Love You More: A Novel

“Phil,” D.D. stated, pulling out her cellphone. “You get on the Pike. I’ll get us the address.”


Bobby hit the lights, roaring for the Mass Pike, the quickest route for cutting across the state. D.D. dialed BPD headquarters. It was after midnight, but nobody in the state or Boston force was sleeping tonight; Phil answered on the first ring.

“You heard about Trooper Lyons?” Phil stated in way of greeting.

“Already been there. Got a sensitive request for you. Want full background on Gerard Hamilton. Search under his family members’ names, too. I want all known property addresses, and after that, a full financial workup.”

There was a pause. “You mean the lieutenant colonel of the state police?” Phil asked carefully.

“Told you it was sensitive.”

D.D. heard a tapping sound. Phil’s fingers, already flying across the computer keyboard.

“Ummm, if you want some unofficial info, not even water cooler talk, more like urinal gossip …” Phil started, as he typed away.

“By all means,” D.D. assured him.

“Heard Hamilton’s got himself a mistress. A hot Italian spitfire.”

“Name?”

“Haven’t a clue. Guy only mentioned her … derriere.”

“Men are pigs.”

“Personally, I’m a pig who’s in love with his wife and needs her to survive four kids, so don’t look at me.”

“True,” D.D. granted. “Start digging, Phil. Tell me what I need to know, because we think he might have Sophie Leoni.”

D.D. hung up. Bobby came to the exit for the Mass Pike. He careened up it at seventy miles per hour and they went squealing around the corner. Roads were finally clear of snow and there wasn’t much traffic at this time of night. Bobby hit one hundred on the broad, flat highway as they soared toward western Mass. They had a hundred and thirty miles to cover, give or take, D.D. thought, not all of which could be traveled at top speed. Two hours, she decided. Two hours till finally rescuing Sophie Leoni.

“Do you think she’s a good cop?” Bobby asked suddenly.

D.D. didn’t have to ask who he was talking about. “I don’t know.”

Bobby took his gaze off the fast flying darkness just long enough to glance at her. “How far would you go?” he asked softly, his eyes dropped to her belly. “If it were your child, how far would you go?”

“I hope I never have to find out.”

“Because I would kill them all,” Bobby said flatly, his hands flexing and unflexing on the wheel. “If someone threatened Annabelle, kidnapped Carina. There wouldn’t be enough ammo left in this state for what I would do to them.”

D.D. didn’t doubt him for a minute, but she still shook her head.

“It’s not right, Bobby,” she said quietly. “Even if you’re provoked, even if the other guy started it … Criminals resort to violence. We’re cops. We’re supposed to know better. If we can’t live up to that standard … Well then, who can?”

They drove in silence after that, listening to the throaty growl of a flat-out engine and watching city lights wink by like bolts of lightning.

Sophie, D.D. thought, here we come.





42


Lieutenant Colonel Gerard Hamilton was my commanding officer, but I would never say I knew him well. For one thing, he was several levels above me in the food chain. For another, he was a guy’s guy. When he did hang out with the troopers, it was with Shane, and he often included Shane’s partner in crime, my husband, Brian.

They’d catch Red Sox games, maybe a hunting weekend, or a field trip to Foxwoods.

In hindsight, it all made perfect sense. Shane’s little excursions. My husband tagging along. Hamilton, too.

Meaning, when Brian started to gamble too much, get in too deep … Who would know how badly he needed money? Who would know another option for getting rich quick? Who would be in the perfect position to prey on my husband’s weakness?

Shane had never been big in the brains department. Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, however … He’d know how to bring Shane and Brian along. Skim a little here, then a little there. It’s amazing how people can rationalize doing bad things when at first you start out small.

For example, I didn’t plan on killing Shane when I got out of jail, or murdering a gangster named John Stephen Purcell, or driving through the freezing night to my superior officer’s hunting cabin with a shotgun on my lap.

Maybe Brian and Shane told themselves they were merely “borrowing” that money. As union rep, Shane would know all about the pension account and available balance. Hamilton probably knew how to get access, what kind of shell company would be most appropriate for defrauding retired state cops. In the old boys’ network, it was probably a matter of a single phone call.