Look Closer

How? How do they have her name? The bogus “divorce petition” I wrote up for Vicky to show Christian? An entry from my bogus journal? Did Christian take photos of those on his phone? Vicky was sure he didn’t—but maybe she missed something—

“Something wrong, Simon?” Jane asks. “You seem a little . . . hot under the collar. Upset.”

“Are you upset, Simon?” says Andy Tate.

“No, I’m . . . curious, I guess. You’re throwing out all these names without telling me anything else.”

“That’s true.” Jane slaps her hands on her knees. “Okay, I guess I can fill in a few blanks.”

I sit like a casual listener, though I feel anything but casual right now.

“Nick is this real handsome guy,” says Jane. “And successful. A financial investor type of guy. He’s in a relationship with Vicky. We know they had sex in Nick’s office downtown. They all but kicked out the receptionist one afternoon, sent her home early. And before the receptionist was out the door, she was already hearing some interesting sounds coming from that office.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding along. “And what about this Vicky person?”

“Vicky wants Lauren Betancourt dead,” says Jane.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Eh.” Jane lifts her shoulders. “One of two reasons. Not sure which. One is that Nick started up with Lauren, too. He cheated on Vicky. So she killed Lauren, framed Nick for it, then killed Nick. Made it look like Nick committed suicide out of remorse.”

“Pretty extreme,” I say.

“It does sound extreme, Simon, doesn’t it?” she says, a tone that borders on mocking. “Which is why I’m not a big fan of that theory. I like my other theory better.”

“Yeah? What’s your other theory, Jane?”

“That Vicky was teamed up with someone else who wanted Lauren dead,” she says, looking me square in the eye. “Maybe, for example, because Lauren wrecked his family and caused the death of his mother. Someone like that, Simon.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. “You have a vivid imagination.”

“Not that vivid. Just following the facts.”

“Oh, you have facts.” My turn to mock.

“Some pretty good ones, in fact. For one, Nick was murdered. He didn’t kill himself. It was staged as a suicide, but it was a homicide.”

Does she know that or just suspect it? What did Vicky screw up? I saw the scene myself, afterward. It looked pretty good to me. But what do I know about crime scenes?

He had drugs and booze in his system, a suicide note on his phone, a gunshot wound under his chin—that wasn’t enough? They found something that tells them Nick didn’t kill himself?

Or is she bluffing? Trying to prompt me?

“I think, one way or another,” she says, “that Vicky and her partner used Nick Caracci to kill Lauren. How they did it is unclear to me. But they needed to kill him afterward to tie up that loose end.”

“Nick was framed, you’re saying.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Sounds like something in a movie.”

“You planted that pink phone at the crime scene, Simon.”

Wow, that’s direct. She’s done being cute.

“I— What? I did what now?”

“You planted that phone.”

“What phone, Jane?”

She shows me a wide grin. “The pink phone. It was obviously placed very carefully, moved more than once with precision, so that we’d find it pretty easily but it would look technically hidden. The blood smears show that clear as day.”

“I’m not following,” I say, though I am, and I’m cursing myself for getting too cute with that damn phone. I should have slid it harder the first time to make sure it went all the way under the table, or I should have left well enough alone when it didn’t. I moved the phone a second time and basically told them what I was doing.

“If Nick was the killer, he’d never have gently moved that phone where we found it. He’d have taken it with him. Instead, we find it at the scene.”

Too much. Overload. I can’t keep straight what I’m supposed to know and not know. I’m afraid to speak. I screwed up, and I’ve put Vicky in the crosshairs as a result—that much I know.

And here I thought I could outsmart everybody with some planning and deliberation.

Andy waves his hand at me. “Anyway, you obviously have no worries, Simon, since you don’t know any of these people. You have no reason to care about Vicky Lanier. Because you don’t know her. Isn’t that right, Simon?”

“Are you absolutely sure you don’t know Vicky Lanier?” Jane asks.

“I . . . don’t recognize that name.”

She smirks at me.

“Okay, Simon,” she says. “We’ll be in touch.”

96 Jane

Jane and Andy don’t say a word to each other until they’re back inside their car and have driven away from Simon’s house. Andy has the wheel.

“So what do you think?” she asks. “You saw the look on his face when we mentioned Vicky’s name. I was just trying to rattle his cage.”

“And it worked,” Andy says. “That’s your real theory, isn’t it? She’s the one who helped Simon pull this off? The one on the other end of the cell phone texts?”

“Somebody helped him, Andy. And he lit up like a firecracker when we mentioned her name.”