Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

She found herself saying: “You haven’t asked me about my husband.”

“Your business, not mine.”

“Two years ago,” she heard herself continue, “Brian was shot dead, and my daughter went missing. I confessed to shooting him, but was also charged with killing my own kid.”

“Your daughter’s alive. You said so.”

“I found her. Some of my methods didn’t necessarily…color inside the legal lines. I won’t ever be welcomed in law enforcement again. But I have my daughter back and that’s what matters most.”

“You know,” he drawled slowly, “now that you mention it, that case rings a bell.”

She stiffened, steeling herself for the inevitable comments on her shooting skills, or even a crack on how her husband must’ve deserved it.

Instead, he asked: “How’s your daughter holding up?”

“She told me to look for the Denbe family in cold, dark places. Also, to bring cookies and carry my gun.”

“Smart kid.”

She found herself nodding. And thinking that she liked Wyatt Foster. Liked him a lot.

“You ever been married?” she asked.

“Yep. Total train wreck. But I’ve got nothing against domestic life. And between you, me and the lamppost, I like kids. It’s one of those things guys can’t really say, though. Comes out sounding creepy. Which, given how much I respect your skills, is not the impression I’m trying to make.”

“I don’t date much.” This must be what happened when you went too long without adult company, she decided. First attentive listener and it was like she had diarrhea of the mouth. She continued: “My focus is my daughter, creating a safe, stable home environment for her. She deserves that much.”

“Ah, hence the scraped-back hair—”

“That’s the second comment I’ve received in two days! What is it about my hair?”

“You’re too young to look that old,” Wyatt said matter-of-factly. “Besides, it doesn’t work for me. I see something pulled back that tight, mostly, I get curious how it might look down. You know, preferably after a nice dinner, followed by a couple glasses of wine, that sort of thing.”

Tessa was no longer watching the road. She was staring at the man sitting in her passenger’s seat, and she was pretty sure she was blushing. Blushing , for heaven’s sake.

“But I imagine you don’t date on the job,” he continued now, voice still perfectly even.

“Exactly,” she managed, and returned her eyes to the road.

They fell back into silence.

“So,” she drawled after another few minutes. “You’re disgruntled.”

“Yes. The kidnappers are exposing themselves. They’re making phone calls, buying local newspapers and most likely getting supplies to treat a woman in the midst of pretty serious withdrawal. And yet, we still can’t get a bead on them. It’s pissing me off.”

“We don’t have a description,” Tessa pointed out. “It’s hard to make headway without a tangible description of the suspects to circulate. I mean, what can local law enforcement do right now? Ask local gas stations if any strangers bought a newspaper today? At this rate, we should feel disgruntled. We’re still skirting the perimeters of the crime. We haven’t reached the heart of the matter.”

“I called my office,” Wyatt said. “Got them working with the local wireless providers to identify chunks of real estate that don’t receive adequate cell coverage. Sounds like that will eliminate a great deal of the White Mountain National Forest. ’Course, most of the real estate in question is high altitude or deep country…not exactly accessible for hiding hostages anyway.”

“Process of elimination is still something; a no that helps lead to yes.”

“Forest rangers have been making progress, too, visiting campgrounds and trailheads. At this rate, we may work ourselves down to a mere fifth of the state left to search by tomorrow.”

“See, smaller haystack. Well done.”

Wyatt stopped scowling, grinned instead. “I like you,” he said. “Hairdo aside, I’m going to ask you out one day. But not today. Today, we’re going to focus on the Denbe family.”

“Not much time left,” she murmured, taking the exit for Lexington as she followed her GPS’s directions for Anita Bennett’s house.

“Exactly,” he agreed, fingers drumming against the middle console. “Exactly.”

ANITA BENNETT OPENED HER FRONT DOOR after the first ring. She took in Tessa, wearing black Ann Taylor slacks topped with a fitted white shirt, and frowned slightly. Then she spotted Wyatt, standing in full view of her neighbors in his brown sheriff’s uniform, and positively scowled.

“Come in!” she said, less of an invitation, more of a demand. They did.

Anita wore a long dark skirt with slim black boots, topped with a heather-colored cable-knit sweater. She matched the white-painted, black-shuttered house, Tessa thought, a perfect advertisement for refined New England living. Currently, the woman was fidgeting with her long string of pearls, and looking at Tessa and Wyatt as if she didn’t know what to do with them.

“We have some more questions,” Tessa said by way of explanation.

“I would’ve met you at the office. As it is, we’ve just returned from church.”

“It will only take a minute.”

A last scowl, then Anita seemed to give up. Her shoulders came down slightly; she gestured for them to follow her.

“Honey, who’s here?” A man’s voice from the end of the hallway.

Anita didn’t immediately answer, but kept walking, leading them past a massive kitchen with black granite countertops and cherrywood cabinets, then the formal dining room, until they finally arrived in a smaller sitting room, boasting a fireplace, a pair of silk-covered wingback chairs and a vintage 1920s love seat.

Tessa found this interesting. She would’ve described the COO’s office as modern, while her home was clearly New England traditional. She wondered what other differences distinguished work Anita from home Anita.

An older man in black slacks and a cranberry-colored sweater had been sitting in front of the lit fire. Now he rose, moving gingerly, and offered a hand. He had a full head of striking gray hair, topping a broad, friendly face with wire-rimmed glasses.

“Daniel Coakley,” he said, by way of introduction. “Anita’s husband. And you are?”

“These are two of the investigators looking for Justin and his family,” Anita said crisply. But Tessa noticed the woman’s gaze softened when she looked at her husband. She moved closer, placing a hand on his arm in an almost protective gesture. “It’s okay, Dan. They just need to ask me a few more questions. Do you mind?”

Dan seemed to take that as his cue to depart. He nodded at both of them, then worked his way slowly down the hallway in the direction they had come.

“Heart attack,” Anita said, in answer to their unspoken question. “Last year. He died twice on the way to the ER. You have no idea how much that puts your life in perspective.”

She gestured to the forest-green wingback chairs. Tessa took one, Wyatt the other. Anita perched on the edge of the gold-and-green-covered sofa. Putting plenty of distance between her and the investigators, Tessa noticed, while sitting ramrod straight, hands clasped on her knees, body language radiating wariness.

Given the woman’s discomfort, Tessa took her time, letting the silence drag out while she took inventory of the room, seeking out family photos. She spotted two larger framed prints. One close-up shot of three school-age boys, piled up on a hillside, bright faces beaming. Then, the classic family shot, a younger Anita seated in one of the wingback chairs, three now teenage boys kneeling around her while a noticeably larger, healthier Daniel Coakley stood behind them all, hand on her shoulder.