Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(60)

Wyatt had checked out the rear of the property, where the gray shed was now a charred, twisted shell of its former self. The shed that had once housed Thomas’s tools of the trade. Interesting.

“Who called it in?” Wyatt asked.

“Neighbor, eventually. But given the distances between the properties out here, it had probably already been burning for a bit. Call came in a little after eight. Response time was solid, first unit rolling in by eight fifteen. Still, shed was a goner from the start, I’m told, house already fully engulfed. Whoever wanted this done didn’t mess around.”

“Any reports of a man on the scene?”

“Negative. House is too hot to enter, so can’t swear to what we’ll find inside. But from the time we’ve been here, no signs of life.”

Wyatt nodded; he strongly doubted Thomas was anywhere on the property. The man’s silver Suburban, which had been in plain sight in the driveway four hours earlier, was now conspicuously missing. Wyatt’s best guess, Thomas let the police take his wife away, then torched his own place and split.

But why?

Nicky claimed he was afraid of her, and Wyatt was a smart enough man to understand she didn’t mean in the literal sense. More likely, Thomas feared her fickle memories. Three concussions in a row seemed to have unlocked some doors in Nicky’s mind. And not all the contents were pretty.

Meaning, what had Thomas and/or Nicky done in the past that at least Thomas was still desperate to hide? More important, how did it relate to the existing, nonexisting, probably dead, possibly still alive mystery girl, Vero?

“Fire’s too hot,” the fire marshal informed Wyatt now. “You want more info, gotta wait till morning.”

“All right, keep me posted.”

Wyatt left the man, taking a few steps back to once more consider the blaze. The roof of the house was fully engulfed. It was an impressive sight, an entire home being consumed alive. Windows shattered. Metal groans. A singular type of destruction that was both awesome and terrifying.

He wondered what Nicky saw when she gazed upon it. Was she horrified by what her husband had done? Had to be photos, family mementos, favored possessions, that were even now turning to ash before her eyes.

Yet, when he returned to the car, she simply sat in the backseat, staring at the inferno, blank faced.

“We got an APB out on Thomas’s vehicle,” he informed Kevin. “’Bout all we can do for now.”

Kevin nodded.

“She spoken at all?” Wyatt asked, gesturing to the backseat.

“Not a word.”

“Checked her phone?”

“She doesn’t have a phone. Lost it in the car wreck, remember?”

“Meaning Thomas has no means of contacting her,” Wyatt murmured.

“Unless they have a predetermined meeting place.”

“That’s it. We’re taking her to the station. As long as Thomas Frank is missing, she’s our bait.”


* * *



NICKY DIDN’T PROTEST when they pulled out of the driveway and once more hit the road. She didn’t ask where they were going or complain of hunger or thirst. She simply sat, eyes out the window, quilt on her lap.

From time to time, Wyatt would study her in the rearview mirror, trying to decipher what she was thinking. She looked exhausted, as she should be. She looked unwell, as she was. Too thin, too pale, as if a good stiff wind would knock her off her feet. But her face was shuttered, flat affect.

Hadn’t someone mentioned shell shock once before? At the accident, the passing motorist who’d stopped to assist. He’d been a war vet and reported she appeared shell-shocked, as in the literal definition of the word. Watching her now, Wyatt saw the man’s point. Nicky Frank had gone somewhere inside her head. Question was, when would she come back out again?

The North Country Sheriff’s Department was housed in a two-story brick building not far from the county jail and even closer to the county courthouse. It offered a parking lot, fingerprinting and lots of buzzing overhead lights. But no food. For that, Wyatt and Kevin made a detour to McDonald’s, one of the only joints open after midnight. Wyatt and Kevin ordered with gusto. Quarter pounders, large fries, large coffees, all the calories, salt and caffeine a good detective needed to stay up all night.

Nicky requested another bottle of water, in a voice that was perfectly monotone. Wyatt would’ve thought she’d been turned into a statue, if not for the way her fingers stroked the top layer of her quilt. Touching it over and over again. Like she was working the rosary, he thought. A woman lost in prayer. Or offering penance.

They took the food to the station house. This time of night, you could count on headquarters for a little action. County dispatch worked out of the building, meaning there was plenty of noise coming from down the hall, in terms of both phone calls and the operators entertaining themselves between the calls. Of course, bookings happened at all hours, with 2 A.M. being prime time for collared drunks.

Wyatt and Kevin carefully steered Nicky through the lobby, then down the narrow hallway, around one twitchy meth addict, around another. The station lighting always felt glaring to Wyatt, as if trying to compensate for something. It was enough to make him squint. He couldn’t imagine how much Nicky was suffering with her condition.

In the end, they set her up in the conference room. Not an interrogation room, because that might have seemed aggressive, and again, technically speaking, Wyatt couldn’t make the woman stay. But nor did he want her in their offices, because she needed to feel the pressure. Her life was imploding. For all their sakes, time to talk.