“Any idea how old these shoes are?” Jane asks.
Marta laughs. “I’m not a miracle worker, Jane. But I will say this much. The treads weren’t very worn. The shoes could’ve been new or not used very often.”
“Thanks, Marta.”
Jane dares to glance at Andy. “Don’t even say it.”
He leans into her. “A woman with a man’s size thirteen foot?”
? ? ?
“Do you have any idea how many calls I’ve gotten in just twenty-four hours? People are incredibly upset. Some are scared.” The village president, Alex Galanis, hikes a knee up on a chair inside the chief’s office. “I’ve had more than one person say to me they moved here from Chicago to get away from this kind of violence.”
“I think they’re overreacting, Alex,” says Chief Carlyle. “My statement said the public was not in danger.”
“That statement wasn’t strong enough. Do we have a suspect or a ‘person of interest’ at least?” Galanis sighs, plays with his tie. Alex Galanis is a downtown lawyer in his second term as village president. The word around town is he’s being groomed for a shot at the state senate in 2024. Jane knew his younger brother Nikos in high school.
“Sergeant Burke has been running this investigation around the clock,” says the chief. “She’s our best. Jane, why don’t you take that?”
Her instinct is to appreciate the chief letting her field the question, giving her the rope to do her job and take the credit. But credit can quickly turn to blame, and that rope to a noose.
“It seems clear to us that this was personal,” she says. “We have text messages from a prepaid burner phone. Love notes. She was having an affair. And the text messages indicate that she’d just broken things off. So that gives us a pretty clear motive. Finding the person on the other end of those phone calls is the challenge.”
Jane doesn’t think it’s quite that simple, but the summary is accurate enough.
“Well, that’s good, at least, the personal part.” Galanis throws up a hand. “We don’t have some roving serial killer or something. And you think this killer . . . might have killed himself?”
“Well, sir, his last text to her, after she was dead, sure seemed like a suicide note, yes.”
Galanis nods, not wanting to hope for someone’s death, but it would obviously eliminate any further violence in his town. “So how long will this take?”
“I wish I could say, sir.”
“Weeks? Months?”
“I hope not. It’s too early.”
“So it could take months?”
“It will take as long as it takes, sir,” she says, steeling herself.
“Oh, it won’t be months, Alex,” the chief intervenes. “Sergeant Burke is very methodical. We’re hopeful it won’t take long at all. But we can’t guarantee anything.”
“You know what everyone’s going to say,” says Galanis. “They’re going to say we’re dealing a small-town batch of keystone cops. We’re in over our head. Are we?” He looks around. “Are we?”
“Of course not. We’re working with the FBI and with WESTAF, the West Suburban Major Crimes Task Force. And we have full manpower on this.”
That doesn’t seem to satisfy the village president. “I want daily updates.” He buttons his suit coat and leaves the office.
The chief looks at Jane and winks. “Another satisfied customer. Who’s doing the CSLI with us? WESTAF or the FBI?”
“FBI,” says Jane. “I know an agent there who can decode that stuff like the back of her hand.”
“Okay. And that’ll be today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Oh and, Jane—what did Grace Park just send over to us? A bunch of file boxes.”
“Everything they have on Simon Dobias,” says Jane.
“That’s the . . . guy who filed that complaint back in ’04?”
“Right.”
“He’s still in town? Grace Park?”
“According to property tax records, he is.”
“So you think there might be something to that? That was a long time ago.”
“I know,” says Jane. “I know this guy a little. Went to high school with him.”
“And you could see him doing this?”
“Oh, well, it’s been so long. I never really knew him.”
“Yeah, but tell him that story you told me, Jane,” says Andy Tate. “From high school. That story about Mitchell Kitchens.”