Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(72)

“You could,” the sheriff said, but he was nodding in a way that Wyatt already knew meant he disagreed. “You have to call them, true. And maybe they’ll agree to give you access to some old case file. But consider this. Moment you call, they’re assembling a task force in a conference room. That task force is then going to locate northern New Hampshire on a map. By evening, they’ll be on a plane. First thing tomorrow morning, they’ll be walking through our front door. At which time, maybe they’ll hand you a box of paperwork. But definitely they’re going to take your best witness, Nicky Frank, as well as this entire case, away from you. Just like that.”

Wyatt sighed, then nodded heavily. The sheriff was right, of course. The recovery of a kid, missing thirty years, was big news. Hold-a-press-conference-wearing-their-best-federal-suits, taking-full- federal-credit kind of news. A mere county sheriff’s department didn’t stand a chance.

“Can you locate this brothel?” the sheriff asked now. “You got a description, something concrete that puts it in our county, gives us half a chance?”

“I got nothing,” Wyatt confessed. “Nicky described the home as a Victorian mansion, driving distance from Boston. Run by a madam who looks like a china doll, and also occupied by an evil roommate named Chelsea. That’s what we know.”

“Please don’t tell the feds that.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you have?” the sheriff pressed.

Wyatt was tired. He’d been up all night, and the coffee was wearing off. He stared at his boss blankly.

“You got Nicky Frank,” the sheriff spelled out for him. “Or Veronica Sellers, or whatever the hell her name is. That’s what you have; they don’t.”

“You mean the world’s most unreliable witness?”

“Whatever’s going on here, she holds the key. Get a doctor. Get a hypnotist, a therapist, whatever it takes. But start pushing, and don’t stop until you get some real answers out of her, including what’s up with the husband. You have less than twenty-four hours to find answers, Sergeant. Time to make your play.”


* * *



WYATT TURNED OVER the matter in his mind as he walked down the second-floor corridor to his own modest office. He didn’t like the idea of a hypnotist. He agreed with Nicky; her mind was messed up enough. But a therapist? Maybe an expert in PTSD? Could someone like that possibly coax Nicky into a walk down memory lane that finally ended with some answers? Of course, how to locate such a therapist and get him or her to his office ASAP? Clock was ticking, so definitely no rest for the wicked on this one.

He’d just made it to his office door, was debating whether more coffee would help or hurt at this point, when Kevin burst through the stairwell ahead of him.

“We got him.”

“Who?”

“Thomas Frank. Patrol officer spotted his vehicle parked behind a strip motel, Route 302, forty minutes north.”

Wyatt forgot all about caffeine. Quick swipe of his car keys off the corner of his desk; then he and Kevin were hammering down the stairs toward the parking lot.

“Did the officer approach him?” Wyatt asked as they hit ground level.

“Nah, called it in. Since you were tied up with the big boss, I instructed him to lay low, keep eyes on, but remain out of sight. He’s gonna work on getting the exact room number for us.”

“Perfect. All right. Mobilize the troops. We’re gonna want patrol cars north and south in case he runs for it. In the meantime, this is our party. We make the first contact.”

They clambered into the county SUV, Wyatt behind the wheel, Kevin working the radio. Forty minutes north. Wyatt figured he could make that thirty. And he did.


* * *



KEVIN HAD JUST spotted the long, white-painted strip motel on the left, when Thomas Frank’s silver Suburban turned out of the parking lot right in front of them.

“There, that’s him!” Wyatt called out. The driver didn’t appear spooked, but was driving at a moderate pace. Wyatt hit the sirens, however, and all that changed.

The Suburban shot forward, V8 engine gunning. Apparently, Thomas Frank wasn’t done running just yet.

“What the hell did you do, man?” Wyatt muttered under his breath. “Because you’re about to go down the hard way.”

Wyatt hit the accelerator, easily closing the gap. Beside him, Kevin was already alerting the two patrol cars five miles north that the chase was on. They careened past a gas station/local deli, a diner and a campsite; then civilization thinned out, and it was full speed ahead.

Sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour on the winding road. The Suburban took one corner too fast, rocking onto two wheels. For one second, it remained suspended in precarious balance, then slammed back to four tires on the ground, lurching awkwardly forward. Another sharp left, followed by a winding right. As the Suburban slipped from eighty to sixty to eighty again.

Wyatt felt calm and focused, the way he always did on the hunt. His hands were steady on the wheel, his breathing controlled. This was his element. The moment a good officer trained and, frankly, lived for.

In contrast, the Suburban was beginning to weave erratically. Panic, exhaustion, impairment, but Thomas Frank appeared to be losing it.

The Suburban swung wildly into the left-hand lane. An oncoming car blared its horn, then belatedly spotted the pursuing police vehicle and pulled over. Better late than never, as the saying went.