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.
THE DAY AFTER HALLOWEEN
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.
Betancourt sizes her up, eyes squinted in disapproval. “Irreconcilable differences.”
“Can you elaborate?”
He seems to find that amusing at first—pushy, he’d probably say to her if she weren’t a cop, a pushy broad—but then breaks eye contact and fixes his stare on the wall. “The marriage wasn’t working out.”
“Did your wife agree with that assessment?”
That question, he finds even more amusing. “I am sure she did.”
“When did you file?”
“Couple weeks ago.”
“So in October, mid-October.”
He shrugs. “Look it up. It’s public information.”
She lets that go, because he’s right.
“Was there infidelity?”
He works his jaw, an unreadable expression. “Was she having an affair? I don’t know. I was basically staying downtown by that point, in our condo on Michigan Avenue. We have a condo at Superior and Michigan downtown. I’ve been staying there exclusively since, oh, sometime in August or September. It wouldn’t have been hard for her to carry on with somebody. And it wouldn’t surprise me. But if you’re asking me if I know for fact, no, I don’t know for fact.”
“What about you?” Jane asks.
“Oh, here.” He snaps his fingers. “I moved out on September eleventh. I remember that because it was 9/11. I remember thinking to myself, my marriage had crashed like the Twin Towers.”
Jane catches something in the expression on her partner Andy Tate’s face but lets it go. She asks her question again. “What about you, Mr. Betancourt? Have you been faithful?”
He knew that was coming. His face shows a hint of disappointment that his attempt to focus on Lauren, and being far more elaborate in his answer than he’d been with any previous question, would have taken Jane in a different direction. Now he focuses on his fingernails, his meaty, rough hand cupped. “Next question,” he says.
So that would be a no, he hasn’t been faithful. Jane stays silent and stares at him. It’s worth a shot. The old adage is that if you sit silently, the nervous witness will keep talking to fill in the space. She doubts that will work with Conrad Betancourt.
It doesn’t. Finally, he looks at her and repeats his answer. “Next question.”
It’s a delicate dance, all of this. She wants to push but not too hard. Because the witness has an Ace card that, frankly, she’s surprised he hasn’t played yet—he can refuse to answer and demand an attorney.
But that will tell her something, too. A man doesn’t have to be physically present to have his wife murdered, not if he has all the money in the world. What better way, in fact, than spending a long weekend with your sons in Florida while it’s happening?
“Okay, Mr. Betancourt,” she says. “My next question is: How much money are you worth?”
“Ah, there it is.” He angles his large head, a bitter smile. “Am I really a suspect? You think I had my wife killed so I wouldn’t have to fork over a bunch of money to her? Did you learn being a cop by watching made-for-TV movies or something?”
Jane sits back in her chair, opens her hands. “I have to rule you out, Mr. Betancourt. You know I do. So help me do that.”
“We had a prenuptial agreement,” says Conrad. “She was entitled to one million dollars in a divorce. That was something I could comfortably afford. And I offered to pay her attorney fees on top of that.”
“Maybe she wanted to contest that prenup,” says Jane.
“Maybe she did, but she’d fail. Besides, the rest of my money was placed in a trust before we married. She didn’t have access to it. It’s impenetrable. So whether she was or was not going to contest it, I would not have been the least bit worried.”
“Mr. Betancourt,” says Andy, “you’re sure you moved out on 9/11?”
Conrad takes his time before looking over at Andy. “I already told you that. I thought of the Twin Towers. Yes, I am sure I moved out and into the condo downtown.”
“But you’re certain about the date,” Andy presses.
Conrad blinks. A natural reaction to being pinned down. His eyes rise to the ceiling, then back down to Andy. “Yes, I’m certain about that date.”
“And you never came back to this house, maybe spent the night?”
“No. Never. I never returned to this house after September eleventh.”
“Did Lauren ever spend the night at the condo downtown after September eleventh?”
Conrad leans forward, putting out his hands. “Let me make this simple. I have not laid eyes on Lauren since September eleventh. Is that clear enough? Feel free to ask the staff at the condo building. The doormen will tell you.”