Love You More: A Novel

“She has provided an initial statement,” Trooper Lyons continued stiffly. “All other questions will have to wait until she’s been treated by a doctor.” He glanced behind D.D. to the doorway. “Where are the EMTs?”


“Getting their gear,” D.D. said soothingly. “They’ll be right up. Of course Trooper Leoni’s injuries are a priority. Nothing but the best for a fellow officer.”

D.D. moved to the right, making room for Bobby to stand beside her. A united front of city and state law enforcement. Trooper Lyons didn’t look impressed.

The lawyer had risen to standing. Now he held out a hand. “Ken Cargill,” he said by way of introduction. “I’ll be representing Trooper Leoni.”

“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. introduced herself, then Bobby.

“My client is not taking questions at this time,” Cargill told them. “Once she has received the proper medical attention and we understand the full extent of her injuries, we’ll let you know.”

“Understand. Not here to push. EMTs said they needed a few minutes to prepare the stretcher, grab some fluids. Thought we could use that time to cover a few basics. We got a full Amber Alert out for little Sophie, but I gotta be honest.” D.D. spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “We have no leads. As I’m sure Trooper Leoni knows, in these kinds of cases, every minute counts.”

At the mention of Sophie’s name, Trooper Leoni stiffened on the sofa. She wasn’t looking at D.D., or at any of the men in the room. She had her gaze locked on a spot on the worn green carpet, hands still tucked beneath the ice pack.

“I searched everywhere,” Leoni said abruptly. “The house, the garage, the attic, his vehicle—”

“Tessa,” Trooper Lyons interjected. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

“When was the last time you saw your daughter?” D.D. asked, seizing the opening while she had it.

“Ten forty-five last night,” the officer answered automatically, as if speaking by rote. “I always check on Sophie before reporting for duty.”

D.D. frowned. “You left here at ten forty-five for your eleven o’clock shift? You can make it from here to the Framingham barracks in fifteen minutes?”

Trooper Leoni shook her head. “I don’t drive to the barracks. We drive our cruisers home, so the moment we take the wheel, we start our patrols. I called the desk officer from my cruiser and declared Code 5. He assigned me my patrol area and I was good to go.”

D.D. nodded. Not being a state trooper, D.D. didn’t know these things. But she was also playing a game with Trooper Leoni. The game was called establish the suspect’s state of mind. That way, when Trooper Leoni inevitably said something useful, and her eager-beaver attorney sought to block that admission by claiming his client was suffering from a concussion and therefore mentally incapacitated, D.D. could point out how lucidly Leoni had answered other, easily verifiable questions. For example, if Leoni had been able to accurately recollect what time she’d called the desk officer, where she’d gone on patrol, etc., etc., then why assume she was suddenly mistaken about how she’d shot her own husband?

These were the kind of games a skilled detective knew how to play. Couple of hours ago, D.D. might not have used them on a fellow officer. She might have been willing to cut poor battered Trooper Leoni some slack, show her the kind of preferential treatment one female officer was inclined to give another. But that was before the state troopers had trampled her crime scene and placed D.D. squarely on the other side of their blue wall.

D.D. did not forgive. She did not forget.

And she did not want to be working a case right now involving a small child. But that was not something she could talk about, not even to Bobby.

“So you checked your daughter at ten forty-five …” D.D. prodded.

“Sophie was asleep. I kissed her on the cheek. She … rolled over, pulled the covers up.”

“And your husband?”

“Downstairs. Watching TV.”

“What was he watching?”

“I didn’t notice. He was drinking a beer. That distracted me. I wished … I preferred it when he didn’t drink.”

“How many beers had he had?”

“Three.”

“You counted?”

“I checked the empties lined up next to the sink.”

“Your husband have a problem with alcohol?” D.D. asked bluntly.

Leoni finally looked up at D.D., peering at her with one good eye, as the other half of her face remained a swollen, pulpy mess. “Brian was home sixty days at a stretch with nothing to do. I had work. Sophie had school. But he had nothing. Sometimes, he drank. And sometimes … Drinking wasn’t good for him.”

“So your husband, who you wished didn’t drink, had had three beers and you still left him alone with your daughter.”

“Hey—” Trooper Lyons started to interrupt again.

But Tessa Leoni said, “Yes, ma’am. I left my daughter with her drunken stepdad. And if I had known … I would’ve killed him then, goddammit. I would’ve shot him last night!”