“There’s no indication that your husband is responsible,” Dirksen said.
“But someone is. Someone came into my home. Held a gun on me. Threatened my life with my three--year--old son in the next room.” She shouldn’t have said that last bit, because she was afraid she was going to cry, and she could not cry in front of this asshole.
“Lady, that’s not my case. Your husband’s disappearance is.”
Lady. Baby. Honey. Dismissive terms for hysterical women like her.
She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to turn Brady in, but if ever there was a time to break a promise, this was it.
“Listen,” she said. “I found out that the locksmith who changed our locks actually sold the keys to John. Twice.”
Dirksen again leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms but said nothing.
He didn’t believe her. Or maybe, more accurately, didn’t want to.
“Detective Dirksen,” she said, trying to keep her voice even and reasonable. “Do you have some sort of problem with me?”
He regarded her. “Listen, Mrs. Donati. I skimmed some of your blog and I can see why you kind of irritate some -people.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What?”
“You’re pretty sarcastic. Some -people find that offensive.”
Sarcastic like Howard Stern? Like Perez Hilton? If she were a man, this attribute would be a million--dollar asset. But since she was a woman, she was shrill, abrasive, bossy, strident, high--maintenance. Nessa would not rise to this bait. She would stay on topic. She would be the rational one. “But what does that have to do with—-”
“My point is,” Dirksen said, warming to his lecture, “that if you’re going to put yourself out there with a superior attitude and everything, you’re going to attract some negative attention. If you were a little nicer, I’m sure this just wouldn’t even be an issue.”
“Nicer.”
“Yes,” Dirksen said, a smile curling his lips. “More . . . ladylike.”
Her skin prickled with heat. Rage bubbled up inside her. No. She wasn’t going to just sit here and take this. He’d gone way too far. “You know, a blow job isn’t very ladylike, but I’ll bet you never complain about that.”
His fleetingly shocked expression gratified her. But then he masked his response and parried. He leaned forward, his hands on the table. “This is exactly why you will never get any respect. You come on all rough and tough, but the minute someone says something you don’t like, you come crying to the men.”
“Wow,” she said, so incensed her anger doubled back on itself, making her calm once more. “I don’t even know what to say, except that I’m guessing you’re not really going to be any help here.”
He threw his hands up. “If you want to report the locksmith, you need to talk to Detective Treloar. Not me.”
“You’re not going to look for John?”
“We did. In the lake. His body is probably caught in the trees and buildings over by the cove,” he said. “We can’t send divers down there. Too dangerous. But I can pretty much guarantee that Mr. Donati is dead. No credit card activity, no phone activity. He’s dead as a doornail.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Is it possible, Mrs. Donati, that you’re just throwing crap at the wall, hoping something will stick to . . . cover something else up?”
“Like what exactly?” Nessa said.
“Like . . . when we finally get the DNA tests back, you know what we’re going to find? We’re going to find that your son’s DNA is a familial match to the blood and tissue we found embedded in the side of the pickup truck along with the bullets from your gun.”
He sat back and watched her face, waiting for her to shrivel up, to react. But for once, she was stone. No sweat, no tears, no shaking. Because she hadn’t shot John.
Dirksen leaned forward again and lowered his voice. “We’re going to find out that you killed your crackhead husband, and even though you did the whole world a favor, you’re going to prison for a long, long time.”
She stood, willing herself not to wobble or swallow. “John’s alive, Detective Dirksen, and I guess I’m going have to find him myself. I’m going to look in the crack houses in Manhattan and Junction City, and when I find him, I’m going to blog about how the Riley County Sheriff’s Office wouldn’t help a desperate single mother.” She turned and walked out of the interview room.
She was a suspect, she knew that for sure now, but since they wouldn’t find a body, it would be very difficult to prosecute her for murder. If this guy had anything to say about it though, they would convene a grand jury, and she would be tried and convicted. Nessa would not only lose custody of her son, she would spend the rest of her days in prison for something she didn’t do.
Oh, the irony.
Tuesday, June 21
NESSA RECEIVED AN email from Ella the KCMA receptionist:
Package here for you . . . should I lock it up or do you want to come get it?