“Nice house,” Jane says. “You live here all alone?”
“Just me.”
“You never married, huh?”
“Nope, never married,” I say, clapping my hands on my knees.
“No live-in girlfriend?” she asks. “Or girlfriend, anyway?”
“No, I’m not dating anyone.”
She nods, as if it’s just idle conversation. It’s not.
“So, let’s get started,” she says, though we already did. “Do you know why we’re here?”
I can’t help but smile. “Jane, you know when you get pulled over by a cop and the first thing they ask you is, ‘Do you know why I pulled you over?’ I always hated that. I always felt like that was a Miranda violation. It should be, if you think about it. You’re not free to leave, and the question is designed to elicit an incriminating response.”
“You were always a smart one, Simon,” she says. “You’re free to kick us out, obviously. But if you’d prefer, I can Mirandize you.”
“That’s okay.” I sit back in my chair. “I can only suppose that you’re here for background on Lauren Lemoyne. I read about her death.”
Here’s my thinking: If I play dumb, if I act like I had no idea, then I’d have to put on a show right now of surprise when she tells me Lauren’s dead, and I’m not that good of an actor. I’m a pretty darn good director, but not an actor.
“Yeah? Where did you read about it?”
“The Tribune.”
“And what was your reaction?”
“I didn’t cry myself to sleep,” I say. “Lauren and I do not share a friendly history. I’m sure you know that, or you wouldn’t be here.”
She nods, holds my stare.
“How did she die?” I ask. “The paper said suspicious circumstances.”
“I can’t really get into details. When did you first realize Lauren was back in town?”
“I thought I saw her once last spring,” I say. “April, May, something like that.”
“Where was this?”
“Michigan Avenue, downtown. She walked past me. It looked like her, but it had been almost twenty years.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No. I just saw her. I did a double take, for sure. You haven’t seen a person for almost two decades, you’re not sure. But it looked like her.”
“So what did you do?”
Well, let’s see. Several things: （1） I ran to Vicky and told her; （2） I started plotting with Vicky about how to kill Lauren; （3） we figured if she was going to play my “wife” for Nick’s sake, he might surveil her, so she’d have to pretend to live with me; and （4） I put up a privacy fence so she could come and go privately through the back entry, and nobody would ever see her.
You mean stuff like that, Jane?
“Well, later that day after seeing Lauren on the street, I looked her up on Facebook,” I say. “And I found her. It said she was living in Grace Village.”
If things get far enough, the police could search my work computer, and if a forensic team dug through it, they’d see that I looked her up. It would look better if I voluntarily fronted that information.
That was a mistake, looking her up like that back in May. But back then, when I first saw her on the street, I was in shock, disbelief. I wasn’t thinking about killing her. It took me a while, and some conversations with Vicky.
“So you reached out to her?”
I cock my head. “What? To Lauren?”
“Yes, you—”
“No, I didn’t ‘reach out.’ Why would I do something like that? She’s the last person in the world I’d want to talk to.”
There is no reason for me to be coy about my hostility toward Lauren. An innocent person wouldn’t hide his disdain for her, under the circumstances.
And technically, my answer is truthful. I didn’t reach out, and she is the last person I’d want to talk to.
“Do you still belong to the Grace Country Club?”
“Yes, I do. As a legacy.”
“When was the last time you were there?”
“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.”