Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(67)

She’d had a pretty good plan, too. Set up her husband as a child murderer and wife beater. Then off him in self-defense. Once the dust settled, Tessa could quietly resign from the police and move to another state, where she could be a widow who’d inherited two hundred and fifty thousand in life insurance.

Plan would’ve worked, D.D. thought, if the ME hadn’t noticed the cellular damage caused by freezing.

Maybe that’s why Tessa had been putting pressure on Ben to release her husband’s body. To try to avoid the autopsy altogether, or if it did happen, for it to be rushed. Ben would get in, out, done, and nobody would be the wiser.

Way to go, Ben, D.D. thought, then realized she was exhausted. She hadn’t eaten today, she hadn’t slept much last night. Her body was shutting down on her. She needed a nap. She needed to call Alex.

Dear God, what was she ever going to say to Alex?

Car door popped open. Bobby climbed in. He was holding a brown paper bag that wafted all sorts of curious scents. D.D. inhaled, and for once, her stomach didn’t rebel. She breathed in deeper, and just like that, she was starving.

“Falafel!” she ordered.

Bobby patted her hand, already digging out the wrap. “Now, who was saying men shouldn’t fuss.…”

“Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

“Love you, too, D.D. Love you, too.”

———



They ate. Food was good. Food was energy. Food was power.

When they were done, D.D. demurely wiped her mouth, cleaned her hands, and returned the trash to the brown paper bag.

“I have a plan,” she said.

“Does it involve me going home to my wife and baby?”

“No. It involves going to Trooper Lyons’s house, and questioning him in front of his wife and children.”

“I’m in.”

She patted his hand. “Love you, too, Bobby. Love you, too.”


Lyons lived in a modest 1950s raised ranch, seven blocks over from Brian Darby. From the street, the house appeared dated but well maintained. Tiny front yard, currently cluttered with a collection of plastic snow shovels and sleek sleds. The remains of a snowman and what appeared to be a snow fort lined the driveway, where Lyons’s cruiser was parked at attention.

Bobby had to circle the block a couple of times for parking. When no spots became available, he parked illegally behind Lyons’s cruiser. What was the point of being a cop if you couldn’t bend a few rules?

By the time D.D. and Bobby got out of the car, Lyons was standing on the front porch. The burly trooper wore faded jeans, a heavy flannel shirt, and an unwelcoming scowl.

“What?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Got a couple of questions,” D.D. said.

“Not at my house you don’t.”

D.D. eased back, let Bobby take the lead. He was a fellow state officer, not to mention better at playing good cop.

“Not intruding,” Bobby said immediately, tone placating. “We were at the Darby house,” he lied, “thought of a couple of things, and since you’re right around the corner …”

“I don’t bring work home.” Lyons’s ruddy face was still guarded, but not as hostile. “I got three kids. They don’t need to be hearing about Sophie. They’re freaked out enough as it is.”

“They know she’s missing,” D.D. spoke up. He shot her a look.

“Heard it on the radio when their mother was driving them to school. Amber Alerts.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Can’t avoid ’em. Guess that’s the whole point. But they know Sophie. They don’t understand what could’ve happened to her.” His voice grew rougher. “They don’t understand why their father, the super-cop, hasn’t brought her home yet.”

“Then we’re all on the same page,” Bobby said. He and D.D. had made it to the front stoop. “We want to find Sophie, bring her home.”

Lyons’s shoulders came down. He seemed to finally relent. After another moment, he opened the door, gestured them inside.

They entered into a small mudroom, wood-paneled walls covered in coats, ceramic-tiled floor overrun with boots. House was small, and it only took D.D. a minute to figure out who ran the roost, three young boys, ages five to nine, who rushed into the crowded space to greet the newcomers, talking over one another in their excitement, before their mother, a pretty thirty-something woman with shoulder-length brown curls, tracked them down, looking exasperated.

“Bedtime!” she informed the boys. “To your rooms. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve brushed your teeth and changed into pajamas!”

Three boys stared at her, didn’t budge a muscle.

“Last one to the top of the stairs is a rotten egg!” the oldest boy suddenly yelled, and the three roared off like rockets, piling over one another in their haste to get to the stairs first.

Their mother sighed.

Shane shook his head.

“This is my wife, Tina,” he offered, making the introduction. Tina shook their hands, smiling politely, but D.D. could read tension in the fine lines bracketing the woman’s mouth, the way she looked instinctively at her husband, as if for assurance.

“Sophie?” she whispered, the name hitching in her throat.

“No news,” Shane said softly, and he laid his hands on his wife’s shoulders in a gesture D.D. found genuinely touching. “Got some work to do here, okay? I know I said I’d put the boys to bed.…”