Touch & Go (Tessa Leoni, #2)(35)

The female spoke first. “Wyatt,” she said, and inside, he immediately groaned.

He knew that voice. Crap.

Wyatt straightened. Took his finger off the map. Prepared to give the devil her due.

Nicole Adams, aka Nicky. Except last time he’d used that nickname, she’d been waking up in his bed. He had a feeling he didn’t get to use that nickname anymore. Or, for that matter, remain an intact male in her withering presence.

“Special Agent Adams,” he replied. Seemed the safest answer.

She smiled. It didn’t meet her cool blue eyes.

She wore a dark pencil skirt, matching jacket, high-collared silvery silk blouse. Being one of those tall blondes with upswept hair, the ice-princess look really worked for her. She also carried a thick black leather computer case, which she now dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Sergeant Wyatt Foster, Special Agent Edward Hawkes.” She introduced him to her partner.

Wyatt nodded, shook hands. Special Agent Hawkes also carried a heavy bag. Apparently, they were planning to stay for a bit.

“We understand you found the missing man’s jacket,” Nicole continued.

“Got it wrapped up special in an evidence bag, just for you.”

“So you knew we were coming?”

“Made sense.”

“But you didn’t call with an update.”

“Update implies progress. Not so sure we got progress. Mostly”—he tapped the map—“we got a helluva lot of real estate and no real leads.”

The feds seemed to accept that. They crossed to the table where Wyatt had spread out the map, leaned closer.

“Catch us up,” Nicole ordered briskly. “What are you looking at?”

Wyatt swallowed another sigh and got down to business. This was why he should’ve listened to his gut before getting involved with a fellow member of law enforcement. Except at the time, in the Concord courthouse, about to testify at a trial, he’d spotted this beautiful blonde across the hall and lost common sense. Couldn’t say it was her laugh that got him, because it still wasn’t clear to him that Nicole Adams ever giggled. But he’d gotten it into his head that he needed to meet her, which had led to drinks, which had led to a hotel room. Then, probably to the surprise of them both, they had an on-again-off-again thing that went on a couple months.

Except one day he started to realize he liked the off more than the on. Nothing against her. But she was clearly federal agent to the core: upwardly mobile, urban powered, tightly disciplined. And, as he tried to point out to her when breaking up, he was none of those highly admirable things.

In hindsight, he should’ve waited another week. At which point, she probably would’ve dumped him. Then, this moment would’ve made him laugh, instead of shiver from deep freeze.

He pointed to a spot on the map, midway up the state, closer to Maine, which would be relevant in a moment. “Jacket was recovered here. Abandoned roadside diner, no other businesses or residents around for miles.”

“Witnesses?” Hawkes spoke up.

“No one around to witness. Welcome to the North Country. Now, tire marks show the vehicle resuming a northward course. Which brings us to”—he drew a large circle around the northern tip of the state—“hundreds of square miles of absolute nowhere. In other words, the perfect place for a bunch of kidnappers to hide.”

Nicole was frowning at his map. “You’re assuming they maintained a northern route.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wyatt explained his logic, the mountains muddling up east-west routes and all. Based on the jacket’s disposal site, the kidnappers had taken 95 into New Hampshire, veering left onto Route 16, which followed the eastern border of the state. Call him crazy, but it seemed to him if you were a bunch of kidnappers with a family of three stashed in the back of your van, you’d go with the most direct route possible. Which would place them squarely in northern New Hampshire, an area remote enough to easily hide hostages that was also conveniently located just three to four hours from Boston, making for easy access come time for ransom drop or hostage exchange.

Special Agent Nicole Adams seemed to accept his logic.

“Large search area,” she commented, her own finger starting to trace the various shaded regions on the map.

“Yeah, and being a rural sheriff’s department, we’re not exactly rolling in manpower, so I called in some backup.”

“Backup?” Hawkes spoke up. He had an accent. Maine maybe? Wyatt was still trying to peg him.

“US Forest Service, as well as Fish and Game. You know Marty Finch, the forest service investigator?”

Both agents nodded. While Finch worked out of Vermont, the federal agent’s territory also included New Hampshire and Maine. Given that US Forest Service lands were becoming a haven for drug operations, Wyatt had worked with Finch on a number of cases. He figured the same should be true for FBI agents out of Concord.

“I gave him a ring,” Wyatt continued now. “Gotta figure the largest chunk of real estate we’re facing is the seven hundred and fifty thousand acres of the White Mountain National Forest—Finch’s jurisdiction. At my request, he’s mobilizing the forest rangers, sending them to search parking lots at the various trailheads and campgrounds for a possible transport vehicle—I’m thinking a van based on the tire marks and need to hold at least seven. The rangers will also check out hiking huts, various rest stops. If you want to keep a low profile, hiding out in the various state parks or national wilderness areas would do it.”