Look Closer(46)

So that would be a no, he hasn’t been faithful. Jane stays silent and stares at him. It’s worth a shot. The old adage is that if you sit silently, the nervous witness will keep talking to fill in the space. She doubts that will work with Conrad Betancourt.

It doesn’t. Finally, he looks at her and repeats his answer. “Next question.”

It’s a delicate dance, all of this. She wants to push but not too hard. Because the witness has an Ace card that, frankly, she’s surprised he hasn’t played yet—he can refuse to answer and demand an attorney.

But that will tell her something, too. A man doesn’t have to be physically present to have his wife murdered, not if he has all the money in the world. What better way, in fact, than spending a long weekend with your sons in Florida while it’s happening?

“Okay, Mr. Betancourt,” she says. “My next question is: How much money are you worth?”

“Ah, there it is.” He angles his large head, a bitter smile. “Am I really a suspect? You think I had my wife killed so I wouldn’t have to fork over a bunch of money to her? Did you learn being a cop by watching made-for-TV movies or something?”

Jane sits back in her chair, opens her hands. “I have to rule you out, Mr. Betancourt. You know I do. So help me do that.”

“We had a prenuptial agreement,” says Conrad. “She was entitled to one million dollars in a divorce. That was something I could comfortably afford. And I offered to pay her attorney fees on top of that.”

“Maybe she wanted to contest that prenup,” says Jane.

“Maybe she did, but she’d fail. Besides, the rest of my money was placed in a trust before we married. She didn’t have access to it. It’s impenetrable. So whether she was or was not going to contest it, I would not have been the least bit worried.”

“Mr. Betancourt,” says Andy, “you’re sure you moved out on 9/11?”

Conrad takes his time before looking over at Andy. “I already told you that. I thought of the Twin Towers. Yes, I am sure I moved out and into the condo downtown.”

“But you’re certain about the date,” Andy presses.

Conrad blinks. A natural reaction to being pinned down. His eyes rise to the ceiling, then back down to Andy. “Yes, I’m certain about that date.”

“And you never came back to this house, maybe spend the night?”

“No. Never. I never returned to this house after September eleventh.”

“Did Lauren ever spend the night at the condo downtown after September eleventh?”

Conrad leans forward, putting out his hands. “Let me make this simple. I have not laid eyes on Lauren since September eleventh. Is that clear enough? Feel free to ask the staff at the condo building. The doormen will tell you.”

Andy sits back in his chair.

“Let me show you something.” Jane lifts the pink phone out of the evidence bag. “Ever seen this phone?”

“Not—no,” he says. “What is that? I mean, it’s a phone, but—whose?”

“You don’t know?”

“I have no idea.” His expression hardens. The same notion, no doubt, is springing to his mind that came to Jane and Andy when they saw it. A burner phone she used for an extramarital affair.

He looks around like he wants to hit something. “So there was someone else,” he says. Now that he’s beyond speculation, he seems to care more than he let on a moment earlier. The anger shows in his coloring, the tightness of the jaw. “Who? Who’s the other man?”

“We don’t know if there was another man,” Jane says. “And if there was, we don’t know who.”

“What’s the . . .” He gestures to the phone. “Are there text messages? There must be.”

“It’s not something we can get into right now,” she says.

“Answer me that, though. Are there messages? Love notes?”

“There are text messages, yes. I promise that when I can give you—”

“When did they start? How long has this . . .” He looks away with a bitter smirk.

“I can’t, sir.”

“Just tell me that much. Give me a date.”

“Mr. Betancourt, please. Soon, I promise, but not now.”

Conrad stews on that, trying to deal with his anger in a composed manner and only barely succeeding. But slowly he decelerates and seems to realize that his reaction to the prospect of his wife’s extramarital affair could only deepen any suspicions the officers might have of him.

“Great,” he mumbles. “That’s just . . . great.”

“Mr. Betancourt, can you excuse us a second?” Andy says.

Jane follows Andy into the Betancourt’s kitchen, where Andy removes a copy of the transcript of text messages.

“Here,” Andy whispers. “Here, read these messages from September nineteenth.”

Jane reads over his shoulder:





UNKNOWN CALLER


USER OF CELL PHONE (BETANCOURT # 1)



Mon, Sept 19, 10:01 AM



Top of the mornin’ to yah, lassie.



Mon, Sept 19, 10:04 AM



Good morning, my queen.



Mon, Sept 19, 10:06 AM