She clicked over to the next image. An overhead shot of the truck bed with dark streaks running parallel to the contours. She brought the computer close to her face. Was that mud?
She gasped, her sharp intake of breath sending her into a coughing fit, and let go of the laptop as if it were electrified.
That was blood.
Blood that would need to be compared to a DNA sample of a close relative.
Nessa clicked back a few to the photo of the interior truck sides. She now realized what she was looking at.
Two bullets.
Next to the arrow pointing to the slugs someone had handwritten .38 cal.
That was why Detective Dirksen asked if she owned a gun.
Monday, June 13
NESSA HARDLY SLEPT the next few nights, trying to come up with a plan to keep the police from fingerprinting her. As she flopped around in bed, she reasoned that the police would have no impetus to run her prints through NCIC. Why would they do that? They were just trying to eliminate any fingerprints they found on the boat as hers and therefore not a problem.
But then she thought . . . what if they lifted one of her fingerprints from the truck and ran that through NCIC accidentally? That. Would be. So. Bad.
She had to hope that there would be no usable prints of hers, and she tried to remember the last time she was in the truck. Her head felt like it would explode, her blood pressure was so high.
It was seven forty--five A.M. when she finally gave up and got out of bed. Since she’d only been asleep a few hours, Nessa tried to go back to sleep, but at eight on the dot, her default ringtone played. The Riley County Sheriff’s Department was calling.
She contemplated letting it go to voicemail, but she was only postponing the inevitable.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Donati? This is Detective Rob Treloar. How are you today?”
“Yes?” Her brains were so scrambled she couldn’t seem to answer appropriately.
“Good,” he said, as if she’d said, “Fine.” “I mean—-I wondered if I could come by this morning and talk to you about some things. I just have a few more questions.”
She was wary. “What is it?” she said, breathless.
“We’ll discuss it when I get there.” He cleared his throat. “So would about an hour from now be convenient? Would that work for you?”
“That’s fine,” she said. “See you then.” She was reminded of reality TV, where information couldn’t be revealed until after the commercial break. Dread filled her.
She went downstairs and found Isabeau and Daltrey in the kitchen. Her son sat on the floor, playing drums with wooden spoons on some old Tupperware bowls. He set down the spoons and gave her a big smile. He held his arms out, and she picked him up.
“Daltrey,” Nessa said. “Would you like to go to the park this morning?”
He signed “Yes” over and over again, squirming with joy in her arms.
“Can you go upstairs and put on your shoes?”
He nodded and ran for the stairs.
“Can you take him and come back by about eleven?” Nessa asked Isabeau.
“Sure,” Isabeau said. “You’re not coming with us?”
Nessa poured herself a cup of coffee, and tried to make her voice sound unconcerned. “Detective Treloar is coming out here to ask me some questions.”
“You sure you don’t want me here just in case?”
“Just in case what?”
“You know,” Isabeau said. “Police brutality.”
This comment made Nessa smile. “I think I’ll be all right. I’d prefer that Daltrey wasn’t here.”
“Got it,” Isabeau said.
The two of them drove away ten minutes later, and Nessa took a shower, got dressed, and sat in the living room.
At nine, the doorbell rang and she ran to it like she was anticipating a homecoming date. She opened the door, and there he stood, wearing a royal blue shirt and clashing tie. He must not be married, she figured. And then she saw that Detective Dirksen was with him.
“You’ve met Detective Dirksen, Mrs. Donati,” Detective Treloar said. She couldn’t read his expression, but he must have known Dirksen would be coming with him.
She felt betrayed, but put on her gracious hostess face and treated Dirksen with respect. No antagonizing him this time. She would be on her best behavior, cooperative and charming. Even though she was pretty sure she was now a “person of interest” in a possible homicide.
“How have you been?” she asked. “Come on in.” She ushered them inside.
“Thanks,” Treloar said, stepping over the threshold. Dirksen followed him, his eyes never leaving her. Dirksen was looking for a fight. He was probably always looking for a fight.
She pointed the detectives toward the couch in the living room. “Have a seat,” she said.
Treloar did, unbuttoning his jacket, but Dirksen remained standing, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Can I get you some coffee or water?” she said.
“Some water would be great, thanks,” Treloar said. Dirksen shook his head.