Tessa Leoni: Crash And Burn Part 10

And just for a moment, I feel it again. That sense of hollowness deep inside my chest. Yearning.

"You can sleep here if you want," Thomas says quietly.

"Okay." I don't even look at him. This room is mine; the master is his. He can tell me whatever he wants. I know better.

Thomas wonders if I'm hungry. Actually, I am. We return downstairs, where he whips up two cheese omelets. I slice up a cantaloupe, admiring the fine edge on the knife's blade. If this kitchen is my domain, clearly I take my equipment seriously.

We sit at the parlor table and I realize I'm moving automatically, already following rhythms that must have developed over the past six months we've lived here. A party of two, banging around twenty-four hundred square feet, with cozy taste in furniture and surprisingly few pictures, knickknacks or personal decorations on the wall.

I wonder if we finished unpacking all the moving boxes. Or if we're simply people who prefer a very clean approach to home decor.

After dinner, Thomas suggests we watch a movie. But I can tell he's fading again, clearly dead on his feet. In contrast, I finally feel awake, curiously wired, as if the fog is lifting and if I just focus long enough, try hard enough, all the secrets of the universe will be mine.

I tell Thomas he should go to bed. He tries to protest. I shoo him away, and finally, with a frown, he takes the hint.

As he disappears upstairs, I pick up the remote and determine I have no problem running the system or finding all my favorite channels. As long as I don't think too much, just act, I have no problems at all.

I tune in to TV Land. Watch old episodes of Gilligan's Island, which seems a safe enough show for a woman with multiple head injuries. Not too exciting, no threat of violence. Well, other than the Skipper smacking Gilligan with his hat time and time again. I draw the line at Golden Girls, though. I'm not that desperate.

I turn off the TV, roam the family room. I discover a pile of books, mostly paperbacks. Apparently I like to read Nora Roberts, while Thomas favors Ken Follett. I reenter the kitchen, and then, because I simply have to know, I go through all the cabinets and then the pantry.

Sure enough, no alcohol. Not a single can of beer, not a single bottle of wine. Let alone a decent bottle of scotch.

For a moment, I'm disappointed. Terribly, dreadfully. Because wouldn't a nice gla.s.s of single malt be perfect right about now?

I leave the kitchen, head upstairs. My breath grows ragged in my chest, but I survive the hike. Back to the little room with the lovely b.u.t.ter-yellow quilt.

There, I lie down fully clothed, my legs straight, my hands folded on my chest. Like a girl in a coffin.

And then, I inhale.

Vero.

She is little again. Small and bubbly with chubby cheeks and fat fists. Airplane noises as she runs around the tiny room, leaping over pillows, willing her body into flight.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Vero flies. Vero falls.

Ominous footsteps down the hall.

I'm dreaming, I tell myself.

I'm still dreaming, I remind myself.

As I watch Thomas burst into the room.

Chapter 11.

THE FRANKS LIVED in a relatively new gray-painted Colonial. Black shutters, covered farmer's porch, a winding brick walkway that curved through an attractive front flower bed. This late in the season, the bed still offered up some ragged pansies and those cabbage-looking things Wyatt never knew what to call. Meaning someone had taken the time and effort to update the plantings in the fall. Nicky Frank? Her husband, Thomas?

Many things to learn, which was why Kevin and Wyatt decided to start the morning with a personal house call.

Tessa's comments from yesterday were still weighing heavily on Wyatt. How much did they really know about Nicky Frank, having never talked to her directly? Including but not limited to, how much did she remember from her past three "accidents"? Because cars rarely went sailing off the road while in neutral. Coulda happened, he supposed. Driver falls asleep, knocks the car out of gear while coasting down a steep grade, but it didn't feel probable. Which made Wyatt wonder about the scotch as well. Had Nicky been drinking of her own accord? Or had someone been doing their best to make sure a woman with a known brain injury and doctor's orders not to imbibe didn't wake up at the wheel?

Sometimes when working a case you had a strong lead, and sometimes you mostly had a hunch. Good news about being the sergeant-Wyatt got to follow his hunches. Countywide search for a girl who still had no record of even existing notwithstanding. Yeah, the sheriff had had words with him on that one. But even the boss agreed, something about this couple, the wife's series of accidents, the enduring delusion of a missing girl, seemed off.

Wyatt did the honors of knocking. Front door was dark cranberry and appeared freshly painted. Looked to him like when the Franks bought the home six months ago, they'd spent some time and energy sprucing up the place. A sign they were finally settling down? Because Kevin had run the couple's background last night, and to say they moved a lot would be an understatement. Two years was the longest they'd stayed in one spot. Otherwise, their MO seemed to be here today, gone tomorrow.

Chasing business, a husband covering his tracks or a couple that was just restless? More questions to consider.

Wyatt liked a challenge.

Hence his relations.h.i.+p with Tessa.

He knocked again, louder this time, more insistent. Finally, the sound of footsteps moving through the house. A second later, the door opened and a rumpled-looking Thomas Frank stood there.

"Morning," Wyatt said brightly.

The man, barefoot and in sweats, stared back at him. "What time is it?"

"Eight A.M."

"Isn't that a little early for house calls?"

"We brought coffee."

Thomas scowled.

"Sir," Kevin spoke up, pressing the point. "We have some questions for your wife."

"She's asleep; she needs to rest-"

"It's okay." Behind Thomas, Nicky appeared on the staircase. She was also dressed casually-yoga pants, an oversize sweater-and her hair was wet, as if she'd recently showered.

Even from this distance, Wyatt could make out the harsh lines of st.i.tches slas.h.i.+ng across her forehead, left eye, right jawline, let alone the myriad of bruises and abrasions marring her skin. Yesterday, she'd looked bad. A day later, she appeared even worse; probably would until the bruises ran their course. But the woman was standing. Head up. Eyes clear.

Wyatt felt that thrum, big-game hunter on the prowl. This morning was looking good.

Thomas retreated, reluctantly allowing the two officers into his house. Wyatt and Kevin didn't hesitate but moved fully into the home, closing the door behind them. Wyatt's first impression was that the house was nice in a clean, modern sort of way, but curiously sterile. Less a home, more a set piece. Here is the Pottery Barn sofa; here is the appropriately scaled coffee table; here is the soft and comfy area rug. Not until they hit the kitchen, which led into a shockingly bright-painted sunroom, did he have any sense of personality. Then, to judge by the way Thomas avoided looking at the brightly painted walls, Wyatt would guess the room represented Nicky's sense of style and not her husband's.

Kevin set down the cardboard carrier bearing four coffees on the kitchen counter. Thomas sighed, accepted the bribe. But Nicky poured herself a gla.s.s of water.

"Do I drink coffee?" she asked her husband, her tone genuinely curious.

"You prefer tea," Thomas supplied.

"But I love the smell."

Thomas looked up at his wife. "You don't have to talk to them, you know. You didn't meet the legal threshold for impairment, remember?" He shot them a look, as if it was important for them to know that he knew. "Not to mention Dr. Celik said you need to rest. If you're feeling tired, you should go lie down. I can handle this."

Big, strong caretaker, Wyatt wondered, or just a husband who really didn't want his wife to talk to the cops?

What made it really interesting was that he could tell Nicky was wondering the same thing.

"We have only a few questions," Wyatt offered up. "Whether the driver is intoxicated or not, we're still duty bound to investigate all accidents. Routine inquiry and all. Won't take much time."

"I don't mind," Nicky said. "We can go into the sunroom. If I need anything, I'll let you know."

Thomas still didn't look happy, but he took his coffee and walked away.

According to the background info, Thomas did indeed own and operate his own company, Ambix Productions. Last year, he'd made a quarter million, which would explain the nice house, fancy cars. The Franks currently had forty thousand sitting in the bank, a decent nest egg if the wife continued being unable to work. So hardly a couple on the edge of financial ruin, as Thomas had seemed to imply at the hospital. Maybe he was a conscientious guy, or a workaholic. No doubt his wife's string of injuries had cut into his hours, and not just for a week or two, but apparently for the past six months.

Meaning he had good reason to be overprotective of his wife? Or again, more fun secrets and lies? Days like this, Wyatt honestly loved his job.

With Thomas gone, Nicky escorted Wyatt and Kevin into the bright sunroom. She moved gingerly, Wyatt noticed, still a woman with substantial aches and pains, but she seemed to be in good spirits.

"I like this room," she said now, as she took a seat in one of the cus.h.i.+oned patio chairs. Wyatt and Kevin made themselves comfortable in two more matching wicker chairs, situated across from her. "This is my room," she continued, curling a leg beneath her. "And the yellow bedroom upstairs; that's my room, too."

"You recognize your home?" Wyatt asked. "Feel comfortable here?"

"Yes. As long as I don't think too hard. If I just do things, you know, reach for a plate, I'll find it immediately. On the other hand, if I stop and try to remember where plates might be . . . That's when it gets more complicated."

"You're working off muscle memory," Kevin spoke up.

Nicky shrugged. Her dark hair was starting to dry, curl around her face. She was an attractive woman, Wyatt noted, or would be once the bruises and lacerations healed.

"Whatever works," she said. "I think, given the state of my head, beggars can't be choosers."

"Any headaches today?"

"No. I'm just . . . sore. Everywhere. Like my whole body went through the spin cycle or something. The doctor provided some pain pills, but I think in the short term, Advil will be my friend."

"How is Vero?" Wyatt tried out. "She feeling better, too?"

Across from him, Nicky stilled, regarded him frankly. "Do you think I'm crazy, Sergeant?"

"Don't know yet."

"I don't have a daughter."

"And yet yesterday-"

"I'd just been in a major accident, whacked my head. Yet again. Clearly I was dazed and confused."

"Have you ever had a child?"

"No. I'm infertile. Children have never been an option for us." She smiled thinly. "Funny, I can barely remember my husband's name. But my own barrenness-that's a memory I can't escape."

Wyatt paused, not sure what to make of this confession. She couldn't have children, but maybe secretly still wanted one, so under duress, her subconscious made one up? Possible, he supposed. But getting well beyond the bounds of policing.

"Why the name Vero?" Kevin asked.

"I don't know."

"Family name? Your mom, sister, great-aunt, somebody's?"

"I don't have a family."

"No one at all?" Wyatt interjected.

She gazed at him clear-eyed. "No. No one at all. It's just Thomas and me. Trust me, it's enough."

Okay. Wyatt made another note. Tessa's concerns from yesterday were making more and more sense to him. Because clearly, Nicky Frank lived a very isolated life. Just her and her husband. Except her husband wasn't the one who kept having "accidents."

"What do you remember from Wednesday night?" Wyatt asked.

"The night of the wreck."

"Yes."

"I don't."

"You don't?"

"I don't. Nothing at all. I try to picture it . . . My mind is blank."

Wyatt glanced at Kevin, who responded with a nod.

"Mrs. Frank," Kevin spoke up. "Mind trying something with me? It's a guided memory exercise. Might help jog something for you."

"What does it involve?"

"Just relax and sit there. I'm going to try to walk you through the evening in more detail, focusing on your senses. You know, what you smelled, heard, that sort of thing. It's like coming at the memory sideways versus head-on. Sometimes, that makes a difference."

"It's not hypnosis, is it?"

"Not at all."

"Because I have enough issues with my brain. I don't need anyone tampering with it."