Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(66)

D.D. twisted in the passenger’s seat until she could glare straight at him. “You do realize pregnant women are expected to be hormonal and crazy. Meaning I could kill you now, and as long as there’s one mother on the jury, I’d get away with it.”

Bobby smiled. “Ahh, Annabelle used to say the same thing!”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake—”

“You’re pregnant,” he interrupted her. “Men like to fuss over pregnant women. It gives us something to do. We also, secretly, love to fuss over babies. Why, the first time you bring in the infant to meet your squad … I bet Phil will knit a pair of booties. Neil … I’m guessing he’ll provide Looney Tunes Band-Aids and the baby’s first bike helmet.”

D.D. stared at him. She hadn’t thought of booties, Band-Aids, or bringing the kid to work. She was still working on baby, let alone Life with Baby.

She had a text from Alex: Heard about the arrest, how goes the rest of the battle?

She hadn’t answered. She didn’t know what to say. Sure, they’d arrested Tessa Leoni, but they’d also failed to find six-year-old Sophie. And the sun had gone down for the second time, now thirty-six hours since the initial Amber Alert, but probably two full days since Sophie had gone missing. Except, most likely the Amber Alert didn’t matter. Most likely Tessa Leoni had killed her entire family, including Sophie.

D.D. wasn’t working a missing persons case; she was leading a murder investigation to recover a child’s body.

She wasn’t ready to think about that yet. Not prepared for Alex’s gentle, but always probing questions. Nor did she know how to segue from that conversation to Oh yes, and I’m pregnant, which you haven’t heard yet, but Bobby Dodge knows all about, having been informed by a female murder suspect.

These were exactly the kind of situations that made D.D. a workaholic. Because finding Sophie and nailing Tessa would make her feel better. While talking to Alex about the new world order would only be falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit’s hole.

“What you need is a falafel,” Bobby said now.

“Gesundheit,” D.D. answered.

“Annabelle loved them when she was pregnant. It’s meat, isn’t it? You can’t stand the smell of meat.”

D.D. nodded. “Eggs don’t do wonders for me either.”

“Hence, Mediterranean food, with its many and varied vegetarian dishes.”

“Do you like falafels?” D.D. asked suspiciously.

“No, I like Big Macs, but that’s probably not going to work for you right now—”

D.D. shook her head.

“So falafels it is.”

Bobby knew a place. Apparently a favorite of Annabelle’s. He went inside to order, D.D. stayed in the car to avoid kitchen odors and catch up on voice mail. She started by returning Phil’s call, asking him to rerun Brian Darby’s financials, while digging deeper for other accounts or transactions, possibly under a family name or an alias. If Darby had a gambling habit, they should be able to see its impact on his bank account, with large sums of money coming and going, or perhaps a series of cash withdrawals from ATMs at Foxwoods, Mohegan Sun, or other casinos.

Then she transferred to Neil, who’d been working the hospital beat. Neil had been asking about Tessa’s medical history. Now D.D. wanted to know about Brian’s. In the past twelve months, any incidents of broken kneecaps (maybe a ski injury, D.D. mused)—or, say, a fall down a long flight of stairs. Neil was intrigued, saying he’d start right on it.

The hotline was receiving fewer Sophie sightings, but more calls concerning the white Denali. Turned out the city was filled with white SUVs, meaning the taskforce needed additional manpower to chase down all leads. D.D. suggested that the hotline squad pass all vehicle sightings to the three-man team currently tracing the truck’s final hours. Which, she informed them, should be working 24/7, all OT requests automatically approved and if they needed more bodies, then snag more officers.

Tracking down the final drive of Brian Darby’s SUV was a clear priority—pinpoint where the Denali had gone Saturday afternoon, find Sophie’s body.

The thought depressed D.D. She ended her calls and stared out the window instead.

Chilly night. Pedestrians hustled by on the sidewalk, collars turned up tight around their ears, gloved hands thrust deep into coat pockets. No snow yet, but it felt like it was coming. A cold raw night, which fit D.D.’s mood.

She didn’t feel good about arresting Tessa Leoni. She wanted to. The female trooper bothered her. Both too young and too composed. Too pretty and too vulnerable. All bad combinations in D.D.’s mind.

Tessa was lying to them. About her husband, her daughter, and if Hamilton’s theory was correct, about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars currently missing from the troopers’ union. Had Tessa stolen the money? Was this part of her “new life”? Steal a quarter of a million, eliminate the family, and ride off into the sunset, young, pretty, and rich?

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?