Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(19)

He could practically feel Tessa rolling her eyes. Which was exactly what he needed. A break from the pressure of a case that might not even be a case. And yet he was sure it was a case. At least a motor vehicle accident.

“So why a puppy?” Tessa was asking him.

“Because a puppy makes everything better. Just ask Sophie.”

“Low blow.”

“Of course, I reserve the right to present the puppy. We both know I need the brownie points.”

“You’ve been giving this some thought,” Tessa said.

“Spent the morning with a search dog,” Wyatt volunteered. “Which might have gone better if we’d been searching for a real person, versus some brain-damaged woman’s mental delusion.” He couldn’t help himself; he sighed again.

“Day going that well?”

“Yeah, which means, sadly, I’ll never make dinner. Now that we’ve eliminated the ghosts, we have a real crime scene to analyze and auto accident to reconstruct.”

“Catch me up; what do you know thus far?”

Over the phone, Wyatt could hear Tessa shifting her position, most likely getting more comfortable in her black leather desk chair. She wasn’t just asking a question; she was interested in the answer. Which was one of the things Wyatt liked best about dating a fellow investigator. Tessa didn’t just inquire about his day; she was more than happy to review it with him. And sometimes, as the saying went, two heads were better than one.

Sitting in his county cruiser, waiting for the state police to arrive with the electronic data retrieval box, Wyatt took her up on her offer.

“Single MVA, off road, possible aggravated DWI.”

“Blood alcohol level?”

“Well, first complicating factor. Driver smelled like a distillery. According to hospital records, however, her blood alcohol level was only .06—”

“That doesn’t meet the threshold for DWI.”

“Ah, but the patient suffers from something called post-concussive syndrome. Has taken one too many blows to the head over the past six months. According to the doctor, for a person suffering from a TBI, even a little alcohol can go a long way. So I’m not willing to dismiss it just yet. We could potentially make the argument that for a driver with this condition, .06 is sufficiently impaired.”

Wyatt had given the matter a lot of thought, mostly because it was his thought to give. Given the unique laws of New Hampshire, county cops had the power to prosecute all misdemeanor cases. Meaning Wyatt didn’t just build a case; he got to present it, too. Factoring in the driver’s injuries, this crash could end up being a felony DWI, in which case the county attorney would take over, but Wyatt would still be responsible for the arraignment bail hearing and probable cause hearing. He liked to joke he was half cop, half lawyer. Though given the way the legal system worked these days, you had to be more like 90 percent lawyer just to survive.

“Interesting,” Tessa was saying now. “So you have an unimpaired, impaired driver.”

“It’s possible. Now, booze in question came from an eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch—”

“Expensive.”

“Please, you should see the car. Guys traced the purchase of the bottle to a liquor store ten miles from the accident scene, purchased on a credit card. We’re going through security footage now to see if we have actual film of her making the purchase. But so far, not bad for a morning’s work.”

“And yet you’re bothered by . . . ,” Tessa pushed.

“Liquor store closed at eleven. Accident happened around five A.M. So what was the driver doing between those hours? Because if she was sitting around drinking, her blood alcohol level should obliterate .06.”

“Friend, associate, to help her out?”

“Possible.”

“Husband?”

“Claims he was occupied in a work shed. Apparently hadn’t even realized his concussed wife was missing.”

“No card for him on Valentine’s Day. Where’d the car go off? Busy area? Plenty of shops, restaurants, bars, to keep your driver entertained?”

“Nada. I’ve counted two gas stations between the liquor store and scene of the crash; that’s it. So again, what was she up to for six hours?”

“Maybe . . .” He could hear Tessa thinking about it. “Maybe she wasn’t doing anything. Maybe she was just . . . hanging out. Trying to collect her thoughts. When I was patrolling, you’d be amazed how many parked cars I came across in the middle of the night, occupied by lonely souls. If your driver is concussed, suffering from a TBI, maybe she’s confused, too. Another lost soul looking for the light.”

“So she buys a bottle of scotch. Drowns her sorrows . . .”

“Sips her sorrows. Only .06.”

“Then hits the road. Searching for a little girl who doesn’t exist.”

“Little girl?” Tessa’s voice picked up.

Wyatt winced. He hadn’t intended to mention that part. “When the first officer arrived at the scene, the woman claimed she couldn’t find her daughter, Vero. Only her husband of twenty-two years claims there are no kids. Not now, not ever.”

“So she’s delusional?”

“Apparently, her brain has been compromised by multiple TBIs. She fell down the stairs doing laundry, then another fall outside, then, of course, the car accident. Long story short, her memory is shot, and she has ongoing problems with headaches, light sensitivity, and extreme mood swings.”