“Maybe DNA, too,” he says. “Long shot, but possible.”

Jane nods. “So these are two pieces of a five-piece set,” she says. “Let’s find out if these belong to Conrad.”

—

“The shaded area on the map is the cell-site coverage area,” says Andy into his phone as he and Jane return to the station. “It’s like a two-square-block area, including Damen. Check every commercial establishment and see if they’re even open at eight o’clock at night. If they are, then maybe our offender was going in there every night at eight p.m., at least Monday through Thursday, and sending text messages. Someone who’s that much of a regular inside a store or restaurant is gonna be known by the staff. Or—yeah, agreed, is a member of the staff himself. So get employee names. And security cam footage, too.

“More likely,” he goes on, “it was someone texting from their home, so get addresses of all the homes in that area, whether single-family or townhouses or condo buildings. Then run down property-tax records for ownership, and we’ll have to contact all the owners. Probably a lot of them in that area are renters.”

They walk through the station house to the war room. Jane walks in and looks around the room. At the garish photos of Lauren in death; at the pages of the text-message transcripts that provide the most information, blown up on boards and fastened to the corkboard; at the rope used to hang Lauren; at the pink telephone, back from fingerprinting and plugged into a charger on the wall.

She walks up to one of the text messages blown up on a poster, from the evening text exchanges for Wednesday, August 17:

Oh, my. For someone with such a religious name to have such a naughty side . . .

“Simon Peter Dobias,” she whispers to herself.

But Andy’s right. Why would Simon be texting these love notes with Lauren? Simon despised Lauren, blamed her for the death of his mother. He wouldn’t go near her. And even if he were diabolical—Andy’s word, always makes her think of an Agatha Christie novel—even if Simon were diabolical enough to pretend to have an interest in Lauren, to get close to her so he could hurt her, Lauren wouldn’t go along with that, would she? She knows what she did to the Dobias family. She would never, in a million years, believe that Simon wanted to start up a romance with her.

It doesn’t make sense. Something isn’t right.

“Okay, Timpone’s handling Wicker Park,” says Andy, putting down his phone. “Ah, the ‘religious name’ text message. Religious as in ‘Simon Peter,’ right?”

“But you’re right, Andy,” she says. “This doesn’t work. Simon might be behind this, but there is no way in hell this is Simon and Lauren texting each other.”

“So it’s Lauren texting someone else,” he says. “Maybe someone who has a titanium nose-hair trimmer.”

“And a religious name,” she adds.

A phone buzzes. Andy pats his pocket. Jane picks up her phone, which isn’t ringing.

“Holy shit,” Andy says.

Jane looks at Andy, who’s pointing at the table. Jane looks, too.

The pink burner phone is buzzing.

Jane steps over, giving Andy an inquisitive look. He nods and waves her on.

Jane answers the phone. “Hello?”

“Who is this, please?” A man’s voice.

“Who is this, please?” Jane responds.

A pause. “Is this . . . Lauren?”

Jane looks at Andy, who is standing close and can hear everything. “Him first,” Andy whispers.

“Please tell me who’s calling,” Jane says.

The man clears his throat. “This is Sergeant Don Cheronis, Chicago P.D. Am I speaking to Lauren?”

“No. This is Sergeant Jane Burke, Grace Village P.D.”

“No shit?” he says. “We’re investigating a suspicious death.”

Jane looks at Andy, a look of revelation on his face.

“What a coincidence,” she says. “So are we.”

86

Jane

Sergeant Donald Cheronis of the Chicago P.D., Fourteenth District, a head full of wavy gray hair and a narrow, lined face, is waiting by the doorway when Jane and Andy are buzzed through the front door.

“We need to get the body out of here,” he says, shaking hands with them. “But I made them wait for you.”

“I appreciate that, Don. Very much.”

Jane is immediately hit with the pungent odor of a dead body’s decay. The medical examiner and the circumstantial evidence, according to Cheronis, put the time of death at approximately two nights ago, on Halloween night.

He waves them in. “To your left,” he says. “Say hello to Christian Newsome.”

Jane stops, keeps her distance, takes it all in. On the coffee table, a bottle of Basil Hayden bourbon, the top off.

On the couch, stiff and pale, sits Christian Newsome, his head lying back on the couch cushion, his vacant eyes facing the ceiling, exposing his throat and the single gunshot entry wound under his chin. Next to him, a spilled pill bottle, stripped of any name or indication, and several pills scattered on the couch and floor.

Behind him, on the wall, is massive blood and brain spatter.

He is wearing a white T-shirt and gym shorts.