Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(97)

“She looks like Vero, right? Same general description, brown hair, blue eyes? Same general age?”

“Sounds like she arrived in the dollhouse first, so maybe a few years older.”

“Got it. I’ll go back through the runaway reports. See if I can find a record of any girls with that name and description. Never hurts to try.”

“Appreciate it,” Wyatt said. They wrapped things up, ended the call.

Tessa set down her phone. She recognized the look on Wyatt’s face. He was tired and pissed off but still thinking hard.

“I feel like we’re being played,” he stated abruptly. “Nicky who’s Vero who’s Chelsea. Marlene who’s a tragic mom who’s maybe the kind of woman who sold her own child. Thomas Frank who’s a caring husband who’s an accomplished arsonist who’s a criminal mastermind. They’re all knee-deep in this, but how to make the pieces fit?”

“We need Thomas Frank,” Tessa said quietly.

“Trust me, I know. I got uniformed patrol officers sweeping every hotel and motel in a fifty-mile vicinity. We’re monitoring any and all cell phone and credit card activity. Unfortunately, the man’s a ghost. We don’t even know what vehicle he’s driving. The one he stole from the hotel he ditched ten miles away, where his trail stops cold. It’s almost as if he’s done this before.”

Wyatt raked a hand through his hair. “Here’s a question,” he said abruptly. “Given that Nicky isn’t Vero, how’d she recognize Marlene Bilek Wednesday night?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you told Nicky Marlene worked at a New Hampshire state liquor store. Now, according to Nicky, minute she entered the store, she recognized Marlene as Vero’s mom. How? Based on stories told to her more than twenty years ago?”

“Nicky said she looked her up online.”

“Maybe, but the way Nicky spoke, her reaction was more personal, even visceral. She knew Marlene to be Vero’s mom.”

“You think she saw her before?”

“Why not?” Wyatt was off the bed, pacing. “If Marlene collected five thousand dollars, she had to get the cashier’s check somehow; it’s not the sort of thing you send through the mail. Dammit! I showed her Nicky’s sketch of the house. I showed her the picture of Madame Sade. She looked me right in the eye and told me she didn’t recognize either one. But I bet you now, she was at that house one day. She personally picked up that check, and Nicky saw her there. That’s why Nicky’s been hell-bent on tracking her down. Marlene isn’t just some link to Vero. She’s another trigger for Nicky’s suppressed memories. That’s it, we’re picking her up.”

“Marlene Bilek?”

“Absolutely.” Wyatt was already crossing to the room’s round table, grabbing his keys. “And while we’re at it, wake up Nicky, too. We’re taking them both for a ride.”

“You think Marlene can lead us to the dollhouse?” Tessa was up off the bed now as well.

“Dollhouse, Madame Sade, I want it all. Bet you anything”—Wyatt turned, eyes gleaming—“we find them, we find Thomas Frank. And we get to the bottom of this once and for all.”

Sounded good to Tessa. She crossed to the adjoining room to rouse Nicky.

Except . . .

“Wyatt,” she called urgently.

Rechecking the first bed, the second, rounding to the bathroom, the small closet. But the room was small enough, the truth unavoidable.

“What is it?” Wyatt stalked into the room, jiggling keys.

“She’s not here. Wyatt, Nicky Frank is gone.”





Chapter 33




IT’S NOT HARD to sneak out of the hotel. Middle of the night, off-season in the North Country. Summer, a hotel like this one would be overflowing with families eager to jump in the pool, hike the mountains, raft down the rivers. Early fall, tour buses would cram the parking lot with aging leaf peepers, armed with cameras and heavy knit sweaters. Of course, December brought snowfall, teenage boarding dudes, and impeccably clad ski bunnies. But now, mid-November, when the mountains were denuded of leaves, covered in nothing but dirt . . .

Not even the locals enjoyed November in the North Country. This was a time of waiting. Which is exactly how the night felt to me. Expectant. With just enough chill in the air to prickle the hair on the back of my neck.

Slipping out of the room was easy enough. First I found Tessa’s computer case, where she’d left it next to the table. Then I rifled through it in the dark, until my fingers discovered the rectangular shape of her key fob. Next it was a simple matter of waiting for her and Wyatt’s voices to pick up, become louder, more focused on their phone call next door. Six quiet strides and I stood next to the exit.

Tessa asking a sharp question. Me opening the door. One muffled click. Another exclamation from the adjoining room. Me slipping out, closing the door behind me. Second muffled click.

I didn’t wait after that. Just headed straight down the hall to the stairs. Down one flight; then I was striding out into the darkened parking lot, armed with keys and hopped-up on determination.

Of course, where to go, what to do . . .

Is knowing who you aren’t the same as knowing who you are? Is knowing you’re sick of running the same as knowing how to fight?