would track down the officer in charge of the investigation. If possible, they’d also contact the Howe family and Tessa’s father. Last but not least, they wanted to identify Brian Darby’s gym and check out his exercise regimen and the possibility of steroid abuse. Man had bulked up relatively quickly, Mr. Sensitive becoming Mr. Tempermental. It was worth checking out.
With that, D.D. jotted down the next steps and handed out homework. Video team needed to complete their marathon viewing of Boston cameras. Phil needed to complete background reports, conduct property searches, and interview Brian Darby’s boss. Neil had autopsy duty as well as securing a warrant for matching Brian Darby’s boot against Tessa Leoni’s bruised hip.
Fuel squad got to play with gas consumption and Boston maps, creating a maximum search area for Sophie Leoni, while the hotline officers would continue running down old leads and mining for fresh information.
D.D. needed reports from today’s interviews on her desk within the hour. Get to documenting, she ordered her team, then return for duty at oh-dark-thirty. Sophie Leoni remained missing, which meant no rest for the weary.
The detectives filed out.
D.D. and Bobby stayed behind to brief the superintendent of homicide, then consult with the Suffolk County DA. Neither man was interested in details, as much as they wanted results. It was D.D.’s fun-filled job as lead detective to inform them she had not determined the events leading up to Brian Darby’s shooting, nor located six-year-old Sophie Leoni. But hey, pretty much every cop in Boston was currently working the case, so the taskforce was bound to have something… sometime.
The DA, who’d gone positively bug-eyed at the revelation that Tessa Leoni had already pleaded self-defense once before, agreed to D.D.’s request for more time before determining criminal charges. Given the differences between building a case for manslaughter versus Murder 1, additional information would be ideal and a deep bore into Tessa Leoni’s misspent youth a necessity.
They’d keep the media focused on the search for Sophie, and away from the particulars of Brian Darby’s death.
Twelve thirty-three in the morning, D.D. finally slunk back to her own office. Her boss was satisfied, the DA appeased, her taskforce engaged. And so it went, another day in another high profile case. The cogs of the criminal justice system churning round and round.
Bobby took the seat across from her. Without a word, he picked up the first typed report from the pile on her desk and began to read.
After another moment, D.D. joined him.
14
When Sophie was almost three, she locked herself in the trunk of my police cruiser. This happened before I ever met Brian, so I had only myself to blame.
We were living across the hall from Mrs. Ennis at the time. It was late fall, when the sun faded earlier and the nights were growing colder. Sophie and I had been outside, where we’d walked to the park and back. Now it was dinnertime, and I was fussing in the kitchen while assuming she was playing in the family room, where the TV was blaring
I’d made a small salad, part of my program to introduce more vegetables into my child’s diet. Then I’d grilled two chicken breasts and baked Ore-Ida French fries-my compromise, Sophie could have her beloved fries as long as she ate some salad first.
This project took me twenty, twenty-five minutes. But a busy twenty-five minutes. I was occupied and apparently not paying attention to my toddler because when I walked into the family room to announce it was time for dinner, my child wasn’t there.
I didn’t panic right away. I’d like to say it was because I was a trained police officer, but it had more to do with being Sophie’s mom. Sophie started running at thirteen months and hadn’t slowed down since. She was the child who disappeared in grocery stores, bolted away from park swing sets, and made a quick beeline through a sea of legs in a crowded mall, whether I was following or not. In the past six months, I’d already lost Sophie several times. In a matter of minutes, however, we always found each other again.
I started with the basics-a quick walk through our tiny one bedroom. I called her name, then for good measure, checked the cupboards in the bathroom, both closets, and under the bed. She wasn’t in the apartment.
I checked the front door, which, sure enough, I’d forgotten to bolt, meaning the entire apartment complex had just become fair game. I crossed the hall, cursing myself silently and feeling the growing frustration that comes from being an overstretched single parent, responsible for all things at all times, whether I was up to the challenge or not.
I knocked on Mrs. Ennis’s door. No, Sophie wasn’t there, but she swore she’d just seen Sophie playing outside.
Outside I went. Sun had gone down. Streetlights blazed, as well as the spotlights on the front of the apartment building. It was never truly dark in a city like Boston. I took that to heart as I walked around the squat brick complex, calling my daughter’s name. When no laughing child came running around the corner, no high-pitched giggles erupted from a nearby bush, I grew more concerned.
I started to shiver. It was cold, I didn’t have a jacket, and given that I remembered seeing Sophie’s raspberry- colored fleece hanging next to the door in our apartment, she didn’t have a coat either.
My heart accelerated. I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to fight a growing well of dread. The whole time I’d been pregnant with Sophie, I’d lived in a state of fear. I hadn’t felt the miracle of life growing in my body. Instead, I saw the photo of my dead baby brother, a marble white newborn with bright red lips.
When I’d gone into labor, I didn’t think I’d be able to breathe through the terror clutching my throat. I would fail, my baby would die, there was no hope, no hope, no hope.
Except, then there was Sophie. Perfect, mottled red, screaming loudly Sophie. Warm and slippery and achingly beautiful as I cradled her against my breast.
My daughter was tough. And fearless and impulsive.
You didn’t panic with a kid like Sophie. You strategized: What would Sophie do?
I returned to the apartment complex, performed a quick door-to-door canvass. Most of my neighbors weren’t home from work yet; the few that answered hadn’t seen Sophie. I moved fast now, footsteps with purpose.
Sophie liked the park and might head there, except we’d already spent an afternoon playing on the swings and even she’d been ready to leave at the end. She liked the corner store and was positively fascinated by the Laundromat-she loved to watch the clothes spin.
I decided to head back upstairs. Another quick walk-through of our apartment to determine if anything else might be missing-a special toy, her favorite purse. Then I’d grab my car keys and tour the block.
I made it just inside the door, then discovered what she’d taken: The keys to my police cruiser were no longer sitting in the change dish.
This time, I hauled ass out of the apartment and down the front steps. Toddlers and police cruisers didn’t mix. Forget the radio, lights, and sirens in the front. I had a shotgun in the trunk.
I ran to the passenger’s side, peering in from the sidewalk. The interior of the cruiser appeared empty. I tried the door, but it was locked. I walked around more carefully, heart pounding, breathing shallow as I inspected each door and window. No sign of activity. Locked, locked, locked.
But she’d taken the keys. Think like Sophie. What button might she have hit on the key fob? What might she have done?
Then I heard her. A
“Sophie?” I called out.
The thumping stopped.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Sophie. Mommy’s here. Honey,” my voice had risen shrilly, despite my best intentions. “Are you all right?”
