Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(47)

“True.” Wyatt hadn’t actually thought about that. “You’re right. But she received the call late on Wednesday. And afterward, she felt she had to leave immediately. Sounds to me more like someone who received information—important information—and had to respond to it.”

“Where did she go?”

“A liquor store.”

“News that drove her to drink?”

“Or maybe news that drove her to meet. I’m still working on that one.”

“She’s with you,” Tessa asked abruptly.

“In the back of the SUV as we speak. But she’s not in any condition to talk at the moment. Headache, nausea, that sort of thing.”

“So you want me to talk to her, but she can’t talk?”

“I have to start somewhere, Tessa.”

“Wyatt, I can’t deliver potentially confidential information to you. That’s not who I am and not who you want me to be.”

“Okay.” Wyatt didn’t press the point. He wasn’t surprised by Tessa’s refusal. She did take confidentiality seriously, as well she should. And yet, he did have to start somewhere, and it wasn’t unheard of for an investigator to help out another investigator, let alone two investigators with a personal relationship . . .

He was disappointed. But mostly, he was still trying to understand his girlfriend’s distant tone. Right from the beginning of the conversation. Even before he’d waded into forbidden waters.

“You okay?” he spoke up at last.

“Boundaries, Wyatt. Given our jobs, both of us have boundaries. I can respect yours, but if this is going to work, I need you to respect mine as well.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. Tessa—”

“It’s late. I need to go. We can catch up in the morning. Maybe I can work out something for you then. Good night, Wyatt.”

“Okay. Um, thanks. I’ll touch base tomorrow.”

Wyatt ended the call. But he remained uncomfortable. Boundaries, his girlfriend of six months was telling him. Except suddenly, he was worried she wasn’t speaking about professional issues at all.


* * *



WHEN HE RETURNED to the SUV, Kevin was standing near the driver’s door, making notes on his little spiral-bound pad.

“You’re still alive,” he observed, having no illusions about the dangers of pissing off Tessa Leoni.

“That much faith in my charms? Tessa would be totally delighted to help us out.”

Kevin gave him a look.

“Fine. She argued confidentiality, with a sidebar on respecting her professional integrity. But she might be willing to talk to Nicky directly in the morning, assuming Nicky’s recovered by then.”

Kevin shrugged philosophically. In other words, Northledge was currently a dead end.

“How she’s doing?” Wyatt asked, gesturing to the backseat of the vehicle.

“Hasn’t moved a muscle.”

“Have you checked on her? I’m pretty sure it’s bad for taxpayers to die while in our care.”

“Checked. Frankly, she’s pretty out of it. Probably time to take her home.”

Wyatt didn’t argue. On the other hand, he had a feeling once they returned Nicky to her husband, they’d never get her out again.

“Why do you think she came here?” Wyatt asked Kevin. “Gets a call. Has such a sense of urgency she grabs her closest pair of shoes, sneakers, even though they’re a lousy choice for a rainy night, while forgoing a coat. Then proceeds to drive nearly an hour to a liquor store well beyond her closest shopping center. Then, according to the sales clerk, Nicky spends another fifteen, twenty minutes wandering the store, before finally grabbing a bottle of scotch.”

“Didn’t know what she felt like drinking?”

Wyatt’s turn to give his partner a look. Then again: “Why an eighteen-year-old bottle of Glenlivet? Pretty specific, not to mention expensive, choice, if you’re just looking to get drunk.”

“Good memories?”

“She doesn’t have any. Except . . .” Wyatt paused, collected his thoughts. “What if she was meeting someone? That’s what the phone call was about. The liquor store is the designated spot, so first she looks for the person in the store. Then when she can’t find them . . .”

“Buys the person’s favorite bottle of scotch?”

“Or something significant to both of them.”

“And heads out into the parking lot.”

“Where she must ultimately locate him or her, right?” Wyatt continued. “Because she purchases the scotch at ten, but her accident isn’t until five A.M. Meaning there’s seven hours unaccounted for.”

Kevin looked around. At the relatively quiet plaza, near-empty parking lot. “According to cashier Marlene, the liquor store was busy that night. But the plaza as a whole, the mall parking lot . . . Bet it was mostly quiet. Bet you could sit in a car, chat all you wanted without anyone caring.”

“So who’d she meet?” Wyatt asked him.

“Lover? Long-lost friend? Used some social media site to reconnect with a former flame, then came out here to take things up close and personal?”

Wyatt shrugged. “What woman grabs old sneakers and a baseball cap for a booty call?”