Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(27)

Hence his relationship with Tessa.

He knocked again, louder this time, more insistent. Finally, the sound of footsteps moving through the house. A second later, the door opened and a rumpled-looking Thomas Frank stood there.

“Morning,” Wyatt said brightly.

The man, barefoot and in sweats, stared back at him. “What time is it?”

“Eight A.M.”

“Isn’t that a little early for house calls?”

“We brought coffee.”

Thomas scowled.

“Sir,” Kevin spoke up, pressing the point. “We have some questions for your wife.”

“She’s asleep; she needs to rest—”

“It’s okay.” Behind Thomas, Nicky appeared on the staircase. She was also dressed casually—yoga pants, an oversize sweater—and her hair was wet, as if she’d recently showered.

Even from this distance, Wyatt could make out the harsh lines of stitches slashing across her forehead, left eye, right jawline, let alone the myriad of bruises and abrasions marring her skin. Yesterday, she’d looked bad. A day later, she appeared even worse; probably would until the bruises ran their course. But the woman was standing. Head up. Eyes clear.

Wyatt felt that thrum, big-game hunter on the prowl. This morning was looking good.

Thomas retreated, reluctantly allowing the two officers into his house. Wyatt and Kevin didn’t hesitate but moved fully into the home, closing the door behind them. Wyatt’s first impression was that the house was nice in a clean, modern sort of way, but curiously sterile. Less a home, more a set piece. Here is the Pottery Barn sofa; here is the appropriately scaled coffee table; here is the soft and comfy area rug. Not until they hit the kitchen, which led into a shockingly bright-painted sunroom, did he have any sense of personality. Then, to judge by the way Thomas avoided looking at the brightly painted walls, Wyatt would guess the room represented Nicky’s sense of style and not her husband’s.

Kevin set down the cardboard carrier bearing four coffees on the kitchen counter. Thomas sighed, accepted the bribe. But Nicky poured herself a glass of water.

“Do I drink coffee?” she asked her husband, her tone genuinely curious.

“You prefer tea,” Thomas supplied.

“But I love the smell.”

Thomas looked up at his wife. “You don’t have to talk to them, you know. You didn’t meet the legal threshold for impairment, remember?” He shot them a look, as if it was important for them to know that he knew. “Not to mention Dr. Celik said you need to rest. If you’re feeling tired, you should go lie down. I can handle this.”

Big, strong caretaker, Wyatt wondered, or just a husband who really didn’t want his wife to talk to the cops?

What made it really interesting was that he could tell Nicky was wondering the same thing.

“We have only a few questions,” Wyatt offered up. “Whether the driver is intoxicated or not, we’re still duty bound to investigate all accidents. Routine inquiry and all. Won’t take much time.”

“I don’t mind,” Nicky said. “We can go into the sunroom. If I need anything, I’ll let you know.”

Thomas still didn’t look happy, but he took his coffee and walked away.

According to the background info, Thomas did indeed own and operate his own company, Ambix Productions. Last year, he’d made a quarter million, which would explain the nice house, fancy cars. The Franks currently had forty thousand sitting in the bank, a decent nest egg if the wife continued being unable to work. So hardly a couple on the edge of financial ruin, as Thomas had seemed to imply at the hospital. Maybe he was a conscientious guy, or a workaholic. No doubt his wife’s string of injuries had cut into his hours, and not just for a week or two, but apparently for the past six months.

Meaning he had good reason to be overprotective of his wife? Or again, more fun secrets and lies? Days like this, Wyatt honestly loved his job.

With Thomas gone, Nicky escorted Wyatt and Kevin into the bright sunroom. She moved gingerly, Wyatt noticed, still a woman with substantial aches and pains, but she seemed to be in good spirits.

“I like this room,” she said now, as she took a seat in one of the cushioned patio chairs. Wyatt and Kevin made themselves comfortable in two more matching wicker chairs, situated across from her. “This is my room,” she continued, curling a leg beneath her. “And the yellow bedroom upstairs; that’s my room, too.”

“You recognize your home?” Wyatt asked. “Feel comfortable here?”

“Yes. As long as I don’t think too hard. If I just do things, you know, reach for a plate, I’ll find it immediately. On the other hand, if I stop and try to remember where plates might be . . . That’s when it gets more complicated.”

“You’re working off muscle memory,” Kevin spoke up.

Nicky shrugged. Her dark hair was starting to dry, curl around her face. She was an attractive woman, Wyatt noted, or would be once the bruises and lacerations healed.

“Whatever works,” she said. “I think, given the state of my head, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Any headaches today?”

“No. I’m just . . . sore. Everywhere. Like my whole body went through the spin cycle or something. The doctor provided some pain pills, but I think in the short term, Advil will be my friend.”