“Our timeline was set by Tessa’s initial statement to police,” D.D. was saying now, back at BPD headquarters, where she’d hastily summoned all members of the taskforce. “We assumed, based upon her accounting of events, that Brian Darby was shot and killed Sunday morning, after a physical altercation with her. According to the ME, however, Darby’s body was frozen prior to Sunday morning, and most likely, unthawed for Tessa’s star-making performance.”

“Can he tell how long it was frozen?” Phil spoke up from the front row.

D.D. let their third squadmate, Neil, answer the question, as he’d been the one attending the autopsy.

“Probably less than twenty-four hours,” Neil provided for the room. “Ben said he can see cellular damage consistent with freezing in the extremities, but not the internal organs. Meaning the body was on ice, but not long enough to freeze all the way through. Limbs, face, fingers, toes, yes. Deep torso, no. So probably put on ice twelve to twenty-four hours. He can only estimate because the timeline would be affected by room temperature. Then you must factor in at least a few hours for the body to return to room temperature.… He’s guessing—stress guessing—Brian Darby was actually killed Friday night or Saturday morning.”

“So,” D.D. stated, redirecting attention to her. “We’re going to have to recanvass all the neighbors, friends, and family—when was the last time someone saw or spoke to Brian Darby alive? Are we looking at Friday night or Saturday morning?”

“Had a call on his cellphone Friday evening,” another detective, Jake Owens, commented. “Saw that when I was going through the records yesterday.”

“Long call? Like he talked to someone?”

“Eight or nine minutes, so not just leaving a message. I’ll trace the number, have a chat with the recipient.”

“Make sure the person spoke to Brian,” D.D. ordered crisply, “and it wasn’t Tessa, using his phone.”

“I don’t get it.” Phil had been doing all the background checks and in many ways knew more about the details of the case than anyone. “We’re thinking Tessa shot her husband, then froze the body—then staged a whole scene for Sunday morning. Why?”

D.D. shrugged. “Interestingly enough, she wouldn’t tell us that.”

“Buying time,” Bobby said, from his place, leaning against the front wall. “No other good reason. She was buying time.”

“For what?” Phil asked.

“Most likely, to deal with her daughter.”

That brought the room up short. D.D. frowned at him. Obviously, she wasn’t happy with his conjecture. That was okay. He wasn’t happy to learn she was pregnant from a suspect in a murder investigation. Call him old-fashioned, but that stuck in his craw, and he was feeling pissy about it.

“You think she hurt the daughter?” Phil asked now, his voice wary. He had four kids at home.