When she grabbed Dalton’s gloved hand, the doctor wanted to rip it out of her clasp and strangle her right there, but he needed to control himself.
A knock on his door startled Dalton. Evelyn Courtland walked in, and behind her was Detective Markum. Christ Almighty. Dalton’s stomach soured for a moment before confidence kicked in. They’ll never catch me.
“Chanel, if you’ll excuse us. I think it would be best if we wait until after the baby is born before I fix your scars. I don’t work on pregnant women. Promise me you’ll see a family doctor to check out the health of your unborn child.”
Her lips turned downward. The bitch better not cry. “Okay. Thank you, Doctor.”
When she left, Dalton faced the detective. “What can I do for you?”
“What can you tell me about Nancy Donello-Sanchez?”
Nancy? Be cool. The detective can’t know what happened. He was fishing. “Evelyn can tell you more than I can. She worked with Nancy for years, right, Evelyn?” If my stupid nephew fucked up this job, I’ll personally strangle him.
Evelyn’s face pinched. She was sour personified.
“The detective wants to know her from your perspective. After all, you understand these women better than anyone.”
Flatterer. “I’ll try. Nancy first came to me about, oh I don’t know, two years ago? Her husband, now her ex-husband, had savagely beaten her, and my heart ached for her. You know I do this work,” the doctor waved around the office, “pro bono?”
“Yes, Evelyn told me. The community is in your debt.”
Patronizing asshole. Don’t let him get under your skin. “Nancy had massive facial contusions, a broken jaw, and I believe a broken collarbone.” The detective wrote down every damned word.
“After you repaired the damage, did you see her again?”
Clever man. “Yes. Maybe four months ago. I can’t tell you the exact date. I’d have to consult my calendar back at the office.”
“And why did Nancy come to you this last visit?”
“What is this all about?” Dalton succeeded in sounding both put out and concerned.
“Nancy Donello-Sanchez is dead. She was shot once in the head.”
“Oh my God.” Dalton slid onto the seat. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“I’m here to see if you’d know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”
Take your time. Think. “Nancy seemed to attract abusive men. Her latest boyfriend–I can’t recall his name–was no exception.”
“Ron Whipley.”
“You’ve spoken with him?” Dalton placed both palms flat on the desk to show no fear.
“Yes, but we don’t think he had anything to do with her death.”
“Oh? Why come to me then?”
They locked gazes, but Dalton didn’t flinch.
“May we have a copy of Nancy’s records?”
“Sure. Stop by my office. I’ll have Mary Ellen pull them for you.”
“Thank you. You might hear from me again.”
“Any time, Detective.”
The detective was halfway out the door, when he swiveled around. “I forgot to ask. Do you know a Willie Wyble?”
Shit. Dalton took in a deep breath and rapidly tapped a finger on the desk. “Wyble. I don’t believe so. I mostly deal with women.”
“Where were you Thursday night?”
The night Willie died. “At the symphony. Why?”
“We found Willie Wyble dead Friday morning.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“No. Just asking.” The detective rubbed his temple. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“What?”
The detective repeated the question.
“A 9C, why?”
“We found some footprints near a crime scene. Just playing Cinderella. Good day.”
Cinderella? The cop was a whack job. But a smart whack job. He was someone who needed watching.
23
Chanel’s body spasmed as her unborn child jerked, forcing her to grab the kitchen counter to steady herself. Bile rose up her throat. At four and a half months, she should be over the queasiness, or so her friends had claimed. These same friends had drilled into her she shouldn’t take any medication during pregnancy, but her stomach hurt. Bad.
If only her momma were still alive, she could have told her what to do. And Gabe? He should have been home by now. Then he could have driven her to the hospital.
Crap. Why hadn’t he come home for dinner? Or called. Stupid man. He was probably gambling or out boffing some slut he’d picked up on Kennedy Avenue. If Chanel wasn’t carrying his child, she’d consider leaving her old man.
Another pain stabbed her gut, causing tears to drip down her cheek. If she didn’t get help now, her baby was sure to make an unwanted entrance. She couldn’t wait for her no-good husband to get back.
An ache made her back arch. This wasn’t good. Chanel grabbed her purse, slipped into her car, and headed toward the Emergency Room. If she’d called an ambulance, Gabe would have hit her for sure. They couldn’t afford no fancy care, he’d said.
Her momma had claimed her aches and pains came from nerves. It was always nerves, but maybe her momma was right this time. When Chanel found out she’d have to wait another six months before getting her scars fixed, she’d cried the whole way home. Scars she never should have gotten in the first place. If she hadn’t made Gabe so mad that one time when he was drunk, he wouldn’t have beaten her to a pulp.
Chanel’s stomach soured. Damn hormones.
Her car clipped a cinder block someone had tossed on the side of the road, and her heart jetted into overdrive. Pay attention, girl. With her focus back on the road, she wove her way through the trailer park. Lights blazing, Mildred was on her front porch knitting something—probably another doggie vest. The old woman waved, but Chanel could only manage a nod.
She pulled out of the park onto the near empty thoroughfare and pushed the accelerator hard. Another wave of nausea blasted her, but she kept her full attention on the street. As she rounded the first curve, headlights flashed in her rearview mirror.
She looked up. It was too dark to see the make of the car. “What the hell could he want?” she mumbled. She was going over the speed limit as it was. Could that be Gabe behind her? She slowed a bit.
The lights flashed again. The unidentified car pulled real close behind her and honked. She accelerated. “What are you doing, mister? I don’t have time to stop and chat.” Her heart sped up. “Crazy bastard,” she muttered. Oh shit. Maybe it was the police. She slowed again.
The car following her pulled along her left side—in the oncoming lane. It didn’t look like no police car. Was the man insane? She looked ahead. Thank you, Lord, no car was coming toward them.
She gripped the wheel hard, taking the next turn too fast, her tire running over the grass berm. She jerked back to the pavement and blew out a long breath. On the straightaway, she peeked to her left. He was still there. All she could see was someone waving her over. She slowed.
“For God’s sake.”
Oh, crap. Was gas leaking out of her tank or something? Was she about to blow up? Gabe said once they had some money, she should have her car looked at. Three years was too long to go without a service call.
A strobe light flashed in his dash. Damn. It was the police in an unmarked car. She didn’t need no ticket. Her pulse raced, and the baby acted up again. Chanel slowed and pulled off to the side but left the engine running. She reached for her cell phone to call Gabe, but she couldn’t find it in the bottom of her messy purse.
The man got out of his car and shined a flashlight in her eyes. She squinted.
“Roll down your window, please.”
Something deep inside told her not to do what he asked. Her hand stalled on the handle.
He slapped his palm on the window. “Open up.”
Definitely not Gabe. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was wearing a suit and tie, like a detective might wear. She needed to get this over with and on her way. The police were safe.