Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(8)

“Nicky?” he whispers, arms already springing out, body on high alert.

“Vero?” I croak. “Please . . . Where is Vero?”

The man doesn’t speak. His body collapses back, my first words having already taken the fight out of him. He places a hand over his eyes, maybe so I won’t see the answers lurking there.

Then this man I love, this man I hate—what the hell is his name?—whispers heavily, “Oh, honey. Not again.”





Chapter 4




HER NAME’S ANNIE. Good girl, too. Four years old, a little rambunctious, but has the drive. Won’t find a better worker; that’s for sure.”

The handler, Don Frechette, reached down and scratched his dog affectionately behind the ears. In response, Annie, a high-spirited yellow Lab, waved her tail so hard she nearly whacked her own face.

Wyatt liked dogs. Last cold case he’d worked, the cadaver dog had found a fifty-year-old bone in a dry creek bed. The bone had looked like a desiccated twig and smelled like dirt. One of the younger officers had nearly cast it aside before the accompanying forensic anthropologist had caught his arm. This old thing? the officer had asked. But it’s just a stick.

The forensic anthropologist had found it funny. Later, however, she’d confessed to Wyatt that she considered the whole thing amazing as well. The bone had long since lost all organic matter, she explained. What was left for the dog to scent? But the dogs always know, she mused. Forget the latest advancement in GPS tracking and forensic analysis; anytime she was out in the field, she just wanted a good dog’s nose.

Tessa had expressed an interest in getting a dog. Maybe he could take her and Sophie puppy shopping this weekend. Visit the local animal shelter, bring home a new addition to the family. Surely that’d earn him some points with the kid.

Or would that be trying too hard? Tessa had made it very clear the worst thing he could do was try too hard.

It wasn’t that Sophie hated him, he reminded himself. Maybe.

“Conditions?” he asked Frechette, gesturing to the man’s light rain jacket, then the dog’s thin coat, given the low-forties chill.

“Not a problem. We’ll warm up soon enough. I don’t mind the cold. Pools the scent, keeps it low, easier to track for the dog. And Annie fatigues faster in heat. Morning like this, clear skies, low temps, she’ll be raring to get to work. Now, you said it’s a car crash.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Glass?”

“Quite a bit around the vehicle.”

“She’ll need her boots, then. Other terrain?”

“Mostly mud, one briskly moving stream. There’s some prickly shrubs, the usual mess of random rocks and broken branches. Getting down is a little tricky, given the grade. But once you’re in the ravine . . . Decent hiking, actually. God knows the Fish and Game officers have probably already made it to Maine and back.”

“Fish and Game? Who’s working?”

“Barbara and Peter.”

“Oh, I like them. Good people. And they came up with nothing?”

“We’ve all come up with nothing.” Wyatt wasn’t surprised the dog handler knew the Fish and Game officers. New Hampshire was big on woods and short on people. Sooner or later, felt like you knew everyone you met and had met everyone you knew.

“Need any more information on the child?” Kevin was asking. “We believe she’s female, approximately nine to thirteen years of age.”

Frechette gave Kevin a funny look, then peered down at Annie, who was nearly dancing with anticipation. “Hey, girl, you need a description? Plan on calling the kid’s name? Or maybe use your color-blind eyes to find a pink coat?”

Kevin flushed.

“We don’t need vitals, Detective. All we need is Annie’s nose. Trust me, if there’s a child out there, Annie’ll bring her home.”

After a bit of discussion, they settled on a search strategy. Having worked with several different dogs in different situations, Wyatt already knew most handlers had their own opinions on the best way to get the job done. Given that their search area was relatively small, and now scent contaminated by dozens of officers who’d already been swarming the scene, Frechette wanted to approach it like a tracking case. Start Annie in the back of the car, last suspected location of the child, and see if she could pick up a trail from there. A strategy better suited for a bloodhound than a Lab, Frechette confessed, but he remained sold on his girl’s skills. His dog had the training, had the drive; she’d find their missing child.

A little yellow Lab puppy, Wyatt thought. Red bow around its neck. Here, Sophie. Got this for you.

Most likely Sophie would accept the puppy, while continuing to regard him with her thousand-yard stare.

Wyatt was in trouble. He’d figured it out six months ago. He hadn’t just fallen in love with an amazing woman, Tessa Leoni; he’d fallen in love with her kid. And while dating in your twenties was all about hoping the parents liked you; dating in your forties was all about hoping her kids accepted you. In that regard, nine-year-old Sophie was proving a tough nut to crack.

Not that she hated him. Maybe.

They headed back down the ravine.

The other officers were dropping back, per the handler’s request. Wyatt had issued the command by radio. It was a tough call to make, pulling back the human searchers in order to bring in a canine. But the rule of thumb was that one dog was worth 150 volunteers. Meaning Annie was the best hope they had, and for her to do her job, she needed all the searchers and their various scent profiles out of her way.