Love You More: A Novel (39 page)

For navigating the snowy road. Perfect.

“Gas cans are against the outside wall. Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“Bring her,” he said suddenly. “When you find her, when you … get her back. I want … I want to meet my granddaughter.”

“Maybe,” I said.

He startled at my hesitation, glared at me.

I took the key, returning his look calmly. “From one alcoholic to another—gotta stop drinking, Dad. Then we’ll see.”

“Hard-ass,” he muttered.

I smiled one last time, then kissed him on his leathery cheek. “Get it from you,” I whispered.

I palmed the key, picked up my duffel bag, then I was gone.

35

W
hy was the scene in the woods so horrific?” D.D. was saying fifteen minutes later. She answered her own question: “Because what kind of mom would kill her own child, then blow up the body? What kind of woman could do such a thing?”

Bobby, standing beside her on Juliana Howe’s front porch, nodded. “Diversion. She needed to buy time to escape.”

D.D. shrugged. “Except not really. She was already alone with Officer Fiske and they were a quarter of a mile away from the search team. She could’ve easily jumped Fiske without the diversion, and still had a solid thirty minutes head start. Which is why exploding the child’s remains seems so horrifying—it’s gratuitous. Why do such a terrible thing?”

“Okay, I’ll bite: Why do such a thing?”

“Because she needed the bones fragmented. She couldn’t afford for us to find the remains
in situ
. Then it would’ve been obvious the body didn’t belong to a child.”

Bobby stared at her. “Excuse me? The pink bits of clothing, blue jeans, rib bone, tooth …”

“Clothing was planted with the body. Rib bone is approximately the right size for a six-year-old—or a large breed of dog. Ben just finished spending some quality time studying bone fragments in the lab. Those bones aren’t human. They’re canine. Right size. Wrong species.”

Bobby did a little double-take. “Fuck me,” he said, a man who hardly ever swore. “The German shepherd. Brian Darby’s old dog that passed away. Tessa buried
that
body?”

“Apparently. Hence the strong scent of decomp in the white Denali. Again, according to Ben, the size and length of many bones in a large dog would match a six-year-old human. Of course, the skull would be all wrong, as well as minor details like tail and paws. An intact canine skeleton, therefore, would never get confused for a human one. Scrambled pieces of bone fragments, however … Ben apologizes for his error. He’s a bit embarrassed to tell you the truth. It’s been a while since he’s had a crime scene mess this much with his head.”

“Wait a second.” Bobby held up a cautioning hand. “The cadaver dogs, remember? They wouldn’t hit on nonhuman remains. Their noses and training are better than that.”

D.D. suddenly smiled. “Fucking clever,” she muttered. “Isn’t that what Juliana said? Tessa Leoni is very clever, gotta give her that.

“Two front teeth,” she filled in for Bobby. “Also three bloody tampons, recovered from the scene after we left. Ben supplies some of the training materials used by the SAR teams. According to him, dog handlers are fairly creative at finding sources of ‘cadaver,’ since owning actual dead people is illegal. Turns out, teeth are like bone. So search handlers get teeth from a local dentist’s office, and use them to train the dogs. Same with used tampons. Tessa hid a dog body, but scattered the site with ‘human cadaver’—her daughter’s baby teeth topped with a dash of feminine hygiene.”

“That’s disgusting,” Bobby said.

“That’s ingenious,” D.D. countered.

“But why?”

D.D. had to think about it. “Because she knew we’d blame her.
That’s been her experience, right? She didn’t shoot Tommy Howe, but the cops assumed she did. Meaning we were right before—the first experience ten years ago has informed her experience now. Another terrible thing happened in Tessa Leoni’s world. Her first instinct is that she will be blamed. Except this time she’ll probably be arrested. So she stages an elaborate scheme to get out of jail.”

“But why?” Bobby repeated. “If she didn’t do anything, why not tell us the truth? Why … such a complicated ruse? She’s a cop now. Shouldn’t she have more faith in the system?”

D.D. arched a brow.

He sighed. “You’re right. We’re born cynics.”

“But why not talk to us?” D.D. was continuing. “Let’s think about that. We assumed Tessa shot Tommy Howe ten years ago. We were wrong. We assumed she shot her husband, Brian, Saturday morning. Well, maybe we’re wrong about that, too. Meaning, someone else did it. That person shot Brian, took Sophie.”

“Why kill the husband, but kidnap the child?” Bobby asked.

“Leverage,” D.D. supplied immediately. “This does go back to gambling. Brian owed too much. Instead of shaking him down, however—the weak link—they’re going after Tessa instead. They shoot Brian to show they mean business, then grab Sophie. Tessa can have her daughter back if she pays up. So Tessa heads to the bank, takes out fifty grand—”

“Clearly not enough,” Bobby commented.

“Exactly. She needs more money, but also has to deal with the fact that her husband’s dead, shot by her gun, as ballistics was a match.”

Bobby’s eyes widened. “She was home,” he said suddenly. “Only way they could’ve shot Brian with her gun. Tessa was home. Maybe even walked into the situation. Someone’s already holding her child. What can she do? Man demands that she turn over her Sig Sauer, then …”

“Shoots Brian,” D.D. said softly.

“She’s screwed,” Bobby continued quietly. “She knows she’s screwed. Her husband is dead by her service weapon, her child has been kidnapped, and she already has a previous history of shooting to
kill. What are the odds of anyone believing her? Even if she said,
Hey, some mobster offed my gambling-addicted husband with my state sidearm, and now I need your help to rescue my kid …”

“I wouldn’t buy it,” D.D. said flaty.

“Cops are born cynics,” Bobby repeated.

“So she starts thinking,” D.D. continued. “Only way to get Sophie back is to get the money, and only way to get the money is to stay out of jail.”

“Meaning, she needs to start planning ahead,” Bobby filled in.

D.D. frowned. “So, based on the Tommy shooting, option A is to plead self-defense. That can be tricky, however, as spousal abuse is an affirmative defense, so she decides she needs a safety net, as well. Option A will be self-defense, and option B will be to hide dog bones in the woods, which she’ll claim are her daughter’s remains. If self-defense doesn’t work and she ends up arrested, then she can escape utilizing plan B.”

“Clever,” Bobby commented. “As Juliana said, self-sufficient.”

“Complicated.” D.D. was scowling. “Especially given that she’s now on the run, making it that much harder for her to get money and rescue Sophie. Would you risk that much when it’s your daughter’s life at stake? Wouldn’t it still be cleaner to fall on her sword and beg for our help? Get us tracking mobsters, get us to rescue Sophie, even if we arrest her first?”

Bobby shrugged. “Maybe, like Juliana, she’s not impressed by other cops.”

But D.D. suddenly had another thought. “Maybe,” she said slowly, “because another cop is part of the problem.”

Bobby stared at her, then she could see him connect the dots.

“Who beat her up?” D.D. asked now. “Who hit her so hard that for the first twenty hours she couldn’t even stand? Who was present the entire time we were at her house on Sunday morning, his hand on her shoulder? I thought he was showing his support. But maybe, he was reminding her to shut up.”

“Trooper Lyons.”

“The helpful ‘friend’ who fractured her cheekbone, and got her
husband hooked on gambling in the first place. Maybe because Lyons was already spending a lot of quality time at Foxwoods.”

“Trooper Lyons isn’t part of the solution,” Bobby muttered. “Trooper Lyons is the heart of the problem.”

“Let’s get him!” D.D. said.

She was already taking the first step off the front porch when Bobby grabbed her arm, drawing her up short.

“D.D., you know what this means?”

“I finally get to break Trooper Lyons?”

“No, D.D. Sophie Leoni. She could still be alive. And Trooper Lyons knows where she’s at.”

D.D. stilled. She felt a flare of emotion. “Then listen to me, Bobby. We need to do this right, and I have a plan.”

36

T
he old Ford didn’t like to shift or brake. Thankfully, given the winter storm alert and the late hour, the roads were mostly empty. I passed several snowplows, a couple of emergency vehicles, and various police cruisers tending to business. I kept my eyes forward and the speedometer at the exact speed limit. Dressed in black, baseball cap pulled low over my brow, I still felt conspicuous heading back into Boston, toward my home.

I drove slowly by my house. Watched my headlights flash across the yellow crime-scene tape, which stood out garishly against the clean white snow.

The house looked and felt empty. A walking advertisement for Something Bad Happened Here.

I kept going until I found parking in an empty convenience store parking lot.

Shouldering my bag, I set out the rest of the way on foot.

Moving quickly now. Wanting the cover of darkness and finding little in a busy city liberally sprinkled with streetlights and brightly lit signs. One block right, one block left, then I was honing in on target.

Shane’s police cruiser was parked outside his house. It was five till eleven, meaning he’d be appearing any time for duty.

I took up position, crouched low behind the trunk, where I could blend into the shadow cast by the Crown Vic in the pool of streetlight.

My hands were cold, even with gloves. I blew on my fingers to keep them warm; I couldn’t afford for them to be sluggish. I was going to get only one shot at this. I would either win, or I wouldn’t.

My heart pounded. I felt a little dizzy and it suddenly occurred to me I hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours. Too late now. Front door opened. Patio light came on. Shane appeared.

His wife, Tina, stood behind him in a fluffy pink bathrobe. Quick kiss to the cheek, sending her man off for duty. I felt a pang. I squashed it.

Shane came down the first step, then the second. Door closed behind him, Tina not waiting for the full departure.

I released the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and started the countdown in my head.

Shane descended all the steps, crossing the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. Arriving at his cruiser, inserting the key in the lock, twisting, popping open the driver-side door.

I sprung out from behind the cruiser and rammed my Glock .40 into the side of his neck.

“One word and you’re dead.”

Shane remained silent.

I took his duty weapon. Then we both climbed into his police cruiser.

I
made him sit in the back, away from the radio and the instrument panel. I took the driver’s seat, the sliding security panel open between us. I kept the Glock on this side of the bulletproof barrier, away from Shane’s lunging reach, while pointing squarely on target. Normally, officers aimed for the subject’s chest—the largest mass. Given that Shane was already wearing body armor, I trained on the solid block of his head.

At my command, he passed me his cellphone, his duty belt, then
his pager. I piled it all in the passenger’s seat, helping myself to the metal bracelets, which I then passed back and had him place around his own wrists.

Subject secured, I pulled my gaze from him long enough to start the car engine. I could feel his body tense, preparing for some kind of action.

“Don’t be stupid,” I said crisply. “I owe you, remember?” I gestured to my battered face. He sagged again, cuffed hands flopping back down onto his lap.

Car engine roared to life. If Shane’s wife happened to glance out the window, she would see her husband warming up his cruiser while checking in with dispatch, maybe tending to a few messages.

A five- to ten-minute delay wouldn’t be too unusual. Anything more than that, she might grow concerned, might even come out to investigate. Meaning, I didn’t have much time for this conversation.