“Nope,” the tech said, peeling off her gloves and removing her mask.
There was a knock on the door, and Amanda opened it. In walked a man with a round, smooth face topped by heavy eyebrows and dark hair. He carried a half--inch--thick file folder under his arm.
“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Donati,” he said to Amanda.
As Amanda regarded him, her expression changed from open friendliness to visible dislike. When she turned again to Nessa, her smile returned.
“Thanks for coming in,” Amanda said, and then gave Nessa a look like Good luck with this jerk. Nessa prayed she was reading the tech wrong.
“Thank you, Amanda,” Nessa said as she exited the room.
The detective didn’t acknowledge Isabeau or Daltrey, just kept his eyes fixed on Nessa.
“I’m Detective Greg Dirksen.”
She looked at the gold badge on a lanyard around his neck.
G. Dirksen, it said. Homicide.
Nessa stared at the badge, a chill constricting her throat.
Homicide?
Out of her peripheral vision, she watched Isabeau’s mouth drop open.
“Mrs. Donati, I have a -couple of questions.” He set his file folder down on the counter and stepped closer to her.
Nessa didn’t answer for a moment, just gazed steadily at the detective. She was very familiar with this sort of subtle male physical intimidation. She put her hands on her hips and stood her ground for a count of five. Then she turned to Isabeau and said, “Could you take Daltrey out to the lobby and wait for me there?”
“Sure,” Isabeau said, looking concerned. She held out her hand to Daltrey, who took it, and followed her out the door.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” Nessa said, smiling her Mormon missionary homemaker smile.
“Do you own a gun, Mrs. Donati?”
The question came so fast her mouth started to form the answer before her brain caught up and stopped it. She cleared her throat. “Why do you ask?”
“Please answer the question. Do you own a gun?”
Of course she owned a gun. She’d purchased it recently, after John’s two nocturnal visits the week she’d tossed him out. She just hadn’t had the lady balls to learn to shoot it yet. She kept it in a box at the top of her closet.
Nessa composed her face, her facade starting to crack under the strain, but she maintained her smile. “Do you?”
Her motto when it came to cops was Avoid at all costs, and when that failed, Don’t make eye contact. And finally, Offer no information. Wait to be asked, and answer as succinctly, plainly, and respectfully as possible. But the number one rule was Don’t be a smartass. Never a good idea to antagonize a cop, but his brusque, disrespectful manner was bringing out the biker chick in her.
He just looked at her.
She pulled down her sleeves. She knew her rights and she knew she didn’t have to answer any questions. If he’d asked nicely, the way Detective Treloar had, he would have gotten his answer.
“I need to get my son home,” she said. “It’s his nap time.”
“Why won’t you answer the question?” He leaned toward her, giving her a hard stare.
She still stood her ground, but she began to shake. “Did you—-did you find my husband? Is that what this is about?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Then you’re not at liberty to interrogate me either,” she said. “Unless I’m under arrest. Am I under arrest?”
“It’s a simple question, Mrs. Donati.”
“So is mine.” She spoke slowly, no doubt antagonizing him further. “Am I under arrest?”
There was another knock at the door, and Detective Dirksen cracked it open so Nessa couldn’t see or hear who was outside it. That person whispered something and the detective hissed something back, obviously not pleased with the interruption. “Fine.” He turned his frown toward Nessa and said, “I’ll be right back.” He slipped out the door and closed it behind himself.
He’d left his folder on the counter.
Before she could think about it too hard, she opened the folder and saw the police report about the abandoned truck in the front. There were photos beneath more paper. After a split second of indecision, she pulled out her phone and started snapping photos of every page, turning each quickly, glancing at the door between snaps, trying to hear the terse conversation outside the door, but she couldn’t do both.
She wasn’t even seeing what she was photographing, so concentrated was she on the sounds outside, until the doorknob started to turn. She slammed the folder shut, reached for the faucet and turned on the water to give the appearance of being at the counter to wash her hands. As the door whooshed open, one of the papers slid from the folder and drifted to the floor.
“Guess I bumped it,” Nessa said breathlessly. “Sorry about that.”
Detective Dirksen watched the paper land at his feet, then looked at Nessa, suspicion etched into every feature of his face.
Nessa turned off the water and saw who the detective was trading tense words with. It was Rob Treloar.
“Well, hello, Detective,” she said with her warmest smile.
He smiled back while Dirksen continued to glower.