Wed, Nov 2, 11:39 AM
Newspapers but little detail. Working out time to talk to police don’t worry
Today 4:34 PM
Good news/bad. Gavin taken care of. Met with police, they know full alias name too (receptionist?) but otherwise flailing
“Shit.” They know the name Vicky Lanier. The cops know. He’s probably right—it was the receptionist. Emily, I think her name was. That’s the only thing I can think of, too.
But his text says “otherwise flailing.” Meaning they don’t know what to do with the name Vicky Lanier. That was the hope. There’s no trace of me otherwise. That name will take them nowhere.
And at least Gavin’s taken care of. What does he mean by that? What did Simon do? My guess, knowing Simon, he somehow talked Gavin down.
It all comes down to fingerprints for me. If I left a stray print anywhere in Nick’s apartment or at his office, I’m done. They’ll run it through the national database and find me in five seconds, registered with the state of Wisconsin.
Simon figured they’d process the fingerprints within a day or so after finding Lauren. Which means I could find out any second now.
Either I’m scot-free or I’m cooked.
99
Jane
“What? What?” Jane shouts into the phone.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” says Sergeant Don Cheronis. “The coroner’s office, they march to their own beat. I told them to hold off. They don’t care what I fucking think.”
“They must care a little.”
“Not really.”
“Well, did you push back, Don?”
“I— Jane, you have to understand . . .”
“You agree with them, don’t you?”
“I . . . I think it’s probably the right call, yeah.”
Suicide. The Cook County medical examiner is calling Nicholas Caracci’s death a suicide. And Cheronis didn’t put up a fight because he doesn’t disagree.
Nice way to start a Friday morning.
Chief Carlyle sits stone-faced, hands laced together, behind his desk, while Jane gives him the latest update.
“What you’re telling me is interesting,” he says, “but it’s not evidence. Not proof. You keep pooh-poohing the strong evidence of guilt we have against Nick Caracci, basically by saying it’s all a frame-up, it’s too convenient—which you could say about most crimes solved by law enforcement in the history of the country. And then you wrap your arms around evidence against Simon Dobias that isn’t evidence at all. It’s just maybe, coulda, what about this, what about that. Now you bring me this ‘Vicky Lanier,’ but you don’t know anything about her except, number one, she screwed Nick in his office and, number two, Simon Dobias had a strong reaction to her name. And you don’t even think ‘Vicky Lanier’ is her real name. Hell, they just dug up a Vicky Lanier in—where was it?”
“West Virginia,” says Jane. “Chief, I understand we’re not there yet. Just—”
“Oh, a lot of people think we are there, and we’ve been there since we found Nick Caracci’s body. The guy’s a con artist who preys on rich, unhappily married women. Lauren Betancourt was a rich, unhappily married woman.”
“Chief, if you were in that house yesterday with Simon Dob—”
“Jane, I hear you. You and Andy are good cops, and your antennae went up when you talked to him. He seems suspicious. He seemed defensive, like he was hiding something. But how would you expect him to react? He knows he’s going to be a suspect in Lauren’s death. And he’s already been accused of killing his own father—not formally accused, but you know what I mean. So yeah, you’re going to be defensive. You’re going to be hostile.”
“It was more than that.”
“Okay, but I know you understand what I’m saying. We are sitting on a solve, Jane. And there’s only so long I’m going to sit on it. I have six village trustees and one village president calling me or texting me almost on the hour. And you watched the emergency board meeting. This isn’t Chicago. This is a nice, quiet little village, where people get very upset over someone being murdered. It’s not supposed to happen here. That’s why they live here. So when it does happen, they need to know we’re going to solve the case quickly. Instead, I’m hearing phrases like ‘amateur hour’ and ‘keystone cops’ already. People think we’re in over our head. One of the trustees is talking about bringing in the FBI—”
“Oh my God, it’s fucking Friday morning,” Jane snaps. “We just found the body on Tuesday morning. What’s wrong with people?”
“Jane, I hear you, but think about it this way. With all the evidence lined up against Nick Caracci—and now we have a call of suicide as his cause of death, on top of everything else—what state’s attorney would approve charges against Simon Dobias? A good defense lawyer, which he could afford, would make mincemeat out of the case. Tell me I’m wrong. You couldn’t convict Simon Dobias in a million years.”
Jane puts her hands together and takes a breath. “At least wait for the prints. We should have them today. Whoever this ‘Vicky Lanier’ is, maybe her prints come up. At Nick Caracci’s murder scene. At Lauren’s murder scene. Hell, maybe at Ted Dobias’s murder scene.”
The chief falls back in his chair. “Now you have her killing Simon’s father?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m being unreasonable, Chief. There were unidentified prints on the wine bottle used to hit Ted Dobias over the head. And they found a glass with female DNA on it. We think Simon killed his father, right? Well, maybe he had some help. Maybe it’s the same person who helped him this time. Maybe not. Let’s just wait for the prints. They won’t lie. And if we get a match, then maybe we’ll know who this woman is who calls herself ‘Vicky Lanier.’ And if not, so be it.”
“No reason we can’t wait for the prints, Chief,” Andy chimes in.
“Fine, wait for the prints,” says the chief, throwing up his hands. “And when you get them, come talk to me.”
Jane and Andy leave the office.
“He’s not wrong, Jane,” Andy says under his breath. “He may be feeling political pressure, but that doesn’t make him wrong. We’ll never get charges approved against Simon with all the evidence lined up against Nick Caracci.”
“Wait for the fucking fingerprints,” she says. “Give me— Wait.” She looks at her phone. “Brenda Tarkington just called from St. Louis P.D. I missed it.”
“Call her right now.”
“In the conference room,” says Jane. She shakes her phone like it holds the key to her fate.
“Brenda, it’s Jane Burke. I have Andy Tate with me on speaker.”
“You must have run the prints from the crime scene,” Sergeant Tarkington squawks through the speakerphone. “We just got word from AFIS.”
“You got a hit from your crime scene?”
“We did, indeed, Sergeant Burke.”
Jane pounds the table. “Tell me, Brenda, and please make me happy.”
100
Vicky
“That is so not true,” says Mariah.
“Yes, it is, I remember,” Macy spits back.
“Yeah. You remember. You were, like, six.” Mariah makes a face like her younger sister is the dumbest human being on the planet.
“Girls—”
“I was seven and you were crying and all nervous!”
“Girls, for heaven’s sake,” I say. “Both of you were nervous before you got your ears pierced. Both of you were brave.”