Crash & Burn (21 page)

They're not going to let me go. They want what they think I know, details and memories that will bolster their investigation even if it destroys my sanity. Thirty years ago, a little girl vanished. Now a grown woman stands in her place. The cops can't just let it be. Thomas understood this. So he lit a fire.

The problem with asking questions, he tried to tell me, is that you can't control the answers.

The smell of smoke. The heat of fire.

My hand reaching out, still trying to find him.

“Vero is twelve years old,” Wyatt prods now. “She no longer lives in the upstairs room. Where is she?”

But I can't play anymore. The memories are too hard, and I am too done.

“Shhh,” I tell them. “Shhh . . .”

For a moment, I don't think they'll listen. Or maybe they won't care, being detectives on a case. But then Wyatt sits back. He eyes me carefully, maybe even compassionately.

“One last question?” he negotiates.

“One.”

“How did you get out of the house, away from Madame Sade?”

I stare at him. I think the answer should be obvious. But since apparently it's not, I give him the truth.

“Vero finally learns how to fly.”

W
YATT
AND
KEVIN
exited the conference room. Whatever questions they still had would have to wait. Nicky had placed her quilt on the table, then her head on top of the quilt, and that was that. The poor woman was out cold.

Now the two detectives took a moment to pull themselves together.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wyatt said, standing just outside the door in the hallway, “we are not in Kansas anymore.”

“I need aspirin,” Kevin agreed.

“Well, start popping, because it's gonna be a long night.”

They couldn't very well leave Nicky unsupervised in the middle of the sheriff's department. On the other hand, they weren't getting any further with her until she got some rest. So being practical men, they took a seat in the hall, just outside the door, backs against the wall.

“Let's start with what we know,” Wyatt suggested. “One, Nicole Frank is indeed Veronica Sellers, as proved by the fingerprints recovered from her crashed vehicle.”

“According to her,” Kevin picked up, “she was kidnapped by a high-end madam thirty years ago and held for at least six years until she finally got away.”

“What did you think of her story?” Wyatt asked him.

Kevin didn't hesitate. “The flat affect? The way she refused to engage in the first-person singular, instead everything was in third-person omniscient . . . Vero did this, Vero did that. Consistent
with acute trauma. Frankly, not even a serious actress could make that up.”

“She implicated herself,” Wyatt murmured. “First you are recruited; then you are a recruiter.”

“Which we know from other victims' testimonies is exactly how these organizations work. Further proof Nicky's probably telling the truth, because someone just trying to play victim would never think to go there.”

“So we now have a possible lead on a thirty-year-old brothel–slash–sex-trafficking organization. Very sophisticated to judge by what Nicky remembers. Very high-end.”

Kevin was more philosophical. “A lead that comes from a woman with a history of one too many blows to the head. Look, I'm not saying I'm doubting her; I'm just saying, this is hardly a slam dunk.”

“Post-concussive syndrome cuts both ways,” Wyatt said. “A good lawyer can argue the fact she's suffered multiple TBIs proves her memories are suspect. But, on the other hand, it's most likely because she's suffered multiple TBIs that she's now regaining these memories at all.”

“Lawyers hate recovered memories,” Kevin said flatly. “Judges hate them; juries hate them. Remember in the eighties, when all those kids magically ‘recovered' memories of being victimized by satanic cults? Innocent people went to jail, good people eventually realized a bunch of pseudo experts had messed with their heads.”

“Then we're in agreement,” Wyatt said. “Nicky's ‘memories' alone won't be good enough.”

“No. We're going to have to corroborate each and every detail, starting with the dollhouse. Thirty years later, that won't be easy.”

Wyatt nodded. His thoughts exactly. “How old is Nicky again? Thirty-six, thirty-seven?”

“According to Veronica Sellers's DOB, right around in there. So
we're still within the statute of limitations on sex crimes, if that's what you mean.”

The statute of limitations on sex crimes didn't run out until twenty-two years after the victim's eighteenth birthday, if the offense happened before the victim turned eighteen. In this case, that would give them until Nicky/Vero's fortieth birthday to file charges. Not that the statute of limitations was a driving parameter. Wyatt personally felt duty bound to investigate any allegations of wrongdoing, regardless of how long ago the alleged incident occurred. While Joe Public had a tendency to focus on the primary offense—say, kidnapping or sex trafficking—truth was, it took crime to commit crime. For example, chances were any major sex-trafficking organization was also involved in drugs, falsifying documents, witness tampering, and/or transporting victims across state lines. If, say, invitations to these private “parties” were sent using US mail, yet another slew of charges.

Wyatt had had cases where in the end, he couldn't prove the major offense but nailed the perpetrator on dozens of minor charges, which worked just as well.

“All right,” he said briskly. “We've identified Veronica Sellers, who's been missing for thirty years. We have allegations of kidnapping and sex crimes. That alone warrants pulling together a task force, while also contacting the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Second we make those calls, this place is gonna get hopping. So now, while it's still just you and me, what don't we know?”

“The cause of the initial auto accident,” Kevin rattled off without hesitation. “Why had Nicky contacted Northledge Investigations, and who was she following Wednesday night?”

Wyatt studied him. “You haven't figured out who Nicky followed home from the liquor store? Seriously?”

Kevin's turn to look confused. “You have?”

“Absolutely.”

“Who?”

“Marlene Bilek, our favorite New Hampshire liquor store clerk. Who also happens to be Veronica Sellers's mother.”

“What?”

“The case file, Brain. Mother's name is given as Marlene Sellers. Who I'm guessing has since remarried and taken on the last name Bilek. But that's who Nicky hired Northledge to find. That's the information she got by phone on Wednesday night. Northledge had finally located her mom. At which point, Nicky took off to see her. Before she lost her courage, remember?”

Kevin scowled at him. “All right, if you're so genius, then have you figured out why Thomas Frank torched their home? I mean, if Nicky's story is true, she's the victim. Even if she's starting to remember her past, no obvious reason for the husband to toss a match and head for the hills.”

“That's a problem,” Wyatt agreed.

“Didn't Nicky say that her husband had a picture of Vero?” Kevin asked.

“Something like that.”

“How? If she disappeared when she was six from Boston and didn't meet him until many years later in New Orleans, how could he have such a picture?”

Wyatt paused, considering the matter. “Maybe they didn't magically meet in New Orleans. Maybe he knew her from before. From . . .” He hesitated. “The dollhouse.”

“If he has ties to the sex-trafficking operation,” Kevin said, “he'd have reason to run. Clearly, the walls are coming down in Nicky's mind. Meaning the more she remembers . . .”

“The more he has to fear,” Wyatt filled in. “The story of how they met always sounded rehearsed to me. Maybe it is. Maybe Thomas's real job has been to keep tabs on Nicky. As long as she
wasn't talking—or at least not remembering—he's had nothing to report, and they've been allowed to live and let live. But then, six months ago, after that first fall down the stairs . . .”

“She started looking for Vero.”

“And hiring private investigators.”

“And moving further out of Thomas's control.”

Wyatt nodded. “Never let it be said our job is boring. Okay, we have a boss to get on board, some calls to make, a case team to assemble.” He rose to standing, brushing off his pants, but then found himself hesitating.

“Kevin, one last question.”

“Yeah.”

“The Veronica Sellers case file. She went missing in May, right?”

“Yeah.”

Wyatt stared at his detective. “Then why is
November
the saddest month of the year?”

*   *   *

W
YATT
ASSIGNED
ONE
of the female deputies, Gina, to keep an eye on Nicky Frank in the conference room. In the meantime, he had work to do. And not just bringing the sheriff up to speed or filling out paperwork or harassing the locals on why they hadn't managed to locate Thomas Frank yet.

It was 4
A.M.
He was dog tired and more than a little confused by a case that refused to be nice, neat and orderly.

But he also was a decent guy, and truth was, he couldn't just leave poor Nicky Frank with no place to go. Not to mention he was an above-average boyfriend who currently had unfinished business with his girl.

So he did what a guy like him did. He picked up the phone and dialed.

Tessa picked up by the second ring. Years of midnight phone calls had that effect on a person.

“Hello.” She didn't even sound tired. He couldn't help himself; he was proud of her.

“You talking to me?” he asked her.

“Apparently. You okay?”

“Yeah. Been thinking about your boundaries.”

“At four
A.M.
?”

“That's the kind of world we live in. I love you, you know. I respect you. Admire your job. Appreciate your ethics.”

“Okay.”

“Having said that, fuck boundaries.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, you can have them if you want. Feel free. You're right; some kind of limits are implicit in our jobs. But see, you want everything hard lined. Solid walls, this fits over here, this fits over there, bing, bang, boom. I don't buy it. World's too complicated. Our jobs are too complicated.
We
are too complicated. Personally, I like dashed lines. Boundaries with a bit of flexibility built in. Hence I'm calling you right now, even though I don't have to.”

“Damn right you don't have to call me at four
A.M.
—”

“Your client needs you.”

“What?”

“You don't want to talk, so just listen. Nicole Frank received a call from Northledge Investigations Wednesday night. Ergo, Nicole Frank is most likely a client of Northledge. Knowing the way your highfalutin firm works, I'm assuming that meant she put down some hefty sort of retainer—”

“I can't comment—”

“Dashed lines, remember? Nicole's house burned down tonight.
Her husband has vanished. She's currently all alone, no place to go. As in she's sleeping with her head on our conference room table. I'm assuming her retainer with your firm is still valid. I'm assuming if that's the case, her best interests are in your best interests. I'm assuming . . . Dammit, Tessa, the woman could use help. I can only be an investigating officer. She needs an ally.”

Tessa didn't answer right away, but he could nearly hear the gears turning in her mind. “It would be in your own best interest if she was dependent on you,” she murmured at last. “She'd be more likely to tell you everything. Even help you find her husband.”

“Yep.”

“You owe me nothing. Your job. Your case. Your boundaries. Eventually, she might have thought to call Northledge, but you would've had that much more time to isolate her, press your advantage.”

“True.”

“You didn't have to do this.”

“Exactly.”

Another pause. Tessa doing the math. Which would always be one of their differences, Wyatt knew. He was a big believer in going with his gut. But for a woman with Tessa's history, it would never be that simple.

“What do you want, Wyatt?”

“The truth. It's why I became a detective. I like answers. And trust me, this woman is a whole lotta questions.”

“What if she tells me some of those answers but doesn't allow me to share them with you?”

“Dashed lines are still lines. I know that.”

“Do you know why her husband has gone AWOL?”

“No. But I know her real name.”

Pause. “Is it Veronica Sellers?”

Wyatt's turn to be surprised. “You didn't know?”

“No. Not what she hired us for. But once I did some digging, I suspected. Only thing that made any sense. It's not my job to report suspicions, however. I can only do what the client employs me to do. Do you think the husband is trying to kill her? The multiple falls, the accident Wednesday night?”

“I have no idea. But I think if half of what Nicky just told us about her abduction thirty years ago is true, her life is about to become very dangerous.”

“All right. I'm on my way. And Wyatt . . .”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

I
JERK
AWAKE
.
M
Y
legs kick out. My head flies up. Maybe I scream? At the last second, I do my best to choke off the gasp, old habits dying hard.

Round wooden table. Gray linoleum floor. Ugly drop ceiling. The sheriff's department. I have fallen asleep with my head on the conference room table, still clutching the pale yellow quilt.

Wyatt and Kevin are no longer sitting across from me. Instead, Wyatt stands near the door and there's a dark-haired woman beside him. She wears dress jeans, black leather boots and a tailored navy-blue jacket that brings out the color of her eyes. There is something about the way they are standing that captures my attention. Together, but separate. I have a sense of déjà vu. Thomas and me.

“Nicole Frank?” the woman asks. Her voice is low and firm, a voice of authority.

“Yes.”

“Do you remember me? My name is Tessa Leoni. We spoke on the phone. Wednesday night.”

Something clicks in the back of my head. I glance at Wyatt.

“Sergeant Foster contacted me on your behalf,” the woman provides, as if reading my mind. “He thought, given present circumstances, you might appreciate some assistance.”

“You're not a lawyer.”

“No. I'm a private security specialist.”

I can't help myself; I smile. “My life is so bad I require a specialist.”

The woman returns my smile. She's not beautiful, I think, but striking. Hard angles. Strong jaw. Her smile is not soft, but reassuring. Her stance is not relaxed but confident. She doesn't look like a person who was given a private security title. She looks like a woman who's earned it.

Now she turns to Wyatt, and there is something in his gaze . . .

He would stare at her forever if he could. The way Thomas once looked at me.

“Are you filing charges against my client?” she asks him.

“We have some questions—”

“Which I'm sure can wait until she's had a chance to clean up, eat a meal.”

“We did offer her bread and water,” Wyatt deadpans.

“Please, I've seen your vending machine.”

They have a history. I want to tell them to stand closer. I want to tell them to talk less, listen more. Hold this moment. I think I'm going to cry. It's the mood swings, I tell myself, just another side effect of multiple head traumas.

It's not that I've woken up for the first time in twenty-two years in a world without Thomas.

Both of them are looking at me. The woman doesn't ask questions; she tells me what we're doing next.

“You're coming with me. I'm going to get you situated in a hotel, order you some food, find you some clothes. You're my client, so please know anything you tell me will be kept in strictest confidence. This guy, however, can't say the same, so I'd advise waiting on the rest of this conversation until we're alone.”

She turns to Wyatt. “How watertight is your department these days?”

“Now, now, don't piss me off.”

“We need time.” Tessa's voice softens. “She needs time.” She jerks her head toward me. “Twenty-four hours?”

“Can't make any guarantees. Missing kids belong to the feds. And kids who magically reappear after being gone thirty years . . .”

“There are cable news execs getting fluttering feelings in their heartless chests as we speak,” she fills in.

“Exactly.”

Tessa doesn't talk again until we've left the building. She leads me straight to a dark Lexus SUV with a beautiful tan leather interior. I think of my Audi, and it already seems so long ago, a vehicle for a different woman in a different life that never could've been me.

When we get in the car, she locks the doors.

“How are you?” she asks without preamble. “I understand you've suffered from multiple concussions. Do you require medical attention? Do we need to pick up any ibuprofen, painkillers, Band-Aids, chocolate doughnuts, whatever, to help you?”

“I like ice packs.”

“I can make that happen. When did you last sleep?”

“What time is it?”

“Nine
A.M.
”

“Then I slept the past few hours at the station.”

Tessa nods, pulls out of the parking lot. “Do you remember me?” she asks as she pulls onto the main road.

“We talked on the phone Wednesday. But you weren't the investigator who first took my case . . .”

“No. Originally you met with Diane Fieldcrest. But she got hung up on another assignment. I just happened to be having a slow week, so I offered to help her out. To be honest, I don't normally
handle such routine assignments. But once I realized who you were looking for . . .”

I don't say anything.

Tessa glances at me. Her hands are sure on the wheel. “You don't owe me anything,” she continues matter-of-factly. “You hired Northledge to locate a woman. I ran the background, discovered the requested information and reported back to you. After that, what happens is your business, not ours.”

I don't say anything.

“You don't owe me anything,” she repeats. “You do, however, need to understand exactly what you're about to be up against.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fact one, you're a missing person who is essentially, thirty years later, returning from the dead.”

I wince.

“The media loves this stuff. As in, if we can keep reporters at bay until after lunch, I'll be shocked.”

I stare at her. I haven't considered any of this.

“They're going to ask questions,” Tessa continues. “Starting with, why didn't you come forward before now? If you were abducted at six, but somehow got away . . . Why have you waited this long to find your family? What have you been doing all these years?”

I can't speak. My heart is pounding too hard. I can feel a tremendous sense of pressure building in my chest. Like a grave, I think wildly. They have no idea.

“Nicky, you're in trouble.”

I open my mouth. I close my mouth. Finally, I nod.

“I know it, you know it, Wyatt knows it. Frankly, that's why he called me. Now, I'm going to start with the obvious. I'm going to check you into a hotel under an assumed name. I'm going to find you clothes, including the proverbial oversize sunglasses and bulky
hats. Also, we're going to find you a lawyer, and I mean ASAP. But even then, Nicky, you're in trouble.

“You have thirty years to account for. You have a husband who might be an arsonist. You have a motor vehicle accident that may be the result of a felony DWI.”

She turns to me. “You have a family, Nicky. You have a mom, who's lived forty miles from you for the past six months, and you never even let her know you were alive.

“Nicky, on behalf of all the reporters and really bored community members who are about to zero in on your life: What the hell do you have to say for yourself?”

I don't have any answers.

I hold my quilt. And I find myself thinking once again, flying is not the hard part; the landing is.

*   *   *

T
ESSA
FINDS
US
a hotel. Not a major chain, but a smaller operation near a ski resort where hotel rooms outnumber the local population ten to one. This will make it harder for the reporters to track us down, I realize.

She leaves me in the car to book the room. When she returns, she drives to the back of the hotel, where it turns out she's gotten us a second-floor walkup. There are no buildings across from the hotel, meaning there is no way for anyone, say, a photographer with a telephoto lens, to find us. I realize I'm starting to think the way she thinks, or maybe I've known these things all along. Back of the hotel is more secure than the front. Lower level too accessible, second floor easier to control.

The room is basic but nice. Two queen beds, relatively new beige
carpet, flat-screen TV. There is the obligatory picture of a moose on one wall, a photo of a snowcapped mountain on the other. Could be any hotel in the North Country, I think, which makes it perfect.

Tessa has a small overnight bag with her. Obviously, I have my quilt.

She places her bag on the bed closest to the door, so I set the quilt down on the other bed.

“Are you staying?” I ask. By which I really mean, are we sharing a room? The thought already has me uncomfortable. Like I traded in one set of jailors—Wyatt and Kevin—for another.

Tessa doesn't answer, just takes a seat at the foot of the bed. She's already drawn the curtains. Now she turns on the TV, finds a cable news channel, sets the volume on low.

“All right, we have some basics to cover.”

I don't know what else to do, so I sit.

“Are you hungry?”

“I think so.”

“I'll bring you food. Write up what you want; I'll take care of it. But no room service. Not yet. Draws attention.”

“How long are we staying here?”

“I have no idea. My turn: Where is your husband?”

I decide to play along: “I have no idea.”

She smiles. “Let me clarify some things. I imagine Diane had this initial conversation with you, but given the post-concussive syndrome and the fact you barely remember employing Northledge at all—”

“I'm pretty sure I did,” I interject.

“Can you describe our Boston office?”

I try, come up blank.

She nods. “Exactly. So when you hired Northledge to track down Marlene Bilek, you handed over a large deposit, a retainer
check to be used to cover the expenses of that search. In your case, you handed over a cashier's check.”

She pauses a beat. I fill in the rest. “I couldn't use a personal check. I didn't want Thomas to know.”

“Fair enough. The firm never minds being paid in cash. But the truth is, tracking down Marlene Bilek took about fifteen minutes of my time. Meaning, we didn't come close to burning through the retainer. You are, by virtue of your money sitting in our account, a client in good standing.”

“Okay.”

“This makes me the investigator handling your case. Couple of things you should know. The first principle of our firm is that your privacy is our most important asset. I need you to be honest with me. I can help you best if you are honest with me.”

I study her. I think I'm getting good at this game: “But?”

“But while a private investigator can offer her client confidentiality, our relationship still doesn't rise to the level of privilege. For example, anything you say to a doctor or a lawyer is automatically protected in a court of law. I'm
only
your investigator, not a doctor or lawyer.”

“Meaning you can be forced to disclose what I tell you.”

“I can be subpoenaed, yes, much like a reporter. At which time I can protect my source, so to speak, and be found in contempt of court, or I can disclose the information.”

“Contempt of court equals jail time. Why would you want to go to jail for me?”

Tessa tilts her head to the side. “I don't know, Nicky. Why would I want to go to jail for you?”

“You need me to be truthful,” I say at last. “But you also need me to be careful. For both our sakes.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I'm going to try to make it easier for both of us.”

“How so?”

“Wyatt . . . Sergeant Foster—”

“Wyatt. You know him. You have a relationship.”

“We've worked together before.”

“This isn't a court of law,” I tell her. “You're not under subpoena.”

Tessa smiles, still doesn't take the bait. “Wyatt says you claimed you were kidnapped and held as a sex slave. In a fancy home, maybe a Victorian, probably somewhere in the greater Boston area. You referred to it as a dollhouse.”

“Yes.”

“There were other girls there. At least one roommate, but most likely dozens more.”

“It was a big house.”

“And the clients who frequented, we're talking successful men, well-to-do. This was an elite operation.”

I shrug. “Perverts come in all socioeconomic classes.”

“Trust me, I know. This was a sophisticated operation, yes? You weren't the first girl taken, nor the last.”

I can't look at her anymore. “No.”

She nods. “The police are going to look for the dollhouse. This kind of sex-trafficking operation, the resources it would take, the players involved. I bet they already have a few ideas of where to start. Given your situation, however, I have a different idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nicky, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you're not the first girl to have gotten away?”

I can't help myself. I stare at her blankly. No, I've never thought such a thing.

“Maybe,” Tessa continues now, “there are more of you out there. And that would be a good thing, Nicky. There's strength in
numbers. It bolsters your story. It takes some of the pressure off you. It would mean, by definition, you're not alone.”

I can't speak; I can't breathe. Another girl. Would that be a good thing? Sisters in arms? Or . . . I can't sit anymore. I get up and pace.

“Thirty years ago,” Tessa is saying, “the investigative landscape was very different. ViCAP, a database for linking criminal cases from around the country, was just getting started. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children had barely been founded. All in all, it was very difficult for law enforcement agencies from different jurisdictions to compare notes. Meaning a six-year-old girl could be kidnapped from a park here, while a twelve-year-old runaway disappeared from a shelter there, and an eight-year-old delinquent never came home from the mall, and no one would necessarily connect the dots. We know better now, and I'd like to use that to our advantage.”

“What do you mean?”