Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [58]
“I can’t do it,” I sob into the phone. “I just can’t do it anymore. I’m not strong enough.”
“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” he soothes. “I’ll help you, Victoria. Of course I’ll help you. Now take a deep breath and tell me everything.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Andrew Lightfoot lived in Rockport, about thirty minutes north of Boston. The quaint little town was perched on the edge of the Atlantic coast and offered all the requisite tourist amenities, including hand-scooped ice cream, saltwater taffy, and pounds of homemade fudge. D.D. would love to live in Rockport, assuming she ever won the lottery.
The GPS system obediently directed them to Lightfoot’s DMV address. D.D. followed the long narrow driveway until a house suddenly burst out of the windswept landscape in front of her. Beside her, Alex whistled. She simply stared, craning her head to see better through the front windshield.
Andrew Lightfoot owned a mansion. A staggeringly tall, modernistic structure that rose straight up from the rocky coastline and featured towers of glass oriented toward the vast gray-green sea.
“Three to four million, easy,” Alex price-tagged the home. “How many auras do you have to cleanse to earn this kind of real estate?”
“Don’t know, but next major hurricane, whole house is a do-over.”
“I think they use a special glass now,” Alex commented.
D.D. remained dubious. “I think builders have forgotten how major the hurricanes we can get up here are.”
She parked the car next to a gurgling waterfall that flowed down a pile of decorative rocks. Next to the waterfall stood discreet piles of smaller stones, granite pavers engraved with Japanese symbols and a sparse collection of dainty flowers and ornamental grasses. Very Zen, she supposed. It put her immediately on edge.
D.D. and Alex made their way up the sinuous walkway. An oversized front door, fashioned from glass framed in maple, enabled them to see all the way through the house to the ocean on the other side. Seven-foot-high windowpanes on both sides of the door expanded the view. A small brown dog sat in the right-hand window. It spotted their approach and started yapping.
“Nice guard dog,” Alex remarked.
“Small dogs bite more people than the large breeds do. Toy dogs just have better PR.”
“It’s the pink bow in the hair.”
“Ignore the accessories, watch the teeth,” D.D. advised.
Alex slanted her a look. “Funny. I was told the same thing about you.”
She flashed her canines at him, then knocked on the door. The little dog spun in a circle, reaching new pitches of hysteria. Then, from somewhere deep inside the house, D.D. heard a male voice calling, “Thank you, Tibbie. I’m coming. Easy, sweetheart. Easy.”
A man appeared in the entryway, his frame eclipsed by the light from the windows behind him. D.D. had an impression of height, then the door swung open and he stood before them. She nearly fell back a step, catching herself at the last second and forcing herself to hold steady.
“Can I help you?” the man asked politely. He wore a thin green T-shirt stretched across rippling pecs and washboard abs. His cream linen trousers emphasized long toned legs, while a simple leather cord drew attention to his tanned neck and the shaggy ends of his sun-streaked hair.
Expensive house. Impressive man. And the smell of fresh baked bread.
“Andrew Lightfoot?” D.D. asked, her voice slightly breathless.
“Boston PD,” Alex supplied, after the man nodded. Alex shot D.D. a curious glance when she remained speechless. “Sergeant D.D. Warren, Detective Alex Wilson,” he provided. “May we come in?”
“Absolutely.” Lightfoot stepped back, gesturing for them to enter. Their presence didn’t seem to surprise him. The Harrington murders were currently front-page news. Given Lightfoot’s work with the family, maybe he’d already connected the dots and anticipated a visit from Boston’s finest.
Tibbie the dog had stopped barking, and was now running in circles around them. She stopped to sniff Alex’s ankle, then growled at D.D., then returned to Alex once more.
“Tibbie,” Lightfoot