Jane puts up her hands. “I need to unpack that. When Lauren married Conrad and moved to Grace Village three years ago, you were worried, because she was moving so close to Grace Park, where the Dobias family lived?”
He nods. “She said, there’s so many people in these suburbs, odds were she’d never run into him even if he still lived here.”
“Simon, you mean.”
“Right. The father, Ted? He moved to St. Louis after. And then I guess he died.”
She raises her eyebrows. “The father moved to St. Louis ‘after.’ After what?”
His look turns severe, as if insulted. “After you know what.”
“Please, Al, I’m—”
“After the thing with the money. They said she stole their money. She didn’t. Ted gave it to her. I’m not saying it was the proudest moment of my daughter’s life, carrying on with a married man, but she was barely twenty, and he was a lot older. So who’s to blame, her or him?”
“You’re saying Ted Dobias gave her the money?”
“He was some rich ambulance-chaser lawyer. He had plenty to spare.”
No, he didn’t. But that seems to be what Lauren told her parents back then. Apparently in the version of the story that made its way to Al’s ears, Ted Dobias just pulled a good six million dollars out of his pocket and tossed it to her, mere chump change, just a fraction of the money he had. Al doesn’t seem to realize that Lauren cleaned out the Dobias family, took all the money they had at the time.
Maybe Al knew differently deep down and was just instinctively siding with his daughter. Or maybe he believed everything his daughter told him. Or maybe the passage of eighteen years has blended what he knew to be true into what he wanted to believe. Time and blood have a way of playing with the truth.
Either way, Jane isn’t going to burst that bubble right now, with Al mourning his daughter’s death.
“Hell, she had to leave the country to get away from him.”
“Where did she move?” Jane asks, though she already knows.
“Paris. She lived in Paris. She moved around a little bit, stayed other places in Europe, being young and with all that money. But Paris was her home.”
“Did she—”
“She thought he was watching her. Having her followed. Spied on. Stuff like that.”
“Who?”
“Who?” he says. “Dobias. Ted Dobias. She said sometimes she felt like she was being watched or tracked. He was still bitter about the money.”
“Ted Dobias, you’re saying. Not Simon.”
“The boy? She didn’t mention the boy. Only Ted. Hell, she stayed away in Europe for how many years? All because of that guy.”
“She never came back, huh?”
“No, she— Well, just the one time. When Amy and me were celebrating thirty-five years. She threw this party for us at the Drake downtown. She flies back to town for a couple weeks. She reserves a bunch of hotel rooms, and my brother, Joe, and my sister, Louise, and their kids and some of my friends from work—we all stay downtown at the Drake for the week. Really, it was like two weeks?”
Jane nods. “So Lauren was in Chicago for two weeks?”
“Right.”
“Any chance she ran into Simon Dobias then?”
“Not that I know of. She was in town for a while. I didn’t keep complete tabs on her or anything. But she didn’t mention seeing him. Or Ted, for that matter.”
“Okay. And when was this, Al? When did all this happen?”
“Oh, Christ.” He looks up at the ceiling, eyes narrowed. “Our anniversary was May the eighteenth. We got married on May 18, 1975. So . . .” He closes his eyes. “If I remember, the year she came into town for the big party she threw, our anniversary was in the middle of the week, so she had the party the following weekend at the Drake. And then everyone stayed the week after that, which included the long Memorial Day weekend.”
“Including Lauren?”
“Yeah. We loved it, having her in town for two weeks. Spent a lot of time with her.”
“And you never saw or heard from Simon Dobias during that time?”
He shrugs. “Never saw him. Never seen him ever, actually. Never had the pleasure. Never spoke to him.”
“Okay, well—”
“The boy did this, you think? You wouldn’t be asking otherwise. You think Simon Dobias killed my daughter?”
She raises a calming hand. “We have to follow everything up, Mr. Lemoyne. You understand.”
98
Vicky
After finishing my first shift with a break before my second, I drive home to my apartment in Delavan, a measly little studio apartment only ten minutes from Safe Haven in Elkhorn, Wisconsin. The place is barely large enough to swing your arms around, but it’s mine, and the stove and fridge and heater work.
I don’t miss the ninety-mile drives to and from Grace Park, when I “lived” with Simon, starting back in July, having to commute every day up here for work.
I will, however, miss Simon’s comfortable bed. I’ll miss that huge kitchen and the pot of coffee ready for me when I wake up. I’ll miss never having to think twice about a full refrigerator, a stocked pantry. I’ll miss that rooftop oasis he created.
I’ll miss Simon, too. His thoughtfulness and his quirks. His sense of humor. Most of all, the way he looks at me. I wish that had been enough for me. I wish I could have said yes when he proposed to me—both times he asked.
If I ever married anyone, it would be Simon. But I never will. I will never latch myself to another person. I learned how to live alone, and I guess I learned it too well.
We had a good run, starting three years ago, when I moved to Chicago after my sister’s suicide. I was a mess, and he wasn’t. He sobered me up. He pulled me out of my funk. I never took drugs again and I never sold my body again. He was the first man who ever treated me like I was worth anything. He put me on a pedestal. But I saw how much more he wanted from me—children, marriage—so I cut it off. That was never going to be me. And I don’t want him to settle any more than I want to settle for myself. I moved to Wisconsin and started working for Safe Haven.
And didn’t speak to Simon for months.
Until last May, when he saw Lauren on Michigan Avenue.
After finishing a microwave dinner at my apartment, I drive to the forest preserve in Burlington, thirty minutes away. I’ve been coming three times a day—first thing in the morning, at lunchtime, and after work. I take the hiking trail and follow it around a couple of bends to a vista point about a half-mile up with a large wooden plaque describing the history of the lake down below. I reach behind the plaque and peel off a container attached by Velcro. Inside the container is the burner phone Simon gave me for the post-Halloween fun.
I power it on and give it a moment for the messages to load. First, the message I sent Simon on Halloween night, after I drove up here to Wisconsin:
Mon, Oct 31, 11:09 PM
Gavin saw me. He knows about alias. He wants half the $$ on 11/3 or he exposes me to you. Gave me good kick in ribs too. Need my help??
And then the responses from Simon over the last few days, with a new message today:
Tues, Nov 1, 12:06 PM
No I will deal with him. Nothing much in papers today.