Body and Bone (8 page)

She had to stop picturing it, had to turn her mind away from it. She took three deep, slow breaths and forced herself to get up and drink a glass of water. She didn't know anything for sure yet. It was possible she was imagining it all wrong. Maybe the police wanted DNA in case they found anything. Or because he'd committed some crime. She preferred this line of thinking, because anger was energizing, and she needed energy to keep functioning.

The sun shone into the kitchen windows, and the very presence of light straightened her posture and helped her breathe more deeply. Maybe they'd go to the park today. After a cup of coffee, Nessa went out back to feed the dog.

“Declan MacManus!” she called.

He didn't run for her, didn't bark his “I'm coming, I'm coming, hold on, be right there” bark. He must be way off the property chasing pheasants or something. He'd be home when he was hungry or wanted to play ball.

She turned back toward the door when a large clump of crabgrass caught her eye, annoying her—­John wasn't here to maintain this sort of thing, and she wasn't going to do it. But as she got closer, she saw it wasn't a clump of grass, but a mound of fur.

She ran.

Declan MacManus lay on his side, not breathing, flies on his open, milky eyes. Dead.

Nessa fell to her knees and the flies scattered momentarily before going back to business. She looked him over, looking for blood, cuts, wounds, and noticed the remnant of a foamy substance on his mouth and nose. For a moment she wondered if it was rabies. But she'd played with him yesterday, and there'd been no sign of the disease. It wouldn't have killed him this fast.

Maybe it was one of the plants in the woods or he'd eaten something off the ground that was poisonous to dogs.

Nessa raised her head, tears rolling down her face, and looked around. These woods had always seemed friendly and welcoming to her, but now they appeared to be full of dark shadows and predators and poisonous plants. Even in the sultry morning, a chill covered her.

She went in and woke Isabeau, who, when she heard the news, ran outside in her underwear and cried over Declan MacManus's body.

“Oh, poor baby,” she said, and then before Nessa could stop her, Isabeau was hugging her into her shoulder. This was the first hug she'd received from someone other than Daltrey in months and it loosened something inside her.

Daltrey would be destroyed by this news. Declan MacManus had watched over the boy since birth, always a gentle presence, cuddling with him on his bed, picking up whatever Daltrey dropped, and returning it to him—­even food, like Nana the nursemaid dog in
Peter Pan
. Two huge losses in less than two months for a three-­year-­old would definitely have consequences.

“Isabeau, I need you to be here when Daltrey gets up, but I'll break the news to him when I get back from the vet, okay?”

“Nessa, he's dead,” Isabeau said. “There's no point in—­”

“We need to find out what killed him,” Nessa said.

“He was such a good dog,” Isabeau said, crying and ruffling his fur.

Nessa picked Declan MacManus up and put him in the Pacifica, and drove into town to the vet's office.

She waited for almost an hour before the vet came out, shaking her head. “It was antifreeze,” she said.

“No way it could've been rabies or anything like that, then,” Nessa said, her hopeful denial ebbing away.

“No. He must have found a spilled puddle in your garage.”

“Our garage has a dirt floor,” Nessa said.

“Do you have a fence?”

“No,” Nessa said. “We live on sixty acres. We just let him roam.”

“Do you have neighbors within running distance?”

“Yes.”

“He might have wandered into one of their garages. A lethal dose for a dog of Declan's size is only about a third of a cup. That's one of the reasons to keep your animals fenced. I'm so sorry for your loss. We can cremate the remains for you here, if you'd like.”

“Please,” Nessa said, crying bitter tears. Maybe she should try to find a replacement dog and bring him home before Daltrey got up from his nap, but he'd know. Of course he'd know. He was not a stupid little boy, and she could not try to fool him that way.

When Nessa returned home, she found she couldn't get out of the car. She was going to have to tell Daltrey, and she didn't know how to do it. She sat there for so long that Isabeau came out to the garage and knocked on the driver's side window, startling Nessa. She opened the door and got out of the Pacifica.

“You all right, boss?” Isabeau asked.

“No,” Nessa said. “I'm going to cry now.” Nessa burst into tears, and Isabeau reached for her, but Nessa wrapped her arms around herself and stepped away. A look of hurt crossed Isabeau's face.

“I need to tell Daltrey,” Nessa said, wiping her eyes.

“I'll help you,” Isabeau said.

They trudged toward the house and went into the living room, where Daltrey was constructing an elaborate tower out of Legos. He looked up, first at Nessa, then at Isabeau and back again. His eyebrows drew together. He knew something was wrong. He was such a smart kid; if he ever started talking, they were all in serious trouble.

“Daltrey,” Nessa said. “Come sit on my lap. I've got something to tell you.”

She sat on the couch and made the sign for “Come here.” He continued frowning and didn't move. He probably thought if he didn't sit on her lap, whatever bad news was coming could be held at bay.

“Come on, honey,” Nessa said. She signed “Come here” again.

He sighed, set down the Legos in his hands, and reluctantly came to sit on her lap.

Isabeau sat in the wingback chair, tense, ready to offer condolences.

“Daltrey, I need to tell you something.”

He nodded.

“Declan MacManus—­” Nessa couldn't go on. She'd almost said “ran away.” But that was unfair and untrue.

Daltrey nodded encouragingly at her.

“Sweetie, our good dog died this morning.”

He looked at Isabeau, confused, then at Nessa.

“With Daddy?” Daltrey signed.

Isabeau's mouth dropped open.

Daltrey's question was a spear through Nessa's heart. He knew something horrible had happened to his dad. But she wouldn't confirm that to him, couldn't.

“Well, Declan MacManus is in heaven now,” Nessa said. “We won't see him again in this . . . life. In this world.”

Large, fat teardrops fell from Daltrey's eyes. “Goodbye?” he signed.

Nessa nodded, and he slid his arms around her neck and cried.

“We'll see him again in heaven, a long time from now. But we will see him again. I promise.”

Nessa knew in her bones that this was just a warm-­up for another, more difficult conversation she'd be having with him very soon.

 

Chapter Eleven

Friday, June 10

T
HE NEXT MORN
ING,
she woke before anyone else and went down to the kitchen for coffee. She sat at the table, staring out the window at the hazy day, unable to work or read. When Daltrey got up, she busied herself making him pancakes.

Isabeau came down to breakfast, rubbing her eyes.

“I overslept,” she said.

“It's okay,” Nessa said. “It was a rough one yesterday.”

Isabeau nodded and reached into the cupboard for a plate.

“I'm sorry that you're having to be here through all this shit,” Nessa said. “I'm grateful you're with us though.”

Isabeau smiled sadly at her and poured herself a cup of coffee before sitting down to dig into her pancakes.

“I have to take Daltrey down to the cop shop to get a cheek swab,” Nessa said. “Do you want to go with us?”

“Cheek swab?” Isabeau looked shocked.

This was good. Having someone else to calm down always helped Nessa stay calm herself.

“No big deal,” she said.

“Yeah, I'll go,” Isabeau said. “I've never been in a police station on purpose.”

Nessa looked at her, alarmed.

“Just kidding,” Isabeau said, winking. “Actually, my dad was a cop.”

Nessa didn't react. Typically, ­people would respond with a tidbit from their own past, but this was not that kind of relationship, and Nessa needed to keep it that way.

Nessa showered and put on her makeup. She hoped to ask Detective Treloar if there was any way he could find out Nathan's whereabouts. If he'd checked in with his parole officer recently. If it was possible for him to travel outside of the state at this point in his parole.

After putting on a long-­sleeved almost matronly white dress, Nessa peeked into Daltrey's room, where he sat on his toddler bed looking at a board book.

“Let's get you dressed, and then we can get a bacon, egg, and Gouda sandwich at Starbucks, huh? And then, guess what?” She made her voice excited to get him excited. “We get to go to the police station.”

His eyes got wide and his mouth made a silent, round O.

He jumped from bed, pulled open his dresser drawer, and selected an outfit consisting of swim trunks and an old bib that said
Bad to the Bone
.

“How about instead . . .” Nessa said, pulling out shorts and a T-­shirt.

When he was dressed, she pointed at the book and said, “Do you want to bring that in the car?” He stuck it under his arm and followed her out to the Pacifica, where Isabeau was waiting.

They drove on Highway 177 North to 18 West, ate at Starbucks, then headed toward their final destination.

“There's the police station, Daltrey, isn't that cool?” Isabeau said, pointing at the nondescript tan brick-­and-­glass building.

Isabeau was so good, so natural, with Daltrey, so unlike Nessa before she'd had a child of her own. She wouldn't have known what to say to someone else's kid.

“You'll get to meet some police officers,” Nessa said. “What do you think about that?”

She parked in the west lot and got Daltrey out of his car seat. He smiled and took her hand as they walked into the station. It echoed inside.

There was a female cop at the front desk.

“I can't remember the name of who I need to talk to,” Nessa said, her voice tremulous as sweat rolled down her sides, tickling. Unlike Isabeau, she'd been brought to a police station in handcuffs more than once. “My name is Nessa Donati, and I'm here to have a cheek swab done on my son. Detective . . .”

Her mind went blank. What was his damned name?

The woman behind the desk smiled encouragingly at her.

“His name starts with
T
, I think . . .”

“Detective Rob Treloar,” the officer said. “Is that who you need to see?”

Nessa nodded, wiping the rest of her makeup off. Daltrey stared silently up at her.

“Detective Treloar got pulled out on a call, but we can have a tech do it. Have a seat.”

She, Isabeau, and Daltrey went to the waiting area and sat. Daltrey climbed into the chair next to Nessa and held her hand, staring solemnly ahead, like a priest at a wake. She patted his hand and handed him his book. He crossed his legs at the ankle, his feet straight out in front of him, and looked over his book like a little old man reading the
New York Times Book Review
, licking his index finger to turn the pages like his dad did when reading a magazine. Her breath caught in her throat.

“He is so freaking adorable,” Isabeau said.

Twenty minutes later, a female technician in a lab coat came out and said, “Mrs. Donati?”

Nessa stood and Daltrey followed suit.

“Here for a buccal swab?” she said.

“I'm sorry, I don't—­”

“Cheek swab. For DNA. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

They followed her down a hall. As they walked, she said over her shoulder, “I'm Amanda. We're in there.” She led them into a small room where she told them to have a seat. While Amanda washed her hands in the stainless steel sink, she said, “What's your name?”

Daltrey looked at Nessa, who said, “His name is Daltrey.”

“How old are you, Daltrey?”

“He's three,” Isabeau chimed in.

The tech looked at Nessa suspiciously. “Can't he talk?”

“No,” Nessa said.

“Oh,” Amanda said. “Sorry.” Then to Daltrey: “Is your mouth empty, honey? You chewing gum, or did you have a snack in the last fifteen minutes?”

He shook his head and opened his mouth to show her.

“Well, he seems to understand what I'm saying.”

“He does,” Nessa said, hoping she wouldn't have to explain.

“Okay, Daltrey, here's what's going to happen. This isn't going to hurt at all. In fact, it might tickle a little, okay?” She put on gloves. “I need to put these on and a mask to keep everything nice and clean, but it's still me under here, all right?”

Daltrey nodded, watching her closely.

She slipped the mask on over her nose and mouth, then tore open a paper pouch and carefully removed a long swab.

“Now,” she said, her voice muffled by the mask, “I need to make sure that this swab doesn't touch anything else besides your mouth, okay? I'm going to need you to open your mouth as big as you possibly can, bigger than you ever did before.”

Isabeau demonstrated by opening her mouth wide.

“Just like she's doing right now, okay? Can you do that?”

He nodded and opened wide.

“Now I'm going to touch this cotton end to the inside of your cheek and roll it around. I need you to be a big boy and keep your mouth nice and wide until I'm all done. Got it?”

He nodded, his mouth still open.

Amanda gently touched the swab to the inside of Daltrey's cheek and rotated it for about ten seconds. Nessa could tell that it did indeed tickle, because his nostrils flared and his lips were trying to curve into a smile, but he was brave and held his mouth open. The tech withdrew the swab, taking care not to touch the end to his teeth, lips, or tongue, then placed the swab into a tube, which she then corked with a rubber stopper.

“That's all there is to it, young man,” she said, removing her mask. “How was that?”

He kissed the fingers of his right hand and slapped it into his left.

“He says, ‘Good,' ” Nessa explained.

Amanda smiled.

“Any idea why they need a DNA sample?” Nessa said, trying to sound casual.

“Nope,” the tech said, peeling off her gloves and removing her mask.

There was a knock on the door, and Amanda opened it. In walked a man with a round, smooth face topped by heavy eyebrows and dark hair. He carried a half-­inch-­thick file folder under his arm.

“I'd like to speak with Mrs. Donati,” he said to Amanda.

As Amanda regarded him, her expression changed from open friendliness to visible dislike. When she turned again to Nessa, her smile returned.

“Thanks for coming in,” Amanda said, and then gave Nessa a look like
Good luck with this jerk.
Nessa prayed she was reading the tech wrong.

“Thank you, Amanda,” Nessa said as she exited the room.

The detective didn't acknowledge Isabeau or Daltrey, just kept his eyes fixed on Nessa.

“I'm Detective Greg Dirksen.”

She looked at the gold badge on a lanyard around his neck.

G. Dirksen
, it said.
Homicide.

Nessa stared at the badge, a chill constricting her throat.

Homicide?

Out of her peripheral vision, she watched Isabeau's mouth drop open.

“Mrs. Donati, I have a ­couple of questions.” He set his file folder down on the counter and stepped closer to her.

Nessa didn't answer for a moment, just gazed steadily at the detective. She was very familiar with this sort of subtle male physical intimidation. She put her hands on her hips and stood her ground for a count of five. Then she turned to Isabeau and said, “Could you take Daltrey out to the lobby and wait for me there?”

“Sure,” Isabeau said, looking concerned. She held out her hand to Daltrey, who took it, and followed her out the door.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” Nessa said, smiling her Mormon missionary homemaker smile.

“Do you own a gun, Mrs. Donati?”

The question came so fast her mouth started to form the answer before her brain caught up and stopped it. She cleared her throat. “Why do you ask?”

“Please answer the question. Do you own a gun?”

Of course she owned a gun. She'd purchased it recently, after John's two nocturnal visits the week she'd tossed him out. She just hadn't had the lady balls to learn to shoot it yet. She kept it in a box at the top of her closet.

Nessa composed her face, her facade starting to crack under the strain, but she maintained her smile. “Do
you
?”

Her motto when it came to cops was
Avoid at all costs
, and when that failed,
Don't make eye contact
. And finally,
Offer no information
. Wait to be asked, and answer as succinctly, plainly, and respectfully as possible. But the number one rule was
Don't be a smartass
. Never a good idea to antagonize a cop, but his brusque, disrespectful manner was bringing out the biker chick in her.

He just looked at her.

She pulled down her sleeves. She knew her rights and she knew she didn't have to answer any questions. If he'd asked nicely, the way Detective Treloar had, he would have gotten his answer.

“I need to get my son home,” she said. “It's his nap time.”

“Why won't you answer the question?” He leaned toward her, giving her a hard stare.

She still stood her ground, but she began to shake. “Did you—­did you find my husband? Is that what this is about?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Then you're not at liberty to interrogate me either,” she said. “Unless I'm under arrest. Am I under arrest?”

“It's a simple question, Mrs. Donati.”

“So is mine.” She spoke slowly, no doubt antagonizing him further. “Am I under arrest?”

There was another knock at the door, and Detective Dirksen cracked it open so Nessa couldn't see or hear who was outside it. That person whispered something and the detective hissed something back, obviously not pleased with the interruption. “Fine.” He turned his frown toward Nessa and said, “I'll be right back.” He slipped out the door and closed it behind himself.

He'd left his folder on the counter.

Before she could think about it too hard, she opened the folder and saw the police report about the abandoned truck in the front. There were photos beneath more paper. After a split second of indecision, she pulled out her phone and started snapping photos of every page, turning each quickly, glancing at the door between snaps, trying to hear the terse conversation outside the door, but she couldn't do both.

She wasn't even seeing what she was photographing, so concentrated was she on the sounds outside, until the doorknob started to turn. She slammed the folder shut, reached for the faucet and turned on the water to give the appearance of being at the counter to wash her hands. As the door whooshed open, one of the papers slid from the folder and drifted to the floor.

“Guess I bumped it,” Nessa said breathlessly. “Sorry about that.”

Detective Dirksen watched the paper land at his feet, then looked at Nessa, suspicion etched into every feature of his face.

Nessa turned off the water and saw who the detective was trading tense words with. It was Rob Treloar.

“Well, hello, Detective,” she said with her warmest smile.

He smiled back while Dirksen continued to glower.

“Hi,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“Holding on,” she said. “Can you answer a simple question for me?”

“I can try,” Treloar said.

“Why is this homicide detective interrogating me about whether or not I own a gun? Was my husband murdered?”

Treloar's eyes shifted away from her for a microsecond. “We're keeping all possibilities open.”

A roaring filled Nessa's ears. Was it possible that John hadn't killed himself? That someone else had?

She cleared her throat. “Is that why you need a sample of DNA?”

Treloar nodded. “For comparison purposes.”

“Comparison to what?”

Dirksen said, “Mrs. Donati—­”

“Why won't you answer my questions?”

“Because this is an open investigation.”

She stared at Dirksen, then addressed Treloar.

“Did you find John?”

“No,” he said.

Dirksen shot him a grimace.

“May I leave?” Nessa asked him.