Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(61)
She didn’t look at them when Kevin pulled out the chair. She took a seat, gaze forward. Quilt back on the lap. Bottled water on the table. Then she waited.
She’s done this before, Wyatt thought. Police stations, interrogation; none of this was new to her. Just as he had his strategy, she had hers.
Wyatt took his time. He set down his McDonald’s bag, let the room fill with the unmistakable fragrance of fries. Kevin did the same. Next, Wyatt removed the cover from his large coffee, adding yet more aroma to the mix. Unwrapping his burger, taking his first greasy bite. Yeah, he’d regret it in the morning. A man his age couldn’t afford to eat like this regularly, but for the moment, it was a salt-fat-carb explosion in his mouth. Two A.M. eating didn’t get any better than this.
Kevin made a show of squeezing out ketchup onto the burger wrapper, then dipping his fries.
Still Nicky didn’t say a word, though they all sat so close, Wyatt thought they’d be able to hear her stomach growl at any moment.
“Sure you don’t want anything?” he asked at last, voice conversational.
She shook her head.
“We got vending machines, you know. Maybe chips, a candy bar? More gum?”
She shook her head.
“Lights too bright?”
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired, he thought, but more than that they were flat pools of resignation. She didn’t want. She didn’t need. She was simply a woman awaiting her fate.
Wyatt felt a chill then, uncomfortable enough that he got up, wadded up his wrappers and threw away the remnants of his dinner. He kept his coffee. He paused long enough to murmur to Kevin, “Check on the APB. Any news at all, we could use that.”
Kevin nodded, disposed of his own wrappers, left the conference room. Wyatt stood alone with Nicky. Their prime suspect. Witness. Victim? Maybe that’s what really bothered him. Forty-eight hours later, he still had no idea, and it pissed him off.
When he took his seat again, he deliberately placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward.
“What happened at your house tonight?” he demanded.
Her face finally flickered to life. “How would I know? I was with you.”
“Your house is gone, you know. Total loss, according to the fire marshal. Meaning everything inside, photos, your paintings, favorite pillow . . . poof.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Same with the work shed,” Wyatt continued. “Gonna be a bummer for the family business. All those tools, projects, supplies. Gone. Orders that now won’t be fulfilled. Clients that will be unhappy. Three-D printer that’ll never be used again.”
She didn’t flinch. The business hadn’t been her bailiwick anyway, Wyatt thought. It had been Thomas’s.
“First house fire?” he asked now.
She frowned, seemed to come slightly out of her fog. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, all the cities, states, houses you’ve lived in over the years. Come on, you and Thomas give new meaning to rolling stones.”
She frowned again, rubbed her temples. Then held out her hand as if reaching for something. Someone.
Wyatt waited. She didn’t say a word. Just her hand, suspended in the air. After another moment, she seemed to realize what she was doing. She replaced her hand on her lap. A single tear rolled down her face.
“Shame it was this house,” Wyatt pressed. “You’d put some effort into this one. Repainting the door, working in the garden. Did you think that maybe this was the place you’d finally stay?”
“I missed snow,” she murmured, gaze still fixed on the table.
“Where is Thomas now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should. You’re his wife, his business partner. If you don’t know him, who does?”
“Ted Todd Tom Tim ta-da!” she whispered.
“What did you just say?”
“He has no family. He has no friends. He has no place to go.” She finally glanced up, met his eyes. “I have no place to go.”
“Damn selfish of him, don’t you think?”
“You should take me to a hotel.”
“First I want you to tell me about New Orleans. When did you meet?”
“At work. A movie production set. I was working craft services. He was in set production. He told me he waited three weeks to get me to say hi.” She spoke the words automatically. Wyatt thought he’d heard that story before, because he had: almost word for word from Thomas that first day at the hospital.
“Is Thomas from New Orleans?” Wyatt asked.
“No.”
“What brought him there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Twenty-two years together, and you never asked him what he was doing in New Orleans?”
She peered at him blearily. “Why did it matter?”
“Are you from New Orleans?”
“No.”
“You two . . . just met up there.”
“Yes.”
“Helluva courtship. Four weeks, then that’s it? You two hit the road, never looked back. You live together, work together, travel together, everything together.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“He burned your house alone.”