Текст книги "Crash & Burn"

Автор книги: Lisa Gardner

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter 16

THOMAS FOLLOWS ME up to my bedroom. I think he’ll protest more. Maybe grab me by my shoulders, turn me roughly until I have no choice but to face him. Through sheer force of personality, he’ll get his way. Do I want him to argue? Manhandle me physically? Pin me against his chest? Is this how our arguments usually end?

But he does nothing at all. Merely stands in the doorway as I pick out a pair of jeans, a heavier sweater, from the guest room closet.

Maybe he didn’t come up to argue. Maybe he’s simply waiting for me to hand over my stash of scotch.

I close the door in his face so I can change my clothes, finish my preparations. But when I open it two minutes later, Thomas is still waiting for me.

“Are you coming?” I ask curiously, having expected him to update his own wardrobe.

“No.”

It brings me up short. Somehow, I’d been sure he’d ride along, if only to continue his role of protective husband.

“I need to work,” he says.

“Seriously? Your job is that important?”

“This project is.”

The detectives, Wyatt and Kevin, are waiting for us downstairs. I should get moving. But when I go to push pass my husband, he touches my arm, light enough, gentle enough, to draw me up short.

“Why?” he asks quietly. “I’ve certainly done everything in my power to help you. And still you have a secret supply of scotch?”

I don’t say anything, just feel my heart accelerate in my chest. Shame, I think. Remorse. Guilt. Something else I can’t quite figure out. I can’t look him in the eye. I don’t dare pull away. And I still don’t volunteer to hand over my stash.

“If you can’t dump it,” Thomas continues, “at least tell me where it is. While you’re gone, I’ll take care of it.”

“No.”

“Nicky, for the love of God, I just got you out of the hospital—”

“It’s all I have,” I hear myself whisper, and I understand in that moment that it’s true. I don’t have family. I don’t have friends. I don’t remember my past; I don’t know if I have a future. What I have is a hoarded treasure trove of tiny little bottles. No more, no less.

“You have your quilt,” my husband says.

I frown at him, uncertain. He points to the daybed, where I notice the butter-yellow quilt has been folded neatly and placed at the end. Did he do that? Did I do that and already forget?

“You should take the quilt with you,” Thomas tells me. “Maybe it’ll bring you luck.”

“I can’t go on a ride along with two cops with a blanky. That’s . . . ridiculous.”

“Nicky.”

The tone of his voice is serious. So serious I pause again, find myself studying him long and hard. A million images flash across my mind. Us laughing, us kissing, us racing across sandy beaches, us scaling rocky mountain cliffs. We lived. We loved. And once, it had been enough. I know all that, staring at him.

I’m sad, in a place way down deep that prior to now, I didn’t even know existed. I’m going to lose him. Have known that for a while now. Perhaps even a better reason to hoard secret bottles of scotch. Because for twenty-two years, this man has been my world. He’s my sole companion, my best friend, my biggest burr of annoyance, and my largest source of solace. He’s been my everything.

Except that kind of relationship isn’t healthy. For either of us.

“Take the quilt with you,” my husband murmurs. “The next few hours are going to be demanding. You might get tired, suffer another headache. The detectives will understand you having a blanket in case you need to rest.”

He’s already reaching for the quilt as he speaks. He presses the solid square in my arms, where I instinctively clutch it against my chest. I feel the softness of the familiar fabric against my fingers, inhale a scent that is both comforting and lonely.

I cried when this quilt came in the mail. Now I want to cry again.

“You have a picture of Vero,” I hear myself say.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. I found it in your closet.”

My husband smiles, but it is sad, faint. “No,” he repeats quietly. “I don’t. Now, if you’re really going to do this, time to go downstairs, get it done.

“Just remember,” he says, as he moves me away from him. “The problem with asking questions is that you can’t control all the answers. Life is like that. Especially for you and me.”

*   *   *

THE DETECTIVES ARE clearly surprised that Thomas isn’t joining us. They exchange glances but don’t immediately say anything. Nor do they comment on the blanket I’m carrying under my arm. Apparently Thomas is right: A woman with a concussion can get away with most anything.

The younger detective—Kevin, the sergeant had called him—is holding Thomas’s raincoat. Apparently, my husband agreed to part with it after all. So they could test sand. Funny, I’d never thought about it before, but in New England, there’s a lot of roadside sand.

Except not in our driveway or in our backyard. Thomas had lied about that.

I place the folded quilt on one of the lower steps, open the hall closet, and reach automatically for my tan, flannel-lined barn jacket. Next I find my black clogs, because in the backcountry, with mucky roads and sidewalks, clogs are my shoes of choice. Not my tennis shoes. I can’t imagine Wednesday night why I grabbed tennis shoes.

Because they were sitting right there and I had to get out fast.

The phone ringing.

Hello, I said.

And then . . .

My head hurts. I rub my temples unconsciously. I should take more Advil. Or maybe serious painkillers. But I don’t want to fog myself even more. I might be the one who ordered this little jaunt, but I’m also the one fatiguing fast. Thomas hadn’t been wrong. I really do need to rest.

I reach into the closet for one last thing. Peg behind the door. It isn’t there. I finger the spot again, and the older detective, Wyatt, catches the motion.

“What are you looking for?”

I have to think about it. “A hat.”

“What kind of hat?”

“Ball cap. Black.” With a brim I can pull low. For example, to better obscure my features when purchasing from the local liquor store.

I shake off the memory, feeling unpleasant, vaguely dirty, like I’ve walked through spiderwebs.

“You’re sure your husband isn’t coming?” the other detective, Kevin, checks.

“He has to work.”

“He works a lot,” Wyatt states.

I nod, because what can I say? According to Thomas this project is important. Except I have no idea what the project is.

The detectives escort me out of the house. They’re driving one of the county’s white-painted SUVs, the NORTH COUNTRY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT emblazoned on the side. I’ve seen the vehicles parked enough times along the back roads. Sometimes, the uniformed officers engage in traffic stops, but Thomas once told me deputies spent most of their time transferring prisoners around the state. The vehicles I see parked here and there are actually waiting to receive or hand off inmates.

Maybe that’s why I feel so uncomfortable when the detectives open the rear passenger door and gesture for me to climb in. My wrists should be cuffed, I think. This is it: the beginning of the end.

I’m surprised when Kevin goes around, gets in the other side next to me. To watch my responses, play more of the memory game? Or do they not trust me alone?

I place the quilt on my lap. The feel of it against my clasped hands helps ground me and I’m glad I brought it.

Wyatt puts the large vehicle into gear, backs out of our drive.

I have one last glimpse of my home. Thomas’s dark frame silhouetted in the upstairs window.

Then my husband disappears from me.

*   *   *

WE DRIVE FOR a while in silence. There is a barrier between the backseat and the front, formed from Plexiglas maybe, something scratchy but clear. The rear seat isn’t the hard plastic used in so many squad cars for easy cleaning after transporting vomiting drunks. Instead, Kevin and I share the SUV’s original gray upholstered bench seat. It’s comfortable enough, makes it easier to pretend we’re all just friends going out for a drive.

If I look ahead, though, into the front section of the sheriff’s transport, I can see the bulked-up dash, with radio, mounted laptop and all kinds of bells and whistles even my cutting-edge Audi never had. Wyatt is murmuring something into the radio, though with the divider closed it’s hard to hear. Making further arrangements? Maybe I’ll end the night arrested yet.

I try to look out my window, but the impression of rushing darkness makes me nauseous. I wish I were back in the upstairs bedroom, lying beneath my quilt with an ice pack on my forehead. The cool black. The icy oasis to ease the throbbing in my head.

The SUV slows, comes to a stop. Blinker is on. We make a right turn. Off my back road onto a more major thoroughfare. Five minutes pass, maybe ten; then civilization begins to appear. A small strip mall here, a gas station, grocery store, there. A New Hampshire state liquor store.

I feel my body tense. Ready to turn in. Where I buy my supply, I think without thinking. But the sheriff’s vehicle keeps on driving.

“Familiar?” Kevin asks me, clearly cuing off my body language.

“I run my errands here.”

“Makes sense. Shops closest to your house.”

“The bottle of scotch I had that night. Do you know where I bought it from?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“Was it there, that state liquor store?” Because in New Hampshire, you can buy beer and wine in a grocery store, but not hard liquor. That’s controlled by the state.

“Not that store,” the detective says, surprising me.

The vehicle is still moving. This road is nicely paved, which is always a perk in the North Country. I find myself closing my eyes, allowing the movement to lull me. I’m tired. Very tired. That underwater feeling has returned. As if none of this is real, or even happening.

I’m floating along, weightless, senseless. If I could just stay this way, maybe I would never be hurt again.

“Mommy, mommy, look at me. I can fly.”

But it’s not the flying that’s the hard part. It’s the landing, always the landing, that gets us in the end.

I hear myself sigh. A long and mournful sound.

Then the vehicle stops.

Kevin says, “We’re here.”

*   *   *

WHEN I FIRST climb out of the sheriff’s SUV, I’m confused. We’re not on some darkened back road, but at another small shopping plaza. Local store/deli/gas station, what appears to be a real estate office and, yes, another New Hampshire state liquor store. I don’t know this place, is my first thought. Yet I do.

I set down the folded quilt on the backseat, reaching for something instead. Hat, I realize belatedly. I’m still looking for my hat to hide my face from the store cameras. Just as I always do.

Then I feel the first pinprick of unease. Because I’m honestly not sure: Am I trying to keep from being recognized in area liquor stores, or am I trying to keep from being recognized on local security cameras?

Both detectives are now waiting for me.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

“Let’s go inside,” Wyatt says, “have a look around.”

I’m in trouble. I’m not sure where or how, but this isn’t what I wanted, what I expected. The police are supposed to take me to the scene of my car accident. I will walk around. I will know exactly what I was doing, thinking, that night. I will fly through the air. I will finally find Vero. She will forgive me.

Instead we are . . . here.

“I don’t want to,” I stall.

“Just for a moment,” Wyatt says.

“I have a headache.”

“Bet the store sells aspirin.”

I can’t move. I just stare at him. Am I begging, am I pleading, can he see it in my eyes? “I bought the bottle of scotch from this store, didn’t I? That’s why you brought me here. So I’ll recognize exactly where I screwed up that night.”

“Let’s go inside,” Wyatt repeats. “Have a look around.”

Then he and the other detective are already walking. I feel like I don’t have a choice anymore. This is it. Time to confront my fate.

The squat gray building has made some attempt at New England architecture. A covered front entrance, cupola on top, a few false dormers to make it appear more like a house, less like a giant booze-filled supercenter. The automatic doors slide open at our approach. I’m relieved Wyatt and Kevin are in street clothes, because being escorted in by two uniformed officers would’ve been too much. Still, there’s no way to disguise the way they move, assess the scene. They are more than ordinary shoppers, and everyone who looks up seems to realize it. One woman, with a shopping cart piled high with vodka, instinctively looks away. I share her shame.

No one wants a cop in a liquor store, any more than they’d want a priest in a brothel.

I can’t look up. I wander the aisles, find myself almost immediately in front of the collection of scotch. But of course. The Glenlivet is shelved at eye level to entice buyers. The store carries an impressive collection of vintages, including the higher-end eighteen-year-old vice of my choice. I can’t help it. I want them all. My hands start to tremble; then my whole body shakes.

My head pounds, but I also want to vomit. They shouldn’t have brought me here, I think resentfully. Taking a woman with a head injury on an unnecessary side trip. Taking a recovering drinker to a liquor store.

I shoot them both hard stares and have the satisfaction of seeing that at least they’re worrying the same.

“You okay?” Wyatt asks.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“But you recognize this store,” Kevin says. “You walked straight to this aisle.”

“You already knew that!” I’m still angry. I focus my attention on the dirty gray linoleum floor. Anyplace but at the booze.

“Did you come here Wednesday night?” Wyatt asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. I guess.”

“Why here?” Kevin picks.

“To buy scotch. Why the hell do you think?”

“You said earlier you were in a hurry that night,” Wyatt presses. “You had to leave fast.”

“Yes.”

“So why come here? Forty minutes from your house, when there’s another state liquor store much closer.”

I blink my eyes, press my hand against my stomach to ease the churn. I don’t know. I can’t answer his question. He’s right. Kevin pointed out the closer store and I knew it, recognized it instantly. So why would I have driven all the way out here?

I shake my head. My nausea won’t abate. My headache is worse and the lights in the store are now hurting me. Dozens of sharp daggers, driving into my temples.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter.

The detectives exchange another look. I decide I hate them. I wish Thomas were here. I want to curl up against his chest. I want to feel his fingers working their magic on my hairline. He would make me feel better. He would take care of me.

Because he is my everything. Except I’m about to lose him, because I never deserved him in the first place. Vero tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.

Run, she has told me. So many times over the years. Run, run, run. But I don’t do it. I can’t.

My face itches. The stitches. And for just one moment, I am tempted to reach up, tug at the first ugly black thread. Maybe I can remove the seams, then detach my own face, like a section of quilt. I wonder who I would find, lurking beneath my own skin.

Wyatt has a hold of my arm. He is urging me forward and I realize belatedly they are finally taking me seriously. I’ve freaked out enough that we’re leaving the store. Forget the accident site. I’m going home. I need to lie down. Close my eyes. Up in my little room, the cool black. Like a coffin. An early grave.

Wyatt takes me to the cashier line, as if we’re making a purchase. My footsteps slow, grow more leaden. He needs to take me outside. Why isn’t he taking me outside? I need fresh air.

The cashier is staring straight at us. She is an older woman with graying brown hair and the face of someone who’s already had a hard day, or maybe a hard life.

She still makes an effort: “Honey, you okay?” she asks me gently.

I can’t help myself.

I take one look at her, then promptly vomit all over the floor.

Chapter 17

AS EXPERIMENTS WENT, this hadn’t been the slam dunk Wyatt had expected. Thank heavens for the cashier lady, Marlene, an older woman who’d clearly seen it all. She didn’t bat an eye at their puking witness, but bustled around the counter, instructing them to take the poor woman outside while she got the mop.

Not that Wyatt and Kevin didn’t have experience cleaning up vomit—that was one of those skills learned quickly on the job—but it was still nice to have some help.

Kevin had gotten Nicky into the backseat. She’d promptly laid down with the yellow blanket clutched in her arms like a teddy bear. Kevin had made the mistake of offering to unfold it, drape it around her shoulders. She’d nearly attacked him.

Mood volatility. Another sign of serious brain trauma.

Now Wyatt headed back into the liquor store. He’d called in on their way over, to confirm that Marlene Bilek had been working tonight, just as she had on Wednesday night. Even luckier, she’d been the one tending the register when they’d arrived. And now, survey said . . .

Wyatt found the woman in the back, emptying out the contents of the mop bucket. Smelled vile. Given that the Franks had eaten tomato soup for dinner, looked it, too.

“Sorry ’bout that,” he said.

The woman shrugged. “Can’t work in a liquor store and not deal with barf.”

“Same with policing.”

She smiled, but it was a tired look. Job couldn’t be easy, especially given incidents like this.

“You recognize her?” Wyatt asked.

“I think so. Wednesday night, right? She was dressed differently. Dark clothes. And a hat. Black baseball hat pulled low. That’s what made me notice her—thought she was dressed for trouble, and in a liquor store, we gotta pay attention to these things. But she didn’t really do anything. Just roamed around for a while. Aisle by aisle. I was about to ask her if she needed help when she grabbed a bottle of whiskey, something like that. Paid for it and was gone.”

“How long would you say she was in the store?” Wyatt asked.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

Wyatt frowned. That was a long time for a woman who was supposedly in a hurry. Twenty minutes, combined with the long drive out here . . . A woman dressed for trouble and going out of her way to find it.

“Did she talk to anyone?” he asked. “Another customer, store employee?”

The sales clerk shrugged. “Can’t really say. It was a busy night. Lot going on. Not like I spent all my time watching her.”

Wyatt nodded, wishing once again the state store’s security cameras hadn’t messed up the recordings for Wednesday night. And yet, these things happened. Unfortunately, more often than a good detective liked. He fished out a card, handed it over to Marlene, who was now tucking the mop bucket in a corner. “Thank you very much. Sorry again for the mess, and if there’s anything else you remember, please give me a buzz.”

“Sure. She gonna be okay?” Marlene asked. “Poor girl looked pretty sick.”

“She’s resting; that’ll help.”

“What’d she do, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a detective. You and that other guy escorted her into the store; now you’re asking all these questions. So what did she do?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“She lose someone?”

Wyatt paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Because she looks so sad. And I know sad. That girl, she’s got one helluva case of the blues.”

*   *   *

WYATT WAS STILL churning things over in his head when he exited the store to find Kevin waiting for him.

“Got word from the cell company on the call Nicole received Wednesday night.”

“And?”

He followed Kevin to their white SUV, where Nicky remained curled up in the fetal position in the back. She didn’t look up when Wyatt approached. To judge by how tightly her eyes were squeezed shut, Wyatt didn’t think the woman was asleep, as much as she was purposefully shutting them out.

“Caller ID doesn’t belong to a person,” Kevin provided, “but to a company.”

“Which is?”

“An investigative firm out of Boston.” Kevin paused, regarded him intently. “Northledge Investigations,” he stated.

Wyatt closed his eyes. “Ah, shit.”

*   *   *

WYATT LEFT KEVIN to babysit their charge while he walked across the parking lot, zipping up his coat against the evening chill. Weather service had already recorded a couple of nights in single digits. And it was still only November, meaning at this rate, it was going to be a tough winter. People cooped up by the snow, half-crazed from the cold. Yeah, another excellent season to be a cop.

He dialed Tessa with his back to Kevin. Pick up, pick up, he thought, preconditioned to liking the sound of her voice, even if he worried about what she might say to him next.

Third ring, he got his wish:

“Hey.” She sounded breathless. As if he caught her in the middle of something. For a moment, he let himself smile. God, he loved this woman. Which was good, because she was probably gonna ream him a new one.

“Hey yourself,” he said. “Busy with something?”

“Just leaving a restaurant. None of us felt like cooking. Headed to Shalimar instead.”

Indian restaurant. One of Sophie’s favorites. It always surprised him, because when Wyatt had been nine, he’d been strictly a burger or dog man. Kids these days.

“How’d your lunch with Detective Warren go?” he asked. They’d never ended up catching up last night. Nor this morning, for that matter. Which, now that he thought about it, his bad. Usually they touched based at least once, if not twice a day. But given this case, he’d been preoccupied . . .

Tessa was a grown-up, he reminded himself. Had been on the job, too. She understood these things.

Except when she answered his question, her voice sounded remote, not at all like her. “Oh, fine. I explained investigative services to D.D. She explained why she preferred being a cop. Now we’ll both wait for the state of her injury to render the verdict.”

“Sophie okay?” Wyatt asked, still trying to get a bead on Tessa’s mood. “Have a good week at school?”

“Yeah.”

“And your day?”

“Fine.”

The sound of car doors slamming shut. Then Tessa’s voice, more muffled as she addressed Sophie, probably Mrs. Ennis as well. “It’s Wyatt. I need a moment; then we’ll be on our way.”

They must still be in the parking lot of the restaurant, Wyatt deduced, just now returning to the car. A former state trooper, Tessa hated people who drove while talking on their phones. Ergo, she’d make her family wait for her to finish the call before hitting the road. Which would explain her distraction. She was talking to him but still dealing with her family. Of course.

He decided there was no good way of doing it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I got a question for you,” he announced.

“Okay.”

“Remember my single-car accident? Possible aggravated DWI?”

“Yes.”

“Turns out, driver got a call on her cell shortly before she took off that night. Her name is Nicole Frank.”

Pause, while he waited to see if Tessa would respond to that name. Of course, she was a seasoned professional, so when she didn’t, he continued, evenly enough:

“Number was registered to a company: Northledge Investigations.”

More silence now. But Wyatt knew Tessa well enough to imagine the small but significant changes in her body language. Sitting up straighter in the driver’s seat. Grip tightening on the phone. Expression smoothing out.

He also understood that right about now, Sophie, sitting in the backseat, would be noticing these changes as well, and also going on high alert.

If Tessa hadn’t been irritated with him before, then this oughta do it.

“Why did you call, Wyatt?” she asked quietly.

“Gotta start somewhere.”

“So you thought your best move would be to ask your girlfriend to violate the confidentiality of her clients?”

“No. Not what I’m asking.”

He was rewarded with more silence. Then Sophie’s voice from the back: “Mom, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” An automatic reply spoken to the child. Followed by a more direct tone, delivered straight to him: “Wyatt. It’s late. It’s been a long week. I know you’re only doing your job, but I can’t help you. You know that.”

“She doesn’t remember.”

“Who?”

“Nicole Frank. The driver. Our perpetrator. Or our victim. Hell, I don’t even know. She’s suffered three concussions, remember? It’s messed her up, deleted some items from the hard drive. Which is starting to scare her. The husband, remember? The one even you worried might be the cause of three accidents? I gather things are a little tense on the home front, and Nicky has decided she needs answers. She’s out with us tonight, trying to retrace her final drive. Except she can’t remember the details. She knows she received a call. She remembers she had to get out of the house. The rest remains a mystery to her.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I know you can’t answer my question directly—that would betray confidentiality. But what if I got her on the line? Or had Nicky call in to Northledge? Maybe you could arrange for the right person”—because it was a large firm, with many investigators other than Tessa—“to be there to receive her call. Answer her questions.”

“That might be possible,” Tessa finally conceded, but he noticed that her voice remained cool. “Assuming she’s a client. Could be she was contacted as part of another investigation.”

“True.” Wyatt hadn’t actually thought about that. “You’re right. But she received the call late on Wednesday. And afterward, she felt she had to leave immediately. Sounds to me more like someone who received information—important information—and had to respond to it.”

“Where did she go?”

“A liquor store.”

“News that drove her to drink?”

“Or maybe news that drove her to meet. I’m still working on that one.”

“She’s with you,” Tessa asked abruptly.

“In the back of the SUV as we speak. But she’s not in any condition to talk at the moment. Headache, nausea, that sort of thing.”

“So you want me to talk to her, but she can’t talk?”

“I have to start somewhere, Tessa.”

“Wyatt, I can’t deliver potentially confidential information to you. That’s not who I am and not who you want me to be.”

“Okay.” Wyatt didn’t press the point. He wasn’t surprised by Tessa’s refusal. She did take confidentiality seriously, as well she should. And yet, he did have to start somewhere, and it wasn’t unheard of for an investigator to help out another investigator, let alone two investigators with a personal relationship . . .

He was disappointed. But mostly, he was still trying to understand his girlfriend’s distant tone. Right from the beginning of the conversation. Even before he’d waded into forbidden waters.

“You okay?” he spoke up at last.

“Boundaries, Wyatt. Given our jobs, both of us have boundaries. I can respect yours, but if this is going to work, I need you to respect mine as well.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. Tessa—”

“It’s late. I need to go. We can catch up in the morning. Maybe I can work out something for you then. Good night, Wyatt.”

“Okay. Um, thanks. I’ll touch base tomorrow.”

Wyatt ended the call. But he remained uncomfortable. Boundaries, his girlfriend of six months was telling him. Except suddenly, he was worried she wasn’t speaking about professional issues at all.

*   *   *

WHEN HE RETURNED to the SUV, Kevin was standing near the driver’s door, making notes on his little spiral-bound pad.

“You’re still alive,” he observed, having no illusions about the dangers of pissing off Tessa Leoni.

“That much faith in my charms? Tessa would be totally delighted to help us out.”

Kevin gave him a look.

“Fine. She argued confidentiality, with a sidebar on respecting her professional integrity. But she might be willing to talk to Nicky directly in the morning, assuming Nicky’s recovered by then.”

Kevin shrugged philosophically. In other words, Northledge was currently a dead end.

“How she’s doing?” Wyatt asked, gesturing to the backseat of the vehicle.

“Hasn’t moved a muscle.”

“Have you checked on her? I’m pretty sure it’s bad for taxpayers to die while in our care.”

“Checked. Frankly, she’s pretty out of it. Probably time to take her home.”

Wyatt didn’t argue. On the other hand, he had a feeling once they returned Nicky to her husband, they’d never get her out again.

“Why do you think she came here?” Wyatt asked Kevin. “Gets a call. Has such a sense of urgency she grabs her closest pair of shoes, sneakers, even though they’re a lousy choice for a rainy night, while forgoing a coat. Then proceeds to drive nearly an hour to a liquor store well beyond her closest shopping center. Then, according to the sales clerk, Nicky spends another fifteen, twenty minutes wandering the store, before finally grabbing a bottle of scotch.”

“Didn’t know what she felt like drinking?”

Wyatt’s turn to give his partner a look. Then again: “Why an eighteen-year-old bottle of Glenlivet? Pretty specific, not to mention expensive, choice, if you’re just looking to get drunk.”

“Good memories?”

“She doesn’t have any. Except . . .” Wyatt paused, collected his thoughts. “What if she was meeting someone? That’s what the phone call was about. The liquor store is the designated spot, so first she looks for the person in the store. Then when she can’t find them . . .”

“Buys the person’s favorite bottle of scotch?”

“Or something significant to both of them.”

“And heads out into the parking lot.”

“Where she must ultimately locate him or her, right?” Wyatt continued. “Because she purchases the scotch at ten, but her accident isn’t until five A.M. Meaning there’s seven hours unaccounted for.”

Kevin looked around. At the relatively quiet plaza, near-empty parking lot. “According to cashier Marlene, the liquor store was busy that night. But the plaza as a whole, the mall parking lot . . . Bet it was mostly quiet. Bet you could sit in a car, chat all you wanted without anyone caring.”

“So who’d she meet?” Wyatt asked him.

“Lover? Long-lost friend? Used some social media site to reconnect with a former flame, then came out here to take things up close and personal?”

Wyatt shrugged. “What woman grabs old sneakers and a baseball cap for a booty call?”

“One I’d like to meet,” Kevin assured him.

“If that’s what it was about, they’d pick a hotel, someplace more . . . suitable. This feels more . . . Magnum, P.I.”

“Magnum, P.I.?”

“You know. Meet with the undercover investigator in the parking lot of the grocery store to receive the surveillance photos of your cheating spouse. That sort of thing.”