Look Closer

“We’ll let you know when we’re done,” says Andy.

Inside the office of Newsome Capital Growth, suite 1320. The place does not look as if it’s prepared to be receiving visitors.

“Looks like ol’ Nick had travel plans,” Andy summarizes.

The place has been cleaned out. On the reception desk, dust lines form a square shape, presumably where a computer once sat. A power cord juts out from beneath the desk. On the carpet underneath the desk, heavy indentations, a rectangular shape, presumably where the computer’s mainframe or hard drive once sat. The drawers behind the reception area have been rifled through and largely emptied out.

“Computer’s gone, files are gone,” says Andy. “He removed all trace of himself.”

“Or of someone else,” she says. “That sound like someone who’s about to commit suicide? I mean, what does he care what we find about his con artist career, or Lauren, for that matter, if he’s going to eat a bullet?”

“I hear you, but . . .” Andy closes the drawers, wearing gloves in case they want to check the place for prints. “Maybe he knew he was going to kill her, and he wanted to erase all evidence of her from this office. Maybe the suicide wasn’t planned, Jane. He has some belts of bourbon, some tranquilizers, he’s feeling remorseful and emotional, suddenly putting that gun under his chin sounds like a good idea. You can’t discount that possibility.”

“No, I can’t,” she concedes. Andy’s right. That’s all possible. “But I don’t like it.”

They check out the one major office, an impressive office at that—Nicholas Caracci’s attempt to be “Christian Newsome,” the wealthy, super-smart investor. A wet bar in the corner and cushy couch. Electronic banners scrolling indices from the Dow Jones, the Nasdaq, and the Nikkei. Flat-screen TVs on the wall. A massive, sleek metal desk. Expensive rugs. He definitely looked the part.

But nothing in the drawers. Nothing in the cabinets. No computer anywhere.

No signs of who was here or what they did.

—

They find the building manager down in the lobby.

“Anything else I can do for you, Sergeant Burke?” he says, on his best behavior. Most people are when the cops come a-calling.

“We appreciate your help,” says Jane. “We’re just going to need one more thing. You keep visitors’ logs?”

—

Jane and Andy walk through a low gate and pass through a small garden in front of the walk-up to the three-flat in Lincoln Park. Jane finds the button next to the name Fielding.

“You still don’t believe it,” Jane says to Andy.

“I’m not saying that. I’m keeping an open mind.”

“Okay, partner.” She pushes the button, a buzz following.

“Hello?” a voice squawks through the speaker.

“Emily Fielding?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Jane Burke. I am a police officer in Grace Village. You’re not in any trouble, don’t worry,” she quickly adds. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the guy you work for, Christian Newsome.”

93 Simon

“Lead the way,” says Gavin, though I will need to remember not to call him that. “Special Agent John Crane” was the name he gave.

“We can sit right in here,” I say.

I show him into my living room, the first room you see when you enter the house, by my mother’s design. I wasn’t allowed in this room when I was a child. We hardly came in here. My parents would have dinner parties and would end up in this room for coffee and dessert. The furniture hasn’t changed since that time.

The couch is stiff, last I checked, so I direct him there and sit in one of the individual chairs, with its outdated velvet cushion. Or who knows, maybe fashion has come full circle, and this is the latest thing.

“So tell me how I can help,” I say.

Up close, Gavin is a little scarier than I remembered. I’d seen him on Christian’s balcony a couple of times, but I didn’t get a look at him up close. He’s thick in the neck, shoulders, and chest, and his eyes are set like a predator’s. He reminds me, more than anyone, of that wrestler, Mitchell Kitchens.

“Do you know a man named Christian Newsome, Mr. Dobias?”

I look up, like I’m pondering. “No, never heard the name.”

“What about Nick Caracci?”

I open my hands. “No.”

“Lauren Betancourt? You know her, don’t you, Mr. Dobias?”

That’s not very good procedure. A real FBI agent, not someone posing as one, would have asked that open-ended, innocently. Give me a chance to give the wrong answer, so they could slap me with a 1001 charge for lying to a federal agent.

“I would say I did know Lauren,” I answer.

“Why the past tense? Because she was recently murdered?”

Again, Gavin, bad form—don’t feed me that answer; give me some rope with which to hang myself. (Pardon the pun.)

“Past tense,” I say, “because I have not spoken to Lauren for nineteen years.”

Gavin, trying for the stone-faced, by-the-book special agent, jerks in his position, which is funny to see from someone sitting down. “You haven’t spoken to Lauren for nineteen years?”