Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(69)

I don’t have any answers.

I hold my quilt. And I find myself thinking once again, flying is not the hard part; the landing is.


* * *



TESSA FINDS US a hotel. Not a major chain, but a smaller operation near a ski resort where hotel rooms outnumber the local population ten to one. This will make it harder for the reporters to track us down, I realize.

She leaves me in the car to book the room. When she returns, she drives to the back of the hotel, where it turns out she’s gotten us a second-floor walkup. There are no buildings across from the hotel, meaning there is no way for anyone, say, a photographer with a telephoto lens, to find us. I realize I’m starting to think the way she thinks, or maybe I’ve known these things all along. Back of the hotel is more secure than the front. Lower level too accessible, second floor easier to control.

The room is basic but nice. Two queen beds, relatively new beige carpet, flat-screen TV. There is the obligatory picture of a moose on one wall, a photo of a snowcapped mountain on the other. Could be any hotel in the North Country, I think, which makes it perfect.

Tessa has a small overnight bag with her. Obviously, I have my quilt.

She places her bag on the bed closest to the door, so I set the quilt down on the other bed.

“Are you staying?” I ask. By which I really mean, are we sharing a room? The thought already has me uncomfortable. Like I traded in one set of jailors—Wyatt and Kevin—for another.

Tessa doesn’t answer, just takes a seat at the foot of the bed. She’s already drawn the curtains. Now she turns on the TV, finds a cable news channel, sets the volume on low.

“All right, we have some basics to cover.”

I don’t know what else to do, so I sit.

“Are you hungry?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll bring you food. Write up what you want; I’ll take care of it. But no room service. Not yet. Draws attention.”

“How long are we staying here?”

“I have no idea. My turn: Where is your husband?”

I decide to play along: “I have no idea.”

She smiles. “Let me clarify some things. I imagine Diane had this initial conversation with you, but given the post-concussive syndrome and the fact you barely remember employing Northledge at all—”

“I’m pretty sure I did,” I interject.

“Can you describe our Boston office?”

I try, come up blank.

She nods. “Exactly. So when you hired Northledge to track down Marlene Bilek, you handed over a large deposit, a retainer check to be used to cover the expenses of that search. In your case, you handed over a cashier’s check.”

She pauses a beat. I fill in the rest. “I couldn’t use a personal check. I didn’t want Thomas to know.”

“Fair enough. The firm never minds being paid in cash. But the truth is, tracking down Marlene Bilek took about fifteen minutes of my time. Meaning, we didn’t come close to burning through the retainer. You are, by virtue of your money sitting in our account, a client in good standing.”

“Okay.”

“This makes me the investigator handling your case. Couple of things you should know. The first principle of our firm is that your privacy is our most important asset. I need you to be honest with me. I can help you best if you are honest with me.”

I study her. I think I’m getting good at this game: “But?”

“But while a private investigator can offer her client confidentiality, our relationship still doesn’t rise to the level of privilege. For example, anything you say to a doctor or a lawyer is automatically protected in a court of law. I’m only your investigator, not a doctor or lawyer.”

“Meaning you can be forced to disclose what I tell you.”

“I can be subpoenaed, yes, much like a reporter. At which time I can protect my source, so to speak, and be found in contempt of court, or I can disclose the information.”

“Contempt of court equals jail time. Why would you want to go to jail for me?”

Tessa tilts her head to the side. “I don’t know, Nicky. Why would I want to go to jail for you?”

“You need me to be truthful,” I say at last. “But you also need me to be careful. For both our sakes.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to try to make it easier for both of us.”

“How so?”

“Wyatt . . . Sergeant Foster—”

“Wyatt. You know him. You have a relationship.”

“We’ve worked together before.”

“This isn’t a court of law,” I tell her. “You’re not under subpoena.”

Tessa smiles, still doesn’t take the bait. “Wyatt says you claimed you were kidnapped and held as a sex slave. In a fancy home, maybe a Victorian, probably somewhere in the greater Boston area. You referred to it as a dollhouse.”

“Yes.”

“There were other girls there. At least one roommate, but most likely dozens more.”

“It was a big house.”

“And the clients who frequented, we’re talking successful men, well-to-do. This was an elite operation.”

I shrug. “Perverts come in all socioeconomic classes.”

“Trust me, I know. This was a sophisticated operation, yes? You weren’t the first girl taken, nor the last.”