“I read your suicide blog and I tried to call you,” he said, “but it went to voicemail. So I called the cops and then came right over.”
“Thank you,” she said, and slid her arms around him. He didn’t say anything else, just held her tight. He only let go when the EMT handed her Daltrey, who was rubbing his eyes and looking around bewildered at all the -people in the house.
Joyce chattered away through all this activity, her wrists in handcuffs behind her back.
“This is a mistake,” she said. “Candy’s the one who should be arrested. She killed my daughter seven years ago. You should be thanking me. I did your job for you. Found her after all this time. You’re welcome.”
Everything that came out of her mouth sounded like TV drama dialogue. She couldn’t help herself.
Forty minutes later, Treloar and Dirksen appeared, disheveled after being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night.
“That’s my troll,” Nessa said to Detective Treloar. “She also happens to be my mother. Say hello, Mom.”
“I am not her mother,” Joyce said.
Treloar and Dirksen glanced at each other.
“And my brother, who also took part, is on his way to the hospital,” Nessa said.
“Wait,” Treloar said. “Can you start at the beginning?”
“I hope you don’t think I’m going to apologize,” Dirksen said. “ ’Cause it ain’t going to happen.”
Chapter Twenty--Six
Tuesday, July 5
NESSA WAS FINISHING up an email to her sponsors explaining that she’d be using guest bloggers for the next few weeks due to a family emergency when her phone rang.
“Mrs. Donati, this is Detective Rob Treloar. I wanted to give you an update on a -couple of things. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure,” she said, going to sit on the couch.
“We took Mrs. Gereben’s statement and Brandon’s statement.”
“All right,” Nessa said, steeling herself.
“To be honest with you, Mrs. Gereben’s story was pretty hard to follow, but what they’re both saying is that they found Mr. Donati hanging in the boathouse. The autopsy indicates that he died of asphyxiation, not gunshot wounds. When we were out there, I took samples of the beam in the boathouse and found rope fibers embedded in it, so I’m inclined to believe what they say.”
This filled Nessa with nothing but sadness. John had been so tortured by the drugs that he couldn’t go on. She knew exactly how he’d felt. Had felt it herself.
“The fact is,” Treloar said, “what we have here is not a murder, but a suicide and the criminal desecration of a corpse. And of course, your mom and brother will be charged with kidnapping, attempted murder, criminal trespass, and a few other things. You can call the district attorney to find out the whole list.”
“Thank you for everything, Detective,” Nessa said. “Would you say ‘I told you so’ to Detective Dirksen for me?”
“Probably not,” he said.
“Just as well,” she said.
Wednesday, July 20
NESSA HAD SPENT the last few weeks trying to decide what to do, but her mind kept circling back to “Do the next right thing.” She just couldn’t seem to escape it.
She sat in the scalding heat of evening and called Marlon. “I’ve come to a decision,” she said.
“And?”
“I’m going to turn myself in. We’re going to LA, and I’ve already got an appointment with the LA County district attorney. I think part of absolute honesty has to include owning up to everything I’ve done. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Marlon said nothing for a moment. He sighed. “I have a grudging admiration for this kind of pointless self--sacrifice.”
She smiled.
“When are you leaving?” he said.
“We’re flying out day after tomorrow. Once I make up my mind to do something, I want it done right then. You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I’m conflicted because though I know it’s the right thing to do, on the other hand, doing the right thing is often more appealing in theory than in fact. This is one of those times.”
“It is,” she said.
“You’re prepared to go to prison, if it comes to that?”
“Is anyone ever?”
“I suppose not. Who’s going to take care of Daltrey if you have to go away?”
“John’s folks will take him.” Still, anytime she thought of being away from Daltrey, she cried. She cried now.
“Well, if your mind’s made up.”
“It is.”
“I’ll be praying.”
“Thank you, Marlon.”
“Call me when it’s over. Remember to expect the miracle.”
“I’ll remember.”
Friday, July 22
NESSA, ISABEAU, AND Daltrey checked into the Super 8 on Sunset Boulevard, just a mile and a half from the DA’s office and three and a half miles from the Seventh Street Bridge.