Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(45)

Wyatt has a hold of my arm. He is urging me forward and I realize belatedly they are finally taking me seriously. I’ve freaked out enough that we’re leaving the store. Forget the accident site. I’m going home. I need to lie down. Close my eyes. Up in my little room, the cool black. Like a coffin. An early grave.

Wyatt takes me to the cashier line, as if we’re making a purchase. My footsteps slow, grow more leaden. He needs to take me outside. Why isn’t he taking me outside? I need fresh air.

The cashier is staring straight at us. She is an older woman with graying brown hair and the face of someone who’s already had a hard day, or maybe a hard life.

She still makes an effort: “Honey, you okay?” she asks me gently.

I can’t help myself.

I take one look at her, then promptly vomit all over the floor.





Chapter 17




AS EXPERIMENTS WENT, this hadn’t been the slam dunk Wyatt had expected. Thank heavens for the cashier lady, Marlene, an older woman who’d clearly seen it all. She didn’t bat an eye at their puking witness, but bustled around the counter, instructing them to take the poor woman outside while she got the mop.

Not that Wyatt and Kevin didn’t have experience cleaning up vomit—that was one of those skills learned quickly on the job—but it was still nice to have some help.

Kevin had gotten Nicky into the backseat. She’d promptly laid down with the yellow blanket clutched in her arms like a teddy bear. Kevin had made the mistake of offering to unfold it, drape it around her shoulders. She’d nearly attacked him.

Mood volatility. Another sign of serious brain trauma.

Now Wyatt headed back into the liquor store. He’d called in on their way over, to confirm that Marlene Bilek had been working tonight, just as she had on Wednesday night. Even luckier, she’d been the one tending the register when they’d arrived. And now, survey said . . .

Wyatt found the woman in the back, emptying out the contents of the mop bucket. Smelled vile. Given that the Franks had eaten tomato soup for dinner, looked it, too.

“Sorry ’bout that,” he said.

The woman shrugged. “Can’t work in a liquor store and not deal with barf.”

“Same with policing.”

She smiled, but it was a tired look. Job couldn’t be easy, especially given incidents like this.

“You recognize her?” Wyatt asked.

“I think so. Wednesday night, right? She was dressed differently. Dark clothes. And a hat. Black baseball hat pulled low. That’s what made me notice her—thought she was dressed for trouble, and in a liquor store, we gotta pay attention to these things. But she didn’t really do anything. Just roamed around for a while. Aisle by aisle. I was about to ask her if she needed help when she grabbed a bottle of whiskey, something like that. Paid for it and was gone.”

“How long would you say she was in the store?” Wyatt asked.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

Wyatt frowned. That was a long time for a woman who was supposedly in a hurry. Twenty minutes, combined with the long drive out here . . . A woman dressed for trouble and going out of her way to find it.

“Did she talk to anyone?” he asked. “Another customer, store employee?”

The sales clerk shrugged. “Can’t really say. It was a busy night. Lot going on. Not like I spent all my time watching her.”

Wyatt nodded, wishing once again the state store’s security cameras hadn’t messed up the recordings for Wednesday night. And yet, these things happened. Unfortunately, more often than a good detective liked. He fished out a card, handed it over to Marlene, who was now tucking the mop bucket in a corner. “Thank you very much. Sorry again for the mess, and if there’s anything else you remember, please give me a buzz.”

“Sure. She gonna be okay?” Marlene asked. “Poor girl looked pretty sick.”

“She’s resting; that’ll help.”

“What’d she do, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a detective. You and that other guy escorted her into the store; now you’re asking all these questions. So what did she do?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“She lose someone?”

Wyatt paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Because she looks so sad. And I know sad. That girl, she’s got one helluva case of the blues.”


* * *



WYATT WAS STILL churning things over in his head when he exited the store to find Kevin waiting for him.

“Got word from the cell company on the call Nicole received Wednesday night.”

“And?”

He followed Kevin to their white SUV, where Nicky remained curled up in the fetal position in the back. She didn’t look up when Wyatt approached. To judge by how tightly her eyes were squeezed shut, Wyatt didn’t think the woman was asleep, as much as she was purposefully shutting them out.

“Caller ID doesn’t belong to a person,” Kevin provided, “but to a company.”

“Which is?”

“An investigative firm out of Boston.” Kevin paused, regarded him intently. “Northledge Investigations,” he stated.

Wyatt closed his eyes. “Ah, shit.”