Chapter 6

WYATT AND KEVIN arrived at the hospital just in time for the show. Their person of interest was thrashing wildly in the bed, while a man yelled for help and attempted to pin her down. Next came the nurse hustling in to administer a massive dose of sedative, and there went Wyatt’s best opportunity to get to the bottom of things.

Their female driver, Nicole Frank according to the vehicle’s registration, passed out cold. Only the man remained, breathing heavily and looking ragged around the edges.

Husband, Wyatt would guess. Or boyfriend. Whatever. Wyatt needed answers, he needed them now and he was willing to be flexible. He’d already sent a detective to the courthouse to request a search warrant for Mrs. Frank’s medical records, which would include the woman’s blood alcohol levels. He also had deputies backtracking from the accident site to neighboring liquor stores to prove exactly where and when she had purchased her eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch. In the short term, they were pursuing charges of aggravated DWI.

Of course, there still remained the issue of the missing child.

The nurse exited the room, barely sparing them a glance. That left the man. Late thirties to early forties. Six feet, one-eighty. Rugged sort of handsome, Wyatt thought women called it. Not a desk jockey, but a guy who actually worked for a living.

“Mr. Frank?” Wyatt took a guess.

“Yes?” He was staring at his wife with concern. Now he shifted his attention enough to shoot them an annoyed glance. Which Wyatt found interesting. Assuming the man’s daughter was the one missing, shouldn’t he be grateful to see two detectives? Even desperate, the concerned father demanding immediate answers? Instead his primary concern appeared to be his wife. Meaning he didn’t care about the girl at all? Or he already knew what had happened to Vero and why they couldn’t find her?

Wyatt felt the first thrum of adrenaline rush. He shot a look at Kevin, who seemed to share his suspicions. Both men, rather than surge forward immediately, instinctively fell back. In domestic situations, aggression rarely worked. Far better to be on the parent’s side. Be cool, be calm, be conversational. Then, bit by bit, spool out enough rope for the parent to hang him- or herself.

Wyatt started the process. Polite, nonconfrontational: “Can we speak to you a moment?”

“My wife,” the man started.

“Appears to be resting. We have some questions.”

“You’re the police,” the man stated. But he wasn’t arguing. He was heading toward them. He was going to play nice. Perfect.

Wyatt made the introductions, himself, then Kevin, earning the name Thomas Frank in return. Thomas, can I call you Tom? No, Thomas it is.

Wyatt offered the man some coffee. Another friendly gesture. This time of late morning, the hospital was a busy place, so maybe they could find a quiet corner to chat. When the husband appeared undecided, Wyatt and Kevin simply started walking down the overlit hallway to the hospital cafeteria. Sure enough, the husband fell into step behind them, too tired to argue.

One coffee purchase later, they had Mr. Frank tucked behind a fake ficus tree and it was time to get down to business.

“How do you know Nicole Frank?” Wyatt asked, just to be sure about things.

“Nicky? She’s my wife.”

“Been together long?”

Thomas Frank smiled thinly. “I know it sounds corny, but for me, she’s always been the one. First time I saw her, I just knew.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Film set. We were both working for a production company down in New Orleans. I was with set design; she worked craft services, you know, doling out food. I spotted her day one of a thirty-day shoot. Meant I had exactly one month to ask her out.”

“How long did it take you?” Wyatt asked curiously.

“Three days to say hi. Three weeks to get her to say hi back. She was shy even then.”

“Been together ever since?”

“Yes.”

“What brought you to New Hampshire?”

Thomas glanced up at them. His eyes were bloodshot, heavily shadowed. A man who hadn’t been sleeping well at night, Wyatt would guess, and that was before this. Wife troubles, work troubles, kid troubles? Again, Wyatt felt buzzed by the possibilities.

But Thomas merely shrugged. “Why not? It’s a good state. Mountains to hike, lakes to swim. Plus no sales or income tax. What’s not to love?”

“And your current job?” Wyatt asked, keeping with the slow-and-easy approach.

“Still in set design, only now I’m self-employed. I design and manufacture specific props, set pieces that are harder to find. Nicky helps—she does the fine-tuning, painting, cosmetics, that sort of thing.”

“Shouldn’t you be in LA?” Kevin asked. “Or New York? Someplace like that?”

Thomas shook his head. “Not necessary. Films are shot most anyplace, especially if the state or town is offering tax incentives. New Orleans, Seattle, Nashville, even Boston, lots of production work around here. And I don’t need to be on site. I have my contacts from the old days. Now the set guys come to me with what they need. I design it, build it, ship it. Done.”

“And Nicky, too?” Wyatt repeated.

“Yeah. Like I said.”

“Where was your wife last night, Mr. Frank?”

Thomas shifted uncomfortably, no longer meeting their gazes. “I thought at home,” he said, voice already rough. “Last I saw, she was asleep on the sofa.”

Kevin and Wyatt exchanged a glance. Time to start unspooling the rope, Wyatt thought.

“What time was that?” Wyatt asked, voice still perfectly polite.

“I don’t know. Eight, nine P.M.”

Wyatt regarded the man closely. “Little early to be down for the night,” he commented, as Kevin joined the fray:

“Last you saw—”

Thomas slammed down his coffee cup. “It’s not her fault!”

Neither detective said a word.

“I mean, we were fine. Everything was fine. Happy couple, happy life. Except then, six months ago, Nicky fell down the stairs. Was doing laundry, I don’t know. I found her passed out cold on the basement floor. Took her to the emergency room, where she was diagnosed with a mild concussion. No big deal, you think. Rest and recuperate. Except she had difficulty sleeping after that. And would lash out, no good reason. Headaches, fatigue, difficulty focusing. I did a little reading. Symptoms were consistent with someone recovering from a concussion. Told myself—and her—to be patient. Just a little more time. Except then just a few months later, I found Nicky sprawled on the front porch. She’d been walking out the door, she thought. Except she must’ve tripped or something. Bad news, she hit her head again. Two concussions, three months.”

The husband stared at them. Wyatt and Kevin returned his look, expressions stonier this time, allowing him to see their skepticism, feel the heat.

“Post-concussive syndrome,” the man bit out. “My wife isn’t a drunk. At least she didn’t used to be. She’s not violent either. At least she didn’t used to be.” He turned his head slightly, revealing the shadow of a bruise along the man’s jaw. “But the falls, multiple brain traumas . . . The neurologist tells me each subsequent injury has an exponential effect. I don’t really understand it. I just know my wife . . . She’s not herself these days.”

“So you left her unattended yesterday evening,” Wyatt murmured.

“I went to my work shed! We have a separate building, on the rear of our property, that houses all my tools, equipment. That’s where I work, and for the love of God . . . I’ve been tending Nicky, most days, all days. Now I’m behind. Because that’s what happens when you have a sick spouse. You get behind on work while having even more bills to pay. She falls asleep, I bolt out the door. I’m not saying it’s a good thing. I’m saying it’s what I have to do to hold things together. Docs want her in a stable environment on a normal routine. Losing our house right now because I can’t pay the mortgage doesn’t accomplish either of those things.”