Juliana had headed up to bed. I was just going to follow when her brother walked through the front door. Thomas was drunk. He spotted me. He…”
Both detectives and my lawyer waited.
“I tried to get around him,” I said finally. “He cornered me against the sofa, pressed me down into it. He was bigger, stronger. I was sixteen. He was nineteen. What could I do?”
My voice trailed off again. I swallowed.
“May I have some water?” I asked.
My lawyer found the pitcher bedside, poured me a glass. My hand was shaking when I raised the plastic cup. I figured they couldn’t blame me for the show of nerves. I drank the whole cup, then set it down again. Given how long it had been since I’d last given a statement, I had to think this through. Consistency was everything, and I couldn’t afford a mistake this late in the game.
Three pairs of eyes waited for me.
I took another deep breath. Gripped the blue button and thought about life, the patterns we made, the cycles we couldn’t escape.
Sacrifice judiciously.
“Just about when… Thomas was going to do what he was going to do, I felt my purse, against my hip. He had me pinned with the weight of his body while he worked on the zipper of his jeans. So I reached down with my right hand. I found my purse. I got the gun. And when he wouldn’t get off me, I pulled the trigger.”
“In the living room of your best friend’s house?” Detective Warren said.
“Yes.”
“Must’ve made a helluva mess.”
“Twenty-two’s not that big of a gun,” I said.
“What about your best friend? How’d she take all this?”
I kept my gaze on the ceiling. “He was her brother. Of course she loved him.”
“So… DA clears you. Court seals the records. But your father, your best friend. They never forgave you, did they.”
She made it a statement, not a question, so I didn’t answer.
“Is that when you started drinking?” Detective Dodge asked.
I nodded wordlessly.
“Left home, dropped out of school…” he continued.
“I’m hardly the first officer with a misspent youth,” I retorted stiffly.
“You got pregnant,” Detective Warren said. “Grew up, wised up, and sobered up. That’s a lotta sacrifice for a kid,” she commented.
“No. That’s love for my daughter.”
“Best thing that ever happened to you. Only family you have left.”
D.D. still sounded skeptical, which I guess was warning enough.
“You ever hear of decomposition odor analysis?” the detective continued, her voice picking up. “Arpad Vass, a research chemist and forensic anthropologist, has developed a technique for identifying the more than four hundred body vapors that emanate from decaying flesh. Turns out, these vapors get trapped in soil, fabrics-even, say, the carpet in the back of a vehicle. With the use of an electronic body sniffer, Dr. Vass can identify the molecular signature of body decomp left behind. For example, he can scan carpet that has been removed from a vehicle and actually see the vapors formed into the shape of a child’s dead body.”
I made a noise. Might have been a gasp. Might have been a moan. Beneath the sheet, my hand tightened.
“We just sent Dr. Vass the carpet from your husband’s SUV. What’s he gonna find, Tessa? Is this going to be your last glimpse of your daughter’s body?”
“Stop. That is insensitive and inappropriate!” My lawyer was already on his feet.
I didn’t really hear him. I was remembering pulling back the covers, gazing, horrified, at Sophie’s empty bed.
“What happened to your daughter!” Detective Warren demanded to know.
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“You came home? She was already gone?”
“I searched the house,” I whispered. “The garage, sunroom, attic, yard. I searched and searched and searched. I demanded that he tell me what he did.”
“What happened, Tessa? What did your husband do to Sophie?”
“I don’t know! She was gone. Gone! I went to work and when I came home…” I stared at D.D. and Bobby, feeling my heart beat wildly again. Sophie. Vanished. Just like that.
“What did he do, Trooper Leoni? Tell us what Brian did.”
“He ruined our family. He lied to me. He betrayed us. He destroyed… everything.”
Another deep breath. I looked both detectives in the eye: “And that’s when I knew he had to die.”
13
What do you think of Tessa Leoni?” Bobby asked five minutes later, as they headed back to HQ.
“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:
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
