We seem to be well past pretense. I can’t know everything she knows, but if she’s gotten as far as Nick, she has a pretty good theory of a case that keeps me in the clear. Presumably, they’ve found half of Nick’s toiletry kit at Lauren’s house, the other half at his place. And I know they’ve already pulled the historical cell-service data, hence the questions about text messages from a burner phone near Winchester, where Nick lived. The evidence is lining up away from me.

And yet, Jane is certain she is looking at a guilty man. I always remembered her as a smart one.

“Ever been to Lauren’s condo building downtown on Michigan Avenue?”

“No.”

“Corner of Superior and Michigan?”

“I have not been to her condo.” That’s true enough. Never inside her condo.

“You must know there are security cameras all inside that building.”

I do. And I went there once, just inside the lobby, when I first saw her in May. Stupid, but I did it. I didn’t mention that to Jane, but I did mention seeing her on Michigan Avenue, so even if the security cameras in her condo building are retained for that long, back to May, and they see me standing in the lobby for five seconds, I’ll just say it’s consistent with what I already told them.

“I have never been in Lauren’s condo,” I repeat.

She smiles. “And you’re certain that you’ve never been to her house in Grace Village? The one on Lathrow?”

“I have never been to her house. I think we already covered that.”

“What about Halloween night,” says Jane. “Where were you?”

“Right here. Handing out candy.”

“Until what time?”

“Until . . . whenever it ended,” I say. “Actually, I ran out of candy. It’s always a dilemma, how much candy to buy, right? You buy too little, you run out. You buy too much, then it sits in your pantry all winter and you eat it. It’s a real conundrum.”

I practiced that line. I’ve been rehearsing for this conversation since Halloween. I liked this little ditty, with a little nudge of sarcasm at the end. But hearing it now, under the circumstances, as the temperature has dropped in this room, it sounds forced.

I can end this at any time. I can terminate this conversation and call a lawyer. I just need to know everything they know. I need to know if they’re anywhere near Vicky.

“Were you alone?” Jane asks. “Or was your girlfriend with you?”

Yep, she’s still fishing.

“I was alone,” I say. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Or boyfriend,” she says. “Not trying to pry into your personal life, but you get my point. A special someone.”

“I don’t have anyone like that in my life. I was home all night on Halloween,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I was binge-watching Netflix. I can prove that on my phone.”

Jane nods, like that all sounds great to her. “I would expect nothing less of you, Simon. I’ll bet you can tell me exactly what show you were watching and describe it for me, too.”

“House of Cards,” I say without enthusiasm.

Andy taps Jane on the arm. “Loved that show. It’s about a guy who manipulates everyone around him to get them to do things for him. Kills some people, too.”

“You know what I love about streaming shows on your phone?” Jane replies to Andy. “You hit ‘play,’ and once one episode ends, the next one begins automatically. You could let the phone just sit there all night, and it would play one show after another, as if you were binge-watching. And the cell phone, of course, will be pinging the local cell tower all the while.”

“Right, so if you’re a fan of CSLI,” says Andy, “y’know, like, if you’re a law professor who specializes in the Fourth Amendment and knows all about historical cell-site location information—it would seem like a pretty good cover. Like you were sitting home all night.”

Jane nods along. “Right. But in the end, what does it prove? It proves that your cell phone stayed home all night. It doesn’t tell us anything about where you were.”

She looks at me.

“Does it, Simon?”

“That’s quite a theory you have there,” I say. “My cell phone was home all night, therefore I wasn’t home. That should get you far.”

“Ah.” Jane waves a hand. “Just a stumbling block. We still have some more work to do. Well, Sergeant Tate, I guess we’re done here. Yeah?”

“I think so, yeah,” he says. “Just one more person to talk to.”

“Let’s do it,” says Jane. “Let’s go talk to Vicky.”

95

Simon

“What?” The word escapes my mouth before I can think. Vicky. They have Vicky’s name. It was one thing for Gavin to have it—another for the police to have it.

How?

Jane Burke, seemingly in the act of pushing herself off the couch, preparing to leave—though it’s obviously just that, an act, a bit of theater—sits back down again. “Vicky,” she says. “Vicky Lanier.”

They have her full name.

I shrug, but I’m sure the color has drained from my face, if it hadn’t already. “Don’t know the name.”

“’Course you don’t,” she says. “You don’t know Nick Caracci, you don’t know Christian Newsome—so I’m sure you don’t know Vicky Lanier, either.”