She immediately regretted offering, because she’d have to leave the room, and she was afraid they’d go through her stuff, the way she herself had gone through Dirksen’s folder. But of course they wouldn’t. They were cops.
She got two chilled bottles of water from the refrigerator and returned to the living room, where she handed one to Treloar and sat down in the wingback chair. This was so she could keep an eye on Dirksen, who stood in the wide doorway behind her.
“It looks like you’re growing hops out there,” Treloar said, pointing out the back window.
“Yeah, we are,” she said. “Were.” She cleared her throat, trying to keep the tears at bay. “We’d planned to sell them to local craft brewers.”
“Wow,” he said. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Well, John was looking for a small crop that was worth a lot, and marijuana and poppies were out . . . So anyway, we figured all these buildings could be converted to storage and packaging and shipping and all that stuff. John was in charge of all that.”
“So I recorded your radio show the other night.”
She felt her face redden. “Oh, really?” she said, and tried to keep from glancing at Dirksen. She wondered if he meant the night she met Otto. She hoped so.
“It was really interesting,” Treloar said.
Nessa figured this was a little game of good cop/bad cop. Treloar was nice and personable, but before long, Dirksen was going to shine a light in her eyes and start yelling questions. Tension began building in her chest.
“We ran your husband’s name through NCIC and KCIC. We got a hit on NCIC. Seems your husband was arrested in Denver, is that correct?”
“Yes,” she said, her cheeks burning even hotter.
“Indecent exposure, disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, drug possession. Does that sound right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you know him then?”
“Yes.”
“We ran you through the computer database too,” Dirksen said, startling her.
Nessa held her breath and spots swam before her eyes.
“Clean as a whistle,” Treloar said.
She expelled her breath slowly.
Dirksen jumped in. “The reason we’re here—-”
“I’m sorry,” Nessa said. “First, I wondered if you all could look into something for me. I haven’t mentioned this to you, but I have a troll, and I think it might be someone I knew back in California. He was recently paroled.” She recounted the incidents online. Dirksen looked bored, but Treloar listened intently.
“What makes you believe he’s the troll?” Treloar asked. He pulled out his notebook and jotted down some notes.
She swallowed. “This guy raped a friend of mine back in California about eight years ago, and I testified against him at his trial. I think he may be trying to get back at me.”
Dirksen and Treloar glanced at each other.
“His name is Nathan Zimmer.” Saying it out loud produced a sour taste in her mouth.
Dirksen said, “I don’t think it’s—-”
“But it’s not only online harassment,” she said. “My dog was poisoned with antifreeze. I’m afraid maybe he’s come out here to harass me in person.”
“I’ll look into it,” Treloar said.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
Treloar and Dirksen traded glances again.
“So let’s talk about your husband,” Treloar said. “Did he have any enemies? Any -people he’d pissed off?”
“Well, you know how it is in the drug culture—-everybody’s always pissed off at everyone. I mean, it’s possible he pissed off a dealer, but—-”
“So you know quite a bit about the drug culture, do you, Mrs. Donati?” Dirksen asked.
Her right hand went automatically to the inside of her left elbow, and as soon as she realized what she was doing, she dropped her hands to her sides. “When you’ve got a drug addict for a husband,” she said, “it kind of comes with the territory.” She held his gaze until her eyes watered. But his face showed that he didn’t believe this was the whole truth.
“So, let’s continue our conversation from the other day,” Detective Dirksen said. “Do you own a gun?”
She was ready this time and answered smoothly. “I do.”
“Would you be willing to let us take a look at it? Maybe run a ballistics test?”
Why not? She didn’t have anything to hide. She went upstairs, got the gun, and found the registration papers for good measure.
“How long have you had this?” Dirksen asked.
“Just a month or so,” she said. “I’ve never actually fired it. I felt like I needed protection since my husband lost his mind.”
“May I?” he said.
She handed it to him, butt first.
He opened it, looked inside, then ejected the clip and emptied it.
“This is an eight--round mag, right?”
“I don’t know what it is,” she said, but then realized why he’d asked.
She counted five bullets. Her skin felt cold, bloodless. Why hadn’t she thought to check on the gun after she looked at the photos from the police file? Damn it.
Dirksen gave a smug, satisfied smile. “You want to explain this to me?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“Mrs. Donati?” Dirksen said. “Why are there three bullets missing?”