Isabeau nodded and walked away.
Nessa unlocked and pushed open the screen door, then held out her hand so the detective could clasp the tips of her fingers. “I’m Nessa Donati,” she said, smiling brightly, trying to relax her jaw.
“Sorry to bother you at home so early,” the detective said. “May I come in?”
Again, missionary: gracious, hospitable, warm. That was Nessa Donati. “Of course.” She flung her arm wide as if welcoming him onto a cruise ship.
The detective stepped inside, then let his eyes wander to the crown molding and hammered tin ceiling tiles. “Wow. This place is great. How long you lived here?”
“Thank you, Mr.—-Detective, uh—-why did you say you were here?”
He finally smiled. “Oh, right, sorry. This is just a really nice—-I’ve always wanted one of these old farm properties. You’ve done a great job on it.”
“Thanks,” she said cautiously.
“What year was it built?”
“Eighteen ninety--five,” she said, trying not to sound impatient.
“And no problems with plumbing or anything?”
“Not yet,” she said.
Nessa’s paranoia du police was probably more acute than most -people’s, but she couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t let it show on her face. Somehow, the detective would know.
So she put on her shiniest hostess face as camouflage, ushered him in like a treasured guest, and pointed him to the couch in the living room. Isabeau scooped up Daltrey, who had been playing with Legos on the floor. He buried his face in her neck, shy of the stranger.
Isabeau raised her eyebrows at Nessa before mounting the stairs, carrying Daltrey.
“Can I offer you some coffee, lemonade, water?” Nessa said to Detective Treloar.
“No, thank you,” the detective said, unbuttoning his sport coat and seating himself.
Nessa sat at the other end of the couch.
“Is Mr. Donati at home?”
“No,” she said.
Detective Treloar had a nice face, but she could tell he didn’t brook any nonsense.
“Do you expect him soon?”
“No,” she said. “He doesn’t live here anymore. We’re divorcing.”
He cleared his throat into his fist. “Ah. Well.” He pulled a miniature notebook from his coat pocket, looked at a page, and said, “Does Mr. Donati drive a 1997 Chevy half--ton pickup, license plate IFL 157?”
“Yes,” she said, wary. DUI? Hit--and--run? With crackhead John, life was like felony bingo. “But it’s in both our names.” Then she added, “I think,” as if any misinformation, intentional or otherwise, would get her thrown in jail.
“The truck was reported to the Park Ser-vice,” he said. “Abandoned.”
“When?” Nessa said, annoyed. What was John up to? Was he living in his truck? But that didn’t make any sense, if he’d parked it on some street and left it there. Maybe in his stupor he’d forgotten where he left it.
“It was reported yesterday,” Detective Treloar said, looking at his notepad, then at her. “Do you have a phone number for Mr. Donati? Maybe an address where he’s living or staying, a post office box?”
You could try all the crack houses in Manhattan or Junction City. Chances are good he’s spending a lot of time in one or all of those. Keeping the economy going on three hundred dollars a day.
Under normal circumstances, Nessa would think he’d want to notify the owner of the truck’s impoundment. But because it was John, she suspected there was an outstanding warrant. “Is John in trouble, Detective?”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
His question and failure to answer hers irked Nessa. But she guessed it was really none of her business now whether John was in trouble. He wasn’t her problem anymore.
“A -couple of weeks ago,” she said.
“And you haven’t heard from him at all during that time? Phone call? Text?”
“No,” she said. “We didn’t exactly part on friendly terms.”
“Oh?” the detective said, his pen poised above the paper, at the ready to take down the lurid details.
She considered. Why not tell him? “John’s a crack addict. I threw him out after I caught him using in the house.”
Treloar shook his head. “Ah,” he said.
Nessa couldn’t stop the humiliation from rising like heat through her body, which reacted as if the detective’s benign acknowledgment were actually an indictment of her and her failure to keep John clean. As if she wasn’t woman enough to keep his interest at home and away from drugs. Nessa shuddered at this pathetic impulse.
The detective fished a business card out of his inner jacket pocket, stood, and handed it to her. “If you hear from Mr. Donati,” he said, “please give me a call.”
“Wait,” Nessa said as she took the card. She didn’t want to let him go without getting a few answers of her own. “Where exactly was the truck abandoned?”