credit card fraud, and perhaps receive some poundings from the local goons. Then what?”
Her investigators stared at her. She stared back at them.
“Hey, don’t let me have all the fun. We assumed Tessa Leoni’s lover beat the crap out of her. Instead, it turns out it was a fellow police officer, who felt he was doing her a favor. Now we can corroborate half that story-Brian Darby did gamble. Brian Darby may have had debt worth an enforcer paying him a visit. So where does that leave us?”
D.D. wrote a fresh header:
“If I were Tessa Leoni,” she stated, “and I discovered my husband was not only still gambling, but that the sorry son of a bitch had run up tens of thousands in credit card debt in my daughter’s name, I’d kill him for that alone. Interestingly enough, my-husband-is-a-worthless-asshole is not an affirmative defense, meaning Tessa’s still better off arguing battery and getting Lyons to beat the shit out of her.”
Several officers nodded agreeably. Bobby, of course, poked the first hole in the argument.
“So she loves her daughter enough to be offended by the credit card scam, but then kills her anyway?”
D.D. pursed her lips. “Point taken.” She looked at the room. “Anyone?”
“Maybe she didn’t kill Sophie on purpose,” Phil suggested. “Maybe, it was an accident. She and Brian were having a fight, Sophie got in the way. Maybe, Sophie’s death became one more reason to kill Brian. Except now her family’s dead, her husband shot by her service weapon-automatic investigation right there,” Phil added, “so Tessa panics. Gotta figure out a plausible scenario-”
“Self-defense worked for her once before,” Bobby commented. “The Tommy Howe shooting.”
“She freezes her husband’s body to buy her time, takes Sophie’s body for a drive, and the next morning concocts a story to manipulate both Shane Lyons and us into believing what she needs us to believe,” D.D. finished. “Sunday morning becomes showtime.”
“What if she withdrew the fifty grand Saturday morning because she discovered Brian was gambling again?” another officer spoke up. “Brian found out, or she confronted him. Events escalated from there.”
D.D. nodded, wrote a new note on the board:
“Gonna be hard to trace,” Phil warned. “Check’s made out to cash, meaning it can be deposited at any bank under any name, or taken to a dealer and cashed.”
“Big check for most dealers,” Bobby said.
“Guaranteed percentage,” Phil countered. “Especially if she called ahead, there are several check cashers who’d make that deal. Bank checks are good as gold and it’s a tight financial market out there.”
“What if Tessa needed the money?” D.D. asked abruptly. “What if she had a payment to make?”
Thirty pairs of eyes looked at her.
“It’s another possibility,” she thought out loud. “Brian Darby had a gambling problem. He couldn’t control it, and like a sinking ship was taking Tessa and Sophie down with him. Now, Tessa is a woman who’s already hit bottom once before. She knows better. In fact, she’s worked doubly hard to rebuild a life, particularly for her daughter’s sake. So what can she do? Divorce takes time, and God knows how much Brian will destroy their financials until it goes through.
“Maybe,” D.D. mused, “maybe there was an enforcer. Maybe, Tessa Leoni
Bobby looked at her. “I thought you were convinced she’d killed her own daughter?”
D.D.’s hand was resting unconsciously across her stomach. “What can I tell you? I’m getting soft in my old age. Besides, a jury will buy a wife killing her gambling-addicted husband. A mother killing her child, however, is a tougher sell.”
She glanced at Phil. “We need to follow the money. Nail down that Tessa definitely took it out. See what else you can find in the financials. And tomorrow, we’ll give Tessa’s lawyer a call, see if we can arrange for a fresh chat. Twenty-four hours in jail has a tendency to make most people more talkative.
“Any other news from the hotline?” she asked.
Nothing, her taskforce agreed.
“Final drive of the white Denali?” she tried hopefully.
“Based on fuel mileage, it remained within a hundred miles of Boston,” the lead detective reported.
“Excellent. So we’ve narrowed it to, what, a quarter of the state?”
“Pretty much.”
D.D. rolled her eyes, set down the marker. “Anything else we should know?”
“Gun,” spoke up a voice from the back of the room. Detective John Little.
“What about it?” D.D. asked. “Last I knew, the firearms discharge investigation team had turned it over for processing.”
“Not Tessa’s gun,” Little said. “Brian’s gun.”
“Brian had a gun?” D.D. asked in surprise.
“Took out a permit two weeks ago. Glock forty. I couldn’t find it on the evidence logs as seized from either the house or his car.”
The detective gazed at her expectantly. D.D. returned his stare.
“You’re telling me Brian Darby had a gun,” she said.
“Yes. Applied for the permit two weeks ago.”
“Maybe bulking up wasn’t getting the job done anymore,” Bobby murmured.
D.D. waved her hand at him. “Hello. Bigger picture here. Brian Darby had a Glock forty,
“Gun permit just went through,” Detective Little countered defensively. “We’re a little backed up these days. Haven’t you been reading the papers? Armageddon is coming and, apparently, half the city intends to be armed for it.”
“We need that gun,” D.D. said in a clipped voice. “For starters, what if that’s the weapon that killed Sophie Leoni?”
The room went silent.
“Yeah,” she said. “No more talk. No more theories. We have a dead husband of a state police officer, and a missing six-year-old. I want Sophie Leoni. I want Brian Darby’s gun. And if that evidence leads us where we think it’s probably going to lead us, then I want us to build a case so fucking airtight, Tessa Leoni goes away for the rest of her miserable life. Get out. Get it done.”
Eleven o’clock Monday night, the detectives scrambled.
26
Every woman has a moment in her life when she realizes she genuinely loves a guy, and he’s just not worth it. It took me nearly three years to reach that point with Brian. Maybe there were signs along the way. Maybe, in the beginning, I was just so happy to have a man love me and my daughter as much as Brian seemed to love me and Sophie, I ignored them. Yes, he could be moody. After the initial six-month honeymoon, the house became his anal-retentive domain, Sophie and I receiving daily lectures if we left a dish on the counter, a toothbrush out of its holder, a crayon on the table.
Brian liked precision, needed it.
“I’m an engineer,” he’d remind me. “Trust me, you don’t want a dam built by a sloppy engineer.”
Sophie and I did our best. Compromise, I told myself. The price of family; you gave up some of your individual preferences for the greater good. Plus, Brian would leave again and Sophie and I would spend a giddy eight weeks dumping our junk all over the place. Coats draped over the back of kitchen chairs. Art projects piled on the corner of the counter. Yes, we were regular Girls Gone Wild when Brian shipped out.
Then, one day I went to pay the plumber and discovered our life savings was gone.
It’s a tough moment when you have to confront the level of your own complacency. I knew Brian had been going to Foxwoods. More to the point, I knew the evenings he came home reeking of booze and cigarettes, but claimed he’d been hiking. He’d lied to me, on several occasions, and I’d let it go. To pry would involve being told an
