Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(22)

“Manual override button?” Wyatt asked, as that was his memory with these high-end cars. They gaveth, but the driver could taketh away. Again, according to his memory, because God knows he’d never get to experience such vehicles on his salary, some drivers preferred an edgier experience. They wanted to push the limits of the car’s high-end capabilities without the computer’s self-preservation instinct kicking in.

“Exactly.” Huntoon looked at him. “Your female an adrenaline junkie?”

“I have no idea.”

“Vehicle was traveling at approximately thirty to thirty-five miles an hour,” Huntoon read off next. “But get this: no rpms.”

Wyatt stared at the officer. “Engine was in idle.”

“Gear shift’s in neutral.” Huntoon nodded her head toward the shifter, which they could both see in the front. Wyatt had observed its position earlier; he’d simply assumed the driver herself had knocked the vehicle out of gear.

“How does a car achieve thirty-five miles an hour while in neutral?” Wyatt asked in confusion.

“Gotta be some hill,” Huntoon said, looking at the road above them.

“Yeah. Or some push.”

Huntoon glanced up again, her dark eyes considering. “That would do it. Still thinking accident?”

Wyatt said simply. “Ah, shit.”





Chapter 9




INVESTIGATOR TESSA LEONI regarded her reflection critically in the mirror. She was not a woman prone to overanalyzing her wardrobe. In the beginning of her career, the state of Massachusetts had been kind enough to take care of the matter for her—each and every shift she’d turned out in state police blues. After the incident, when she and the state had agreed it was mutually beneficial to part ways, she’d become a corporate security specialist. Which, best she could tell, involved trading in her dark blue uniform for navy-blue Ann Taylor suits. Maybe once you wore blue, there was no going back.

Tessa grimaced, did her best not to think about the obvious comparison. Such as once a cop, always a cop. Except, of course, she wasn’t.

All in all, she was doing well, she reminded herself. Her daughter was happy, at least as happy as a cautious, hard-eyed, constantly on-the-alert, recovering-from-trauma child could be. Mrs. Ennis, their former neighbor and now live-in font of all wisdom, was happy, not to mention cooking up a storm with a little help from cable TV.

And . . . And Wyatt.

Tessa hadn’t expected to date again. Let alone discover a man she respected, found attractive, and actually trusted. He accepted her, all of her, including a history that included allegedly shooting her own husband. Not just any man could do that.

And it’s not that Sophie truly hated him. At least, not any more than any other man.

Tessa sighed, returned her attention to her attire. Navy-blue suit. Sharply tailored jacket coupled with matching straight-legged slacks. She looked taller, leaner, tougher.

All good things when having lunch with Boston detective D. D. Warren.

Why was she doing this again?

Because it was her job and she was a professional and she could handle this.

Tessa’s stomach clenched. She felt nervous and resented the sensation. She and the good detective had a history. For starters, D.D. was the one who’d investigated the shooting death of Tessa’s husband. But the two women had managed to work together—kind of—to track a missing family a while back.

Whether D.D. appreciated it or not, Tessa had once worn the uniform. She remembered the isolation of being a female cop. And probably more than anyone, she could understand what D.D., with her recent injury, was going through now.

Hence, lunch.

Tessa finished fussing with the collar of her plain white shirt. She looked less like a corporate security consultant and more like a federal agent. But that was okay. She wore what she wore. She was who she was.

Tessa was not a woman who harbored illusions. There were good things in her life—Sophie, Mrs. Ennis, Wyatt and, hell, maybe one day a puppy. But there were also other things. Decisions made, actions taken, that could not be undone. She still bore the scars; she still suffered the nightmares.

And yes, she did wonder: Did a woman like her deserve to be happy?

She looked at her daughter, and she didn’t know how to want anything less.

Which meant for now, she would be a grown-up and take a wounded detective to lunch.


* * *



TESSA ARRIVED AT Legal Sea Foods in the Pru Center fifteen minutes early. She hoped to choose the table, preferably one in the corner, and set the stage.

Of course, she found D.D. already waiting. At a corner table. Back to the wall. She rose slightly when Tessa was led over by the hostess. The detective moved easily enough; Tessa had to look for the weakness to spot it, the way the detective held her left arm against her ribs a shade too tight.

They shook hands, professionals. D.D. was wearing her signature caramel-colored leather jacket, with wide-legged tan slacks and a deep teal–colored button-down shirt. Man’s shirt; Tessa would bet money on it. Further evidence the good detective wasn’t back to fully functional. But her short golden locks retained their usual level of wild curl. Woman still had some fight left in her, then.

Good, Tessa thought. She was looking forward to it.

“How’s Jack?” Tessa asked, taking the seat across from D.D., with her back to the room. Jack was D.D.’s young son. Two, three years old? Where did the time go?