Look Closer

“It’s been years,” I say. “Many, many years.”

“Have you been back since Lauren joined?”

“I didn’t know Lauren was a member,” I say. “And I don’t know how long she’s been back in town.”

Nice try, Jane.

“Her friends tell us she went to the club almost every day,” says Jane. “Tennis, golf, lunch.”

“How nice for her,” I say.

“So you haven’t spoken to Lauren since she came back to Chicago, to Grace Village?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You haven’t been inside her house?”

I laugh. “Give me a break.”

“Is that a ‘no,’ Simon?”

“That’s a ‘no.’”

“So you just let it go, her coming back? This woman stole all your family’s money and basically caused the death of your mother.”

“Yes, I am well aware of what Lauren did, believe me. It’s not the most enjoyable thing to revisit.”

She puts up her hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just have to cross every ‘t’ and dot every ‘i’ here, you understand.”

“Then cross whatever ‘t’ you need to cross, and dot whatever ‘i,’ and be done with it.”

“Got it. Will do. So just to be clear.” She puts her hands together, steers them toward me. “You have never set foot inside Lauren Betancourt’s house?”

“Correct.” My hands still. My knees still. My feet still. Arms not crossed.

“So there would be no reason for us to find your fingerprints inside that house.”

“I can’t imagine how my fingerprints would be inside that house.”

Also true. I wore gloves the whole time I was in there. So did Christian, I assume, at least from what I could see.

“But feel free to check,” I add. “If you’d like to print me, I’d be willing.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I’m offering. Really. A DNA swab, too. The whole works. We can go down to the station right now—”

“We already have your fingerprints, Simon. And your DNA.”

Her partner, Andy Tate, looks up from notes he’s scribbling, as if surprised that Jane just revealed that to me.

“Oh. Oh, okay.” I sit back. “St. Louis P.D., right? Okay, now I’m getting the picture. Well, I guess you guys think you have this all figured out, then. I killed my father and then, all these years later, I killed Lauren. ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,’ is that it?”

“I don’t suppose you made any phone calls to your therapist the morning after Halloween,” she says.

I clap my hands, mock applause. “So you actually think I did this?” I say. “You think I killed Lauren?”

“I think you’re a very smart guy who takes his time before he does anything,” she says.

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s a compliment.”

How far along are these cops, anyway? It’s Thursday. The third day of the investigation. Have they found Nick’s body yet?

“Do you know someone named Christian Newsome?” she asks.

That answers that question.

“No.”

“What about Nick Caracci?”

“No.”

“Can I ask what size shoe you wear, Simon?”

“My . . . shoe size?” I might as well act surprised by that question. “Uh, well—usually ten and a half or eleven.”

Not thirteen!

“You spend much time in the Bucktown/Wicker Park area?” she asks.

“Not so much these days, no. But I run all over the city. I definitely run through that area sometimes. I mix it up.”

“You been there recently? Like, y’know, the Milwaukee-Damen-North area. Right around there. When was the last time you were there?”

“I . . . I don’t remember.”

“Were you there within the last week? You’d remember that.”

“I don’t remember being there within the last week,” I say. “I suppose it’s possible. If I knew it would be important, I’d have kept a journal or something.”

(I like to amuse myself, even if it’s a private joke.)

“You run much, Jane?”

“Me? These days? Nah. The only exercise I get is when I jump to conclusions, right?”

I smile. “Then you must be getting some exercise right now.”

She bows her head a bit. “Touché. But, Simon, back to Wicker Park—you run through there, you said. You don’t stop there? Hang out? Grab a beer? Anything like that?”

“I run through there. I don’t stop and grab a beer.”

“Ever stop?” she says. “Like, say, around North and Winchester? Or maybe Wabansia and Winchester?”

“I don’t know Winchester,” I say. “I know North Avenue. Wabansia’s right around there, I know.”

“You don’t know Winchester?”

“No, I don’t. Is that one of those side streets?”

“You ever stop right around Winchester, between Wabansia and North, and send text messages from a burner phone?”

“Whoa,” I say. “That’s specific. Sounds like you’ve got a whole theory going. What’s the theory?”

“Just asking you a question, Simon.”

“No, you’re not. You want me to know you have a theory. So let’s hear it. What did I do, criminal mastermind that I am?” I scoot forward in my chair, lean toward her. “Did I spike my own Gatorade?”

She waits me out.

“You get together with those cops from St. Louis,” I say, “before long, you’ll accuse me of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. Did I kill JFK, too, and pin it on Lee Harvey Oswald?”