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 topretendto 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 isthis, 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.