Look Closer(37)

“Well, it’s never nice to hear something bad happening to someone, even if you’re estranged.”

“Estranged. Conrad and Lauren were estranged?”

Cassandra cocks her head at Jane. “Conrad and Lauren were getting divorced. You didn’t know?”

“I did not. My phone conversation with Mr. Betancourt was short. He should be here soon, though.”

“Very well. But yes, Conrad had already filed.”

“Do you know when?”

“Oh, not offhand. He called me to let me know, but I couldn’t put a specific time on it. September, maybe early October. Within the last month, maybe six weeks.”

“He called to tell you he and Lauren were splitting up?”

“Yes. And to thank me.” She tries to hide any semblance of satisfaction, curling her lip.

“Thank you for what?”

“For suggesting he get a prenup. At the time, I didn’t mean it as advice. I meant it for what it was, an insult. But a truthful one.”

Jane waits for more. Once again, more isn’t forthcoming. Cassandra likes an audience. “Can you elaborate on that, Ms. Barclay?”

“Well, obviously, I was trying to make a point that she was marrying him for his money, not love. It didn’t stop Connie from marrying her, but apparently he was smart enough to heed my warning and lock her down on that prenup.”

“How much?” Jane asks. “The prenup.”

“I believe it was a million dollars.”

Not exactly chump change, but a small fraction of Conrad’s net worth.

“May I ask you something, Sergeant?”

“Sure,” Jane says.

“Was Lauren involved with another man?”

Jane tries hard not to jump at that question. “Why . . . would you ask that?”

Cassandra lets out a small chuckle. “Well, because someone must have killed her. And because it’s Lauren Lemoyne we’re talking about.”

“You’d expect that from her. To cheat.”

She tries to smile, but the set of her jaw is too firm to allow it. “I’d all but guarantee it from her, Sergeant. Lauren? Lauren always looked out for number one. I could see that from a mile away. If Conrad could have gotten past her beauty, he would’ve seen it, too.”

“We’re still looking at a number of things, Ms. Barclay. Do you have any information about Lauren seeing another man?”

“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea about Lauren’s life. Conrad would never discuss her with me, nor would I want him to. I base my question on just knowing the kind of person she is.”

Interesting. But is this just the opinion of a bitter ex-wife? Or is Cassandra getting Lauren right?

“I have no doubt that Lauren would be moving on to her next man,” says Cassandra. “And a man with money, of course. A million dollars was not gonna cut it for her. You mark my words: Lauren Lemoyne was looking for her next sugar daddy.”





34

Christian

With a flourish—her jaw clenched, a small expulsion of air, a shiver—Vicky collapses on me. I wrap my arms around her sweaty body, propping her on my lap. She prefers being on top, I’ve noticed, and likes to keep her heels on, though that’s probably for me. And yeah, the heels are a thing for me. I’m not that original in my kinks. The biggest turn-on for me, by far, is that ring on her finger.

After a moment of catching our breath, she climbs off me and heads for the bathroom, leaving me tired and satisfied on the love seat in my apartment.

This is the fourth time we’ve hooked up. After the first time at my office, we’ve come here to my apartment. I’ve come to learn this much about Vicky, my Number 7: She isn’t quiet during sex, far from it, but she’s quiet at the end, when she gets off. She retreats to another place, focuses, concentrates. A lesser man would think she’s thinking of someone else. But I doubt that. I’m what Vicky wants. I can tell.

Which is good, because otherwise, I’d wonder. Vicky doesn’t hand out compliments. She doesn’t moan with satisfaction afterward and tell me how wonderful I was, or how much better it is with me than withher husband.

“What is this?” she calls out from the bathroom.

Uh-oh. What did I do? Did I leave something out for her to see that she shouldn’t—

I rush into the bathroom without acting like I was rushing. She’s holding my toothbrush.

“Oh,” I say.

“What is this? This is, like, some fancy metal—”

“Titanium,” I say.

“You have a titanium toothbrush? And . . .” She looks through my medicine cabinet. “And nail clippers and . . . some trimmer and . . . What is this?”

“It holds dental floss,” I say, sheepishly, as if I’m a little bit embarrassed to have a toothbrush made of pure titanium, matte-black, with a protective, antibacterial coating in the socket, and matching titanium nail clippers, electric razor, nose-hair trimmer, and dental-floss holder.

“How much did this cost, Christian?”

Market value was more than $8,500, or so I discovered after looking it up. It was a gift, actually, from one of my targets—Number 4, in Santa Fe—before she knew she was a target.

At first, I was going to hide it, but Vicky needs to see a thing or two, small things, to show that some massively expensive, over-the-top item is merely chump change to me.