See, here’s the thing: If you’re a con artist like Christian, and someone like Vicky walks in with a wedding ring on her finger—my mother’s, by the way—and says she’s married to Simon Dobias, why on earth would Christian think she was lying? Who lies about something like that? He was spending so much time trying to con her, he didn’t realize he was the target all along.
“You have a . . . a trust,” Gavin stammers. “Over twenty million dollars.”
“That’s true,” I say, because it is.
The first time Gavin has found firm ground, gotten an answer he wanted and expected. But it’s a very small patch of ground.
“And it says that your spouse can’t touch the money until she’s been married for ten years.”
Also true. Thanks to my father. It’s what gave Vicky and me this idea. We had to give a sense of urgency to killing Lauren. So we worked backward. What would be a good date to commit murder? Halloween. Okay, so say our ten-year anniversary is just after Halloween.
And tell Christian just before Halloween, giving him only a few days to make his move, leaving him with no other choice, if he wanted the money, but to kill Lauren.
“You sure know a lot about my trust,” I say. “That’s pretty disturbing in itself.”
“Today is your ten-year anniversary,” he says.
I just smile. “You know what it sounds like?” I say. “It sounds like someone was pulling a con job. This ‘Vicky Lanier’ you mentioned? I’ll bet that’s not even her real name.”
I couldn’t resist. Vicky told me Gavin was onto her. Gave her a pretty hard kick to the ribs, too, sounds like.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Gavin comes off the couch, towering over me on the chair.
“I’m telling you everything,” I say. “I have nothing to hide.”
My phone buzzes. Gavin hears it, too. I pick it up off the coffee table separating us and read it. It’s from Jane Burke.
“I have another appointment in . . . Sounds like they’ll be here in just a couple minutes.”
“You’ll need to cancel that,” he says, still standing over me.
“Cancel with the Grace Village Police?” I say.
“The—what?” He takes a step back.
“The Grace Village Police,” I repeat. “They want to talk to me about Lauren’s murder. You should stick around. You guys can compare notes. Kind of an interagency cooperation kinda thing, right?”
I manage to keep a straight face while he shuffles his feet, thinking quickly.
“Or you can leave a business card, and I’ll give it to them,” I add. “You have a business card, Agent Crane?”
“It’s a— We’d like to keep our investigation separate,” he says.
“Yeah? I could see that. In your case, I could definitely see that.”
“What does that mean?” he says.
I get up and walk over to the window. Look out over the street. They’re saying it could snow later.
“It means that Nick was obviously in way over his head,” I say. “Which means you are, too, Gavin.”
“What did you say?” His head jerks around. “What did you call me?”
“Gavin Finley,” I say. “Who thinks he’s getting ten million dollars from Vicky Lanier. But you’re not, Gavin. You’re not getting a dime. Oh, there they are, the detectives, pulling up right now.” I turn to Gavin. “I suppose you wanna go out the back way, right?”
“I don’t know—this isn’t—” His jaw juts out. “This isn’t over, asshole.”
“Sure it is. You wanna go tell the cops everything you know? Be my guest. They’ll never be able to pin a thing on me. Or this phantom ‘Vicky,’ who, gosh, was probably using an alias. Diaries and marriage certificates and divorce petitions? None of them exist—not anymore. But the cops will sure be interested in how you seem to know so much. They’ll take a hard look at you, Gavin. You up for that? A lot of police scrutiny into those petty little financial scams you’re pulling? I’m thinking no. I’m thinking, you took your best shot at Vicky and me, but you failed. And be lucky it doesn’t get any worse for you. You have no idea what contingency plans I have.”
“I will . . . fucking kill you, you say anything about me.” He shows me the gun at his hip, in case I didn’t know that guns can kill people.
“They’re getting out of the car, Gavin.”
“Not one word about me, or you’re dead.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I won’t tell them about you. That doesn’t help me. The best thing you can do, Gavin, from here on out, is play dumb. Your pal Nick’s social life—dating a married woman, falling in love with her, she breaks his heart—I’d probably say you don’t know, he didn’t talk much. But I’d help them with the suicide angle. Christian was depressed, had mood swings, could be very dramatic—stuff like that would help. It’s up to you. You’re a smart guy.”
He points his finger at me but doesn’t have the threat to back it up.
“They’re coming up the walk, Gavin. I’d get the hell out, if I were you. It’s just through the kitchen.”
Gavin storms off. He whips open the back door and disappears. He could have at least closed the door behind him.
94
Simon
“Jane Burke. Wow. Good to see you,” I say. She looks basically the same as high school, the messy, curly hair falling just above her shoulders, a small round face with a button nose, a shade of Irish rose to her cheeks. I always liked her. Didn’t know her well, but she was the kind of person everyone liked.
We sit in the same front living room where Gavin and I just talked.
“Nice house,” Jane says. “You live here all alone?”
“Just me.”
“You never married, huh?”
“Nope, never married,” I say, clapping my hands on my knees.
“No live-in girlfriend?” she asks. “Or girlfriend, anyway?”
“No, I’m not dating anyone.”
She nods, as if it’s just idle conversation. It’s not.
“So, let’s get started,” she says, though we already did. “Do you know why we’re here?”
I can’t help but grin. “Jane, you know when you get pulled over by a cop and the first thing they ask you is, ‘Do you know why I pulled you over?’ I always hated that. I always felt like that was a Miranda violation. It should be, if you think about it. You’re not free to leave, and the question is designed to elicit an incriminating response.”
“You were always a smart one, Simon,” she says. “You’re free to kick us out, obviously. But if you’d prefer, I can Mirandize you.”
“That’s okay.” I sit back in my chair. “I can only suppose that you’re here for background on Lauren Lemoyne. I read about her death.”
Here’s my thinking: If I play dumb, if I act like I had no idea, then I’d have to put on a show right now of surprise when she tells me Lauren’s dead, and I’m not that good of an actor. I’m a pretty darn good director, but not an actor.
“Yeah? Where did you read about it?”
“The Tribune.”
“And what was your reaction?”
“I didn’t cry myself to sleep,” I say. “Lauren and I do not share a friendly history. I’m sure you know that, or you wouldn’t be here.”
She says nothing but holds my stare.
“How did she die?” I ask. “The paper said suspicious circumstances.”
“I can’t really get into details. When did you first realize Lauren was back in town?”
“I thought I saw her once last spring,” I say. “April, May, something like that.”
“Where was this?”
“Michigan Avenue, downtown. She walked past me. It looked like her, but it had been almost twenty years.”