“You think he slept around during his marriage?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he dated someone after his divorce, before he met Janet. Can you find out for me?”
“I’m on it,” Lou said.
When he left, I turned my attention back to the files. As I read the details in the police reports, the same thought kept running through my head: If I do nothing, a couple of years from now this could be Janet, or even Kimberly.
I could not believe Janet was planning to marry this bozo.
I remembered something Kimberly said a month ago when she told me about her mom’s engagement. She said she didn’t believe her mom was in love with Chapman.
“Why would she marry a guy she doesn’t love?” I’d asked.
“I think Mom would rather be unhappy than lonely.”
The state capitol building in Charleston, West Virginia, is composed of buff Indiana limestone. Its dome rises 293 feet high and is gilded in 23.5-karat gold leaf. I was standing directly below it, in the capitol rotunda, staring at the statue of Senator Robert C. Byrd when I heard her high heels clopping across the marble floor.
Alison David.
“Call me Ally,” she said, extending her hand.
I shook her hand and introduced myself.
“So,” she said, “what do you think of our capitol building?”
Ally David had on a navy jacket with three-quarter sleeves and a matching pencil skirt. Her satin tank top featured a scoop neckline that offered the promise of superb cleavage. It took some effort not to drool while admiring the way she put her clothes together.
“Impressive,” I said. “But I’m confused about the statue.”
“How so?”
“Well, I know you can’t toss a cat in West Virginia without hitting a building that has his name on it,” I said. “But I thought you had to be dead at least fifty years before you got a statue.”
She smiled and gave me a wink. “We West Virginians have a pact with Senator Byrd. He sends us the pork, and we let him name the pigs.”
Alison David was the type of career woman who, without saying or doing anything out of the ordinary, gave the impression she was a creature of heightened sexuality. I wondered if this was a natural phenomenon or something she had purposely cultivated.
“Is it just me,” I said, “or does it appear your illustrious senator’s hand is pointing directly at my pocket?”
She forced a half smile, but I could tell I was losing her. Small talk isn’t my strong suit. “So,” I said, “where are you taking us for lunch?”
“Someplace close,” she said.
