Mitchell was one of the kings of the school. He had colleges coming from near and far to watch him wrestle and recruit him. In the end, it didn’t work out for him. He screwed up at some big meet and later ended up running crosswise of the law, nearly went to prison.
So maybe there’s karma in the world, after all. Maybe I should let it lie there. But every time I trace that scar on my left cheek, he re-enters my mind.
? ? ?
A little after seven at night, I leave the law school and run my five miles to Wicker Park. I stop in the alley between the back patio of Viva Mediterránea and the row of condos on the next street over. There’s been a bit of rain this evening, and the autumn weather is flirting with us, enough to dampen enthusiasm for Viva’s outdoor patio, but a few people are outside in light jackets and sweaters enjoying cocktails and clinging to the vestiges of summer.
At eight sharp, I pull out my green burner phone and type a message:
Top of the evenin’ to yah, lassie.
She replies:
Um, Lassie was a dog but ok
Ah, testy. I text:
Cranky are we?
She replies:
Didn’t sleep well last night Con snores so loudly <yawns>
That’s vivid. Even mentions the husband by name. Oh, well. My response:
So that’s why I missed you this morning?
She replies:
Once he left I slept half the morning
Ah, that works. I type:
Can’t say I enjoy image of you sleeping with him.
She replies:
Well it’s his house don’t be healing
Bubbles, and she replies again:
LOL don’t be JEALOUS damn autocorrect bye for now
Fair enough. I power down the phone, remove the SIM card, and stuff both into the pocket of my running shorts.
I look up at the row of condos, the rear balconies overlooking this alley. The third one down is empty, but the lights are on inside the apartment.
The third condo down belongs to Christian Newsome, who has been screwing Vicky for the last couple of weeks.
Yeah, I know about that. I’ve even seen Christian out on his patio a couple of times when I’ve come here for my nightly runs. Sometimes Christian sits out there alone. Sometimes he’s out there with his friend Gavin.
Never Vicky, though. No, Vicky would be far, far too cautious to allow herself to be seen in public with Christian.
Am I upset about Vicky having sex with another man? Of course. I’m only human. But one could argue that I lack standing to complain under the circumstances.
I’m trying to be reasonable about this. Sometimes I am a perfectly reasonable man.
Other times, I let things bother me more than they should.
40
Jane
Conrad Betancourt sits slumped against the couch in his living room. His eyes are glassy, with thick, dark pouches beneath. His only saving grace is a decent suntan.
An officer met him at O’Hare, where he landed about two hours ago. He was driven to the Cook County morgue, where he identified the body of his wife, Lauren. The report from the officer was sparse: Other than uttering the words “Sweet Jesus” and confirming the deceased was, indeed, his wife of three years, he asked for a few private moments. If he cried softly or bawled like a devastated husband or remained steely and steadfast, Jane wouldn’t know, because her officer didn’t know. When he emerged from the exam room, he said nothing on the way to his house.
“Who did this to my wife and why?” Conrad asks.
My wife. Not Lauren. Since he arrived at the house, he hasn’t uttered her name, just referred to her as a possession. How very male. Jane has wondered how she would feel if she were married and her husband referred to her that way, instead of by name. It would be nice to find out, someday.
“Help us figure this out,” Jane says.
“Well, she didn’t commit suicide.”
“No? Why not?”
“She wouldn’t do that.” He doesn’t elaborate. He seems like a boss, a leader, issuing authoritative statements without the need to explain. She’s reasonably sure she would not enjoy working for him.
“Was she depressed?” Jane asks.
“Not in the way you mean. We—we were getting divorced,” he says. “So I suppose that’s not a happy time.”
“One of you had already filed?” she asks, though she already knows from his ex-wife Cassandra.
“I did.”
“May I ask why?” She questions herself, whether she phrased that question properly, as if she needs permission. She’s a cop investigating a murder. She’s entitled to that answer, however personal it may be. She makes a mental note.