“Aka Christian Newsome,” says Sergeant Don Cheronis. “A con artist. He targets wealthy married women. Seduces them, gets them to divorce their husbands, convinces them to take a lump-sum payment, then steals their divorce settlements. He moves around, switches up identities.”
“So . . . what,” says Andy. “He was targeting Lauren and ended up falling for her instead? When she dumped him, he snapped?”
Jane shrugs. “That could work. A lot of things could work. Doesn’t make them true.”
“Yeah but, Jane—”
“I said it’s possible, okay?” she says.
Sergeant Don Cheronis hits “play” on the computer.
Jane and Andy stand behind him and watch.
The video, grainy and black-and-white, shows a cab pulling alongside the three-way intersection of North, Milwaukee, and Damen Avenues in Chicago. From the right side of the cab, a figure emerges, wearing the Grim Reaper costume.
“That is it,” says Dembe Abimbola, a cabdriver who left a job as an accountant in Nigeria to move to the United States eighteen months ago. “That is my cab. That is the man.”
“It was a man,” says Jane.
“Yes, yes.”
“You talked to him?”
“He keep saying the same thing. ‘I fucked up. I fucked up.’”
“‘I fucked up’?” Jane confirms. The man speaks good English as a second language, but his accent is heavy. “That” is dat. “Fucked” is fooked.
“Yes. That was it. I ask, do you need med-sin, do you need doctor, you okay, friend? He did not say—he said no. ‘I fucked up’ is all he say.”
Jane plays the rest of the downloaded video. These stupid POD cameras the city of Chicago uses unfortunately don’t stay in one place. They rotate. So the camera doesn’t capture every movement of the Grim Reaper. By the time the camera has rotated back, the only image they have of the costumed figure is from behind, as he walks east on North Avenue toward Winchester, where Christian Newsome—well, Nicholas Caracci—lived.
“Did you get a look at his face?” Jane asks.
“I see what you see.” Abimbola points at the screen, at the hooded, costumed figure. “I don’t see his face, no. I drive.”
Cheronis glances back at Jane. “Anything else?” he says.
Jane turns that question on Abimbola. “Anything else you remember, sir?”
“He give me a nice tip,” he says.
“Oh?”
“He give me one hundred. The cab ride was maybe twenty-five. You remember the good tippers.”
Jane glances at Andy. “I’ll bet you do,” she says.
Jane and Andy, back in their war room at Grace Village P.D., eating microwaved sandwiches well past the lunch hour and reading through the file from the FBI on Nicholas Caracci. Jane’s phone rings. She recognizes the number and puts it on speakerphone.
“Tox screen came back,” Cheronis squawks. “Caracci had a few shots of alcohol and over forty milligrams of diazepam in his system. Normal dosage is more like ten milligrams.”
“Enough to overdose?” Jane asks.
“Definitely possible. M.E. says for someone of his size, maybe yes, maybe no. But enough to make him very sleepy and very goofy in pretty short order.”
“Diazepam,” says Jane. “Meaning Valium.”
“Yeah, pretty standard tranquilizer.”
Jane looks at Andy. “Drugs in his system,” she says. “Heard that one before?”
“Here you go,” says the building manager of Grant Thornton Tower, an efficient man in a dark suit. “Would you like me to wait up here or do you want to just buzz me when you’re done?”
“We’ll let you know when we’re done,” says Andy.
Inside the office of Newsome Capital Growth, suite 1320. The place does not look as if it’s prepared to be receiving visitors.
“Looks like ol’ Nick had travel plans,” Andy summarizes.
The place has been cleaned out. On the reception desk, dust lines form a square shape, presumably where a computer once sat. A power cord juts out from beneath the desk. On the carpet underneath the desk, heavy indentations, a rectangular shape, presumably where the computer’s mainframe or hard drive once sat. The drawers behind the reception area have been rifled through and largely emptied out.
“Computer’s gone, files are gone,” says Andy. “He removed all trace of himself.”
“Or of someone else,” she says. “That sound like someone who’s about to commit suicide? I mean, what does he care what we find about his con artist career, or Lauren, for that matter, if he’s going to eat a bullet?”
“I hear you, but . . .” Andy closes the drawers, wearing gloves in case they want to check the place for prints. “Maybe he knew he was going to kill her, and he wanted to erase all evidence of her from this office. Maybe the suicide wasn’t planned, Jane. He has some belts of bourbon, some tranquilizers, he’s feeling remorseful and emotional, suddenly putting that gun under his chin sounds like a good idea. You can’t discount that possibility.”
“No, I can’t,” she concedes. Andy’s right. That’s all possible. “But I don’t like it.”
They check out the one major office, an impressive office at that—Nicholas Caracci’s attempt to be “Christian Newsome,” the wealthy, super-smart investor. A wet bar in the corner and cushy couch. Electronic banners scrolling indices from the Dow Jones, the Nasdaq, and the Nikkei. Flat-screen TVs on the wall. A massive, sleek metal desk. Expensive rugs. He definitely looked the part.
But nothing in the drawers. Nothing in the cabinets. No computer anywhere.
No signs of who was here or what they did.
They find the building manager down in the lobby.
“Anything else I can do for you, Sergeant Burke?” he says, on his best behavior. Most people are when the cops come a-calling.
“We appreciate your help,” says Jane. “We’re just going to need one more thing. You keep visitors’ logs?”
Jane and Andy walk through a low gate and pass through a small garden in front of the walk-up to the three-flat in Lincoln Park. Jane finds the button next to the name Fielding.
“You still don’t believe it,” Jane says to Andy.
“I’m not saying that. I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Okay, partner.” She pushes the button, a buzz following.
“Hello?” a voice squawks through the speaker.
“Emily Fielding?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Jane Burke. I am a police officer in Grace Village. You’re not in any trouble, don’t worry,” she quickly adds. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the guy you work for, Christian Newsome.”
93
Simon
“Lead the way,” says Gavin, though I will need to remember not to call him that. “Special Agent John Crane” was the name he gave.
“We can sit right in here,” I say.
I show him into my living room, the first room you see when you enter the house, by my mother’s design. I wasn’t allowed in this room when I was a child. We hardly came in here. My parents would have dinner parties and would end up in this room for coffee and dessert. The furniture hasn’t changed since that time.
The couch is stiff, last I checked, so I direct him there and sit in one of the individual chairs, with its outdated velvet cushion. Or who knows, maybe fashion has come full circle, and this is the latest thing.
“So tell me how I can help,” I say.