wife, Tina,” he offered, making the introduction. Tina shook their hands, smiling politely, but D.D. could read tension in the fine lines bracketing the woman’s mouth, the way she looked instinctively at her husband, as if for assurance.

“Sophie?” she whispered, the name hitching in her throat.

“No news,” Shane said softly, and he laid his hands on his wife’s shoulders in a gesture D.D. found genuinely touching. “Got some work to do here, okay? I know I said I’d put the boys to bed.…”

“It’s okay,” Tina said automatically.

“We’ll be in the front room.”

Tina nodded again. D.D. could feel her eyes on them as they followed Shane from the mudroom into the kitchen. She thought the woman still looked worried.

Off the kitchen was a small front room. Looked like it had once been a three-season porch that Lyons had finished off with windows, installing a small gas-burning stove for heat. The room was decorated Rugged Male, with a big-screen TV, two oversized brown recliners, and a plethora of sports memorabilia. The Man Cave, D.D. deduced, where the stressed-out state trooper could retreat to recover from his day.

She wondered if the wife had an equivalent Crafts Room or Day Spa, because personally, she was betting life with three boys topped eight hours on patrol any day of the week.

Room didn’t really offer seating for three, unless you counted the beanbags piled in the corner, so they stood.

“Nice home,” Bobby said, once again good cop.

Lyons shrugged. “We bought it for the location. You can’t see it right now, but the back lawn rolls down into a park, giving us plenty of green space. Great for barbecues. Essential for three boys.”

“That’s right,” D.D. spoke up. “You’re known for your cookouts. That’s how Tessa and Brian met.”

Lyons nodded, didn’t say anything. He had his arms crossed over his chest, a defensive stance, D.D. thought. Or maybe an aggressive stance, given how it bulged the muscles of his shoulders and chest.

“We talked to Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton,” Bobby commented.

Was it D.D.’s imagination, or did Lyons just tense?

“He mentioned several of the outings you’ve organized, you know—boys’ night out to Red Sox games, Foxwoods.”

Lyons nodded.

“Sounds like Brian Darby often joined.”

“If he was around,” Lyons said. Another noncommittal shrug.

“Tell us about Foxwoods,” D.D. said.

Lyons stared at her, then returned his gaze to Bobby. “Why don’t you just ask me the question.”

“All right. To your knowledge did Brian Darby have a gambling problem?”

“To my knowledge …” The trooper suddenly sighed, uncrossed his arms, shook them out. “Goddammit,” he said.

D.D. took that as a yes.

“How bad?” she asked.

“Don’t know. He wouldn’t talk about it with me. He knew I disapproved. But Tessa called me, ’bout six months ago. Brian was on tour, upstairs bathtub had sprung a leak. I gave her the name of a plumber, which she then contacted. Couple of pipes had to be replaced, some drywall patched. When all was said and done, guess it cost a good eight hundred, nine hundred bucks. Except when she went to withdraw it from savings, the money wasn’t there.”

“It wasn’t there?” D.D. repeated.

Lyons shrugged. “According to Tessa, they should’ve had thirty grand in savings, except they didn’t. I ended up loaning her the money to pay the contractors. Then, when Brian got back …”

“What happened?”

“We confronted him. Both of us. Tessa wanted me there. She said, if it was just her, it would sound like a nagging wife. But if it was both of us, Brian’s wife and best friend, he’d have to pay attention.”

“You ran a gambling addiction ‘intervention,’ ” Bobby said. “Did it work?”

Lyons barked hollowly. “Did it work? Hell, not only did Brian refuse to acknowledge he had a problem, he actually accused us of having an affair. We were in cahoots against him. Whole world out to get him.” Lyons shook his head. “I mean … you think you know a guy. We’d been friends for how long? And then one day, he just goes off. It’s easier for him to believe his best friend is fucking his wife than to accept that he has a gambling problem, and that liquidating his life savings to pay off loan sharks isn’t a good way to live.”

“He took money from loan sharks?” D.D. asked sharply.

Lyons gave her a look. “Not according to him. He said he’d taken the money to pay off the Denali. So, while we’re all sitting there, Tessa, cool as a cucumber, picks up the phone and dials their bank. It’s all automated systems these days, and sure enough, their vehicle loan still has a $34,000 balance due. Which is when he started yelling that we were obviously sleeping together. Go figure.”

“What did Tessa do?”

“Pleaded with him. Begged him to get help before he got in too deep. Which he refused to acknowledge. So finally she said, if he didn’t have a problem, then it should be easy for him to agree not to gamble. At all. He’d stay out of Foxwoods, Mohegan Sun, everywhere. He agreed, after making her promise never to see me again.”

D.D. raised a brow, looked at him. “Sounds like he really believed you and Tessa were too close.”

“Addicts blame everyone else for their problems,” Lyons replied evenly. “Ask my wife. I told her all about it, and she can vouch for my time, both when Brian is home and when he’s not home. We don’t have secrets between us.”

“Really? Then why didn’t you tell us this sooner?” D.D. said. “Instead, I recall this whole little spiel on how you weren’t too involved with Brian and Tessa’s marriage. Now, twenty-four hours later, you’re their personal intervention specialist.”

Lyons flushed. His fists were clenched at his side. D.D. glanced down, then …

“Son of a bitch!”

She grabbed his right hand, yanking it toward the light. Immediately, Lyons raised his left as if to shove her back, and in the next instant he had a loaded Sig Sauer dug into his temple.

“Touch her and die,” Bobby said.

Both men were breathing hard, D.D. sandwiched between them.

The state trooper had a solid fifty pounds on Bobby. He was stronger, and as a patrol officer, more experienced in a street fight. Maybe, if it had been any other officer, he would’ve been tempted to make a move, call the officer’s bluff.

But Bobby had already earned his battle stripes—one shot, one kill. Other officers didn’t ignore that kind of thing.

Lyons eased back, standing passively as D.D. jerked his bruised and battered fist under the overhead light. The knuckles on his right hand were purple and swollen, the skin abraded in several areas.

As Bobby slowly moved his firearm to his side, D.D.’s gaze went to the steel-toed boots on Lyons’s feet. The rounded tip of the boot. The bruise on Tessa’s hip her lawyer wouldn’t let them examine.

“Son of a bitch,” D.D. repeated. “You hit her.
You’re
the one who beat the shit out of Tessa Leoni.”

“Had to,” Lyons replied in a clipped tone.

“Why?”

“Because she begged me to.”

I
n Lyons’s new and improved story, Tessa had phoned him, hysterical, at nine a.m. Sunday morning. Sophie was missing, Brian was dead, some mystery man had done it all. She needed help. She wanted Lyons to come, alone, now, now, now.

Lyons had literally run to her place, as his cruiser would be too conspicuous.

When he’d arrived, he’d discovered Brian dead in the kitchen and Tessa, still in her uniform, weeping beside the corpse.

Tessa had told him some preposterous story. She’d arrived home from patrol, depositing her belt on the kitchen table, then walking upstairs to check on Sophie. Sophie’s room had been empty. Tessa had just started getting nervous, when she heard a sound from the kitchen. She’d raced back down, where she’d discovered a man in a black wool trench coat holding Brian at gunpoint.

The man had told Tessa that he’d taken Sophie. The only way to get her back was to do as he said. Then he’d shot Brian three times in the chest with Tessa’s gun and left.

“You believed this story?” D.D. asked Lyons incredulously. They were now sitting in the beanbags. It would almost appear cordial, except Bobby had his Sig Sauer on his lap.

“Not at first,” Lyons admitted, “which became Tessa’s point. If I didn’t believe her story, then who would?”

“You think the man in black was an enforcer?” Bobby asked with a frown, “sent by someone Brian owed money to?”

Lyons sighed, looked at Bobby. “Brian muscled up,” he said abruptly. “You asked about it, yesterday. Why’d Brian bulk up?”

Bobby nodded.

“Brian’s gambling started a year ago. Three months into it, he has his first little ‘episode.’ Ran up a bit too much on tab, got roughed up
by some casino goons till he worked out a payment plan. Next week, he joined the gym. I think Brian’s bulking up was his own self-protection plan. Let’s just say,
after
Tessa and I confronted him, he didn’t quit the gym.”

“He was still gambling,” Bobby said.