Free Crash & Burn by Lisa Gardner Page A

sometimes, as the saying went, two heads were better than one.
    Sitting in his county cruiser, waiting for the state police to arrive with the electronic data retrieval box, Wyatt took her up on her offer.
    â€œSingle MVA, off road, possible aggravated DWI.”
    â€œBlood alcohol level?”
    â€œWell, first complicating factor. Driver smelled like a distillery. According to hospital records, however, her blood alcohol level was only .06—”
    â€œThat doesn’t meet the threshold for DWI.”
    â€œAh, but the patient suffers from something called post-concussive syndrome. Has taken one too many blows to the head over the past six months. According to the doctor, for a person suffering from a TBI, even a little alcohol can go a long way. So I’m notwilling to dismiss it just yet. We could potentially make the argument that for a driver with this condition, .06 is sufficiently impaired.”
    Wyatt had given the matter a lot of thought, mostly because it was his thought to give. Given the unique laws of New Hampshire, county cops had the power to prosecute all misdemeanor cases. Meaning Wyatt didn’t just build a case; he got to present it, too. Factoring in the driver’s injuries, this crash could end up being a felony DWI, in which case the county attorney would take over, but Wyatt would still be responsible for the arraignment bail hearing and probable cause hearing. He liked to joke he was half cop, half lawyer. Though given the way the legal system worked these days, you had to be more like 90 percent lawyer just to survive.
    â€œInteresting,” Tessa was saying now. “So you have an unimpaired, impaired driver.”
    â€œIt’s possible. Now, booze in question came from an eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch—”
    â€œExpensive.”
    â€œPlease, you should see the car. Guys traced the purchase of the bottle to a liquor store ten miles from the accident scene, purchased on a credit card. We’re going through security footage now to see if we have actual film of her making the purchase. But so far, not bad for a morning’s work.”
    â€œAnd yet you’re bothered by . . . ,” Tessa pushed.
    â€œLiquor store closed at eleven. Accident happened around five A.M. So what was the driver doing between those hours? Because if she was sitting around drinking, her blood alcohol level should obliterate .06.”
    â€œFriend, associate, to help her out?”
    â€œPossible.”
    â€œHusband?”
    â€œClaims he was occupied in a work shed. Apparently hadn’t even realized his concussed wife was missing.”
    â€œNo card for him on Valentine’s Day. Where’d the car go off? Busy area? Plenty of shops, restaurants, bars, to keep your driver entertained?”
    â€œNada. I’ve counted two gas stations between the liquor store and scene of the crash; that’s it. So again, what was she up to for six hours?”
    â€œMaybe . . .” He could hear Tessa thinking about it. “Maybe she wasn’t doing anything. Maybe she was just . . . hanging out. Trying to collect her thoughts. When I was patrolling, you’d be amazed how many parked cars I came across in the middle of the night, occupied by lonely souls. If your driver is concussed, suffering from a TBI, maybe she’s confused, too. Another lost soul looking for the light.”
    â€œSo she buys a bottle of scotch. Drowns her sorrows . . .”
    â€œSips her sorrows. Only .06.”
    â€œThen hits the road. Searching for a little girl who doesn’t exist.”
    â€œLittle girl?” Tessa’s voice picked up.
    Wyatt winced. He hadn’t intended to mention that part. “When the first officer arrived at the scene, the woman claimed she couldn’t find her daughter, Vero. Only her husband of twenty-two years claims there are no kids. Not now, not ever.”
    â€œSo she’s