Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(90)

Marlene grew quiet. “You think she’s telling the truth about this dollhouse. Those stories she told me in the beginning. They really did happen. To Vero. And to her.”

“I think we owe it to Nicky and Vero to find out.”

She looked up at him. “My daughter died there. This Chelsea girl, she found the strength to get off the drugs. Whereas my Vero . . .” Her voice broke; she swallowed heavily. “That’s why Chelsea can’t let her go. She used my daughter’s death for her own escape, and she’s been feeling guilty ever since.”

“I don’t think we should rush to any more assumptions.”

Wyatt retrieved the sketches Tessa had provided earlier. “Do you recognize this house?” He showed Marlene Bilek the picture of the dollhouse. The woman’s face shuttered. She eyed the drawing stonily.

“That’s the place?” She flashed him a look. “It’s big. It’s . . . grand. You’d think the people lucky enough to live in a house that nice were good people. You’d think the kids there, the little girls, were happy.”

Wyatt continued to hold the drawing. After another moment, she shook her head.

He moved on to the sketch of Madame Sade. Much like his initial reaction, Marlene flinched. Then she did the unexpected. She reached out and jabbed the image.

“This is the woman who killed my girl?”

Wyatt didn’t say anything.

“Whatever happened, it was her fault. You heard Nicky, Chelsea, talking. This woman took Vero from the park. This woman locked her up, never let her go. This woman killed my child.”

“You recognize her from the park?”

“No.”

“Ever see her before? In your building, around your neighborhood?” Because Wyatt didn’t believe a woman like Madame Sade abducted girls at random. Especially given the physical similarities between Vero and Chelsea, it was clear she was looking for a specific type. Perhaps even filling a client’s request, which would take scouting on her part.

But Marlene shook her head. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

She regarded him sharply. “You think you could forget a woman this cold? Just looking at her picture churns my stomach.”

Wyatt had another thought. “Notice any boys in the park that day?” He did his best to describe a younger version of Thomas Frank, who had to fit into this puzzle somehow. But once again Marlene shook her head.

“It’s been a long time, Sergeant. And Nicky wasn’t lying. I was drunk that day. I shouldn’t have taken my girl to the park. I shouldn’t have sat on that bench. That’s on me. And I paid for it, paid as dear as any mother can.”

He tried a different tack. “Who knew about Vero’s scar?”

“Anyone who read the missing persons report, of course.”

“By that, you mean the official police report? Because it’s not on any of the flyers. Those just have her picture and the basics, height, weight, age.”

“True.”

“Friends and family?” he asked her.

She grimaced shamefully. “Didn’t really have those. It was just me, Vero, and Ronnie.”

“So Ronnie knew. Police ever question him about Vero’s disappearance?”

“Sure. But that was a long time ago, and he had an alibi—he was at work when she disappeared.”

“Okay.” But Wyatt was thinking again. In terms of general age and description, Nicky Frank really would make the perfect long-lost Veronica Sellers. If not for that scar, as Marlene said.

Which made him very curious. Because not many people would have the information on that particular detail. Certainly, police reports weren’t available to the general public. Meaning, if you wanted Nicky Frank to be Veronica Sellers . . . Even went so far, say, as to plant a missing girl’s fingerprints in Nicky’s car in order to try to get away with something . . .

Except how? And why?

Thomas had met Nicky that night. His half-drunk, thrice-concussed, extremely distraught wife. He’d handed her gloves. He’d put her car into neutral and shoved it down a hill toward a ravine. Had he somehow planted the prints? Because he wanted her to live as Veronica Sellers? Or die as a long-lost child? But why?

A collapsible shovel, a pair of bloody gloves. What the hell had the man been up to that night? And when would any of this case make sense?

Wyatt thanked Marlene for her time. Got the woman’s assurances she wouldn’t be talking to the press, then arranged for a deputy to drive her home.

Moment she left, Tessa appeared in the adjoining doorway. This room was a twin to its neighbor; she took a seat on the bed directly across from him.

“Well,” she said at last. “That didn’t go as planned.”

“Let me ask you something: Can you fake a fingerprint?”

“Don’t I wish.” Her tone was dry. He shot her a glance, but she merely smiled at him. “In theory, I guess it could be done. Lift it from one surface, maybe with tape, then try to transfer it to another. But . . . a latent print is nothing more than a microscopic film of skin ridges and natural oils. Transferring it back onto a second surface and managing to recapture the entire print . . . feels like something that might work better on a TV show than in real life.”

“You know what struck me about the vehicle?” he asked her now.