Look Closer(114)

“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 word from CODIS.”

“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.”

Friday night in Elm Grove. It’s less than an hour’s drive from my crappy little studio apartment in Delavan. With all the double shifts I’ve pulled, I was owed an early day on Friday. I thought about staying home, but Macy wanted to get her ears pierced and wanted me there.

I pull Adam’s car onto Sunflower Drive and head toward the house.

A car, a sedan, is parked on the driveway. I slow the car enough to get a look at the license plate. A state logo, half of the words circling the top, the other half circling the bottom: Wisconsin Department of Justice Office of the Attorney General I keep driving.

“Um, Vicky, this is our house?”

“Hey, y’know what, I forgot, your daddy had a meeting,” I say, driving away from the house. “Let’s just go get dinner on our own and bring something home for him.”

“You want me to text him?” Mariah asks.

“No, no. I just forgot. He has a meeting. Don’t bother him.”

I grip the steering wheel and count to five.

I could run. I could. Right now, I could run. Rambo could get me a new identity. But I have the girls with me.

This isn’t happening.





101

Simon

Friday night. I am trapped in my house. Waiting, in case they come with a search warrant. Afraid to make a false move. Wondering about Vicky. Waiting some more. Flinching at every sound, jumping at every shadow. Wandering around my house with little sleep, trying to occupy myself with a blog piece on a new exigent-circumstances decision from an appeals court in Texas.