“Right, so if you’re a fan of CSLI,” says Andy, “y’know, like, if you’re a law professor who specializes in the Fourth Amendment and knows all about historical cell-site location information—it would seem like a pretty good cover. Like you were sitting home all night.”
Jane nods along. “Right. But in the end, what does it prove? It proves that your cell phone stayed home all night. It doesn’t tell us anything about where you were.”
She looks at me.
“Does it, Simon?”
“That’s quite a theory you have there,” I say. “My cell phone was home all night, therefore I wasn’t home. That should get you far.”
“Ah.” Jane waves a hand. “Just a stumbling block. We still have some more work to do. Well, Sergeant Tate, I guess we’re done here. Yeah?”
“I think so, yeah,” he says. “Just one more person to talk to.”
“Let’s do it,” says Jane. “Let’s go talk to Vicky.”
95
Simon
“What?” The word escapes my mouth before I can think. Vicky. They have Vicky’s name. It was one thing for Gavin to have it—another for the police to have it.
How?
Jane Burke, seemingly in the act of pushing herself off the couch, preparing to leave—though it’s obviously just that, an act, a bit of theater—sits back down again. “Vicky,” she says. “Vicky Lanier.”
They have her full name.
I shake my head, but I’m sure the color has drained from my face, if it hadn’t already. “Don’t know the name.”
“Course you don’t,” she says. “You don’t know Nick Caracci, you don’t know Christian Newsome—so I’m sure you don’t know Vicky Lanier, either.”
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?