Chapter 24
WYATT 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?”
* * *
WYATT 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.”