Jane turns that question on Abimbola. “Anything else you remember, sir?”
“He give me a nice tip,” he says.
“Oh?”
“He give me one hundred. The cab ride was maybe twenty-five. You remember the good tippers.”
Jane glances at Andy. “I’ll bet you do,” she says.
—
Jane and Andy, back in their war room at Grace Village P.D., eating microwaved sandwiches well past the lunch hour and reading through the file from the FBI on Nicholas Caracci. Jane’s phone rings. She recognizes the number and puts it on speakerphone.
“Tox screen came back,”Cheronis squawks.“Caracci had a few shots of alcohol and over forty milligrams of diazepam in his system. Normal dosage is more like ten milligrams.”
“Enough to overdose?” Jane asks.
“Definitely possible. M.E. says for someone of his size, maybe yes, maybe no. But enough to make him very sleepy and very goofy in pretty short order.”
“Diazepam,” says Jane. “Meaning Valium.”
“Yeah, pretty standard tranquilizer.”
Jane looks at Andy. “Drugs in his system,” she says. “Heard that one before?”
—
“Here you go,” says the building manager of Grant Thornton Tower, an efficient man in a dark suit. “Would you like me to wait up here or do you want to just buzz me when you’re done?”
“We’ll let you know when we’re done,” says Andy.
Inside the office of Newsome Capital Growth, suite 1320. The place does not look as if it’s prepared to be receiving visitors.
“Looks like ol’ Nick had travel plans,” Andy summarizes.
The place has been cleaned out. On the reception desk, dust lines form a square shape, presumably where a computer once sat. A power cord juts out from beneath the desk. On the carpet underneath the desk, heavy indentations, a rectangular shape, presumably where the computer’s mainframe or hard drive once sat. The drawers behind the reception area have been rifled through and largely emptied out.
“Computer’s gone, files are gone,” says Andy. “He removed all trace of himself.”
“Or of someone else,” she says. “That sound like someone who’s about to commit suicide? I mean, what doeshecare what we find about his con artist career, or Lauren, for that matter, if he’s going to eat a bullet?”
“I hear you, but...” Andy closes the drawers, wearing gloves in case they want to check the place for prints. “Maybe he knew he was going to kill her, and he wanted to erase all evidence of her from this office. Maybe the suicide wasn’t planned, Jane. He has some belts of bourbon, some tranquilizers, he’s feeling remorseful and emotional, suddenly putting that gun under his chin sounds like a good idea. You can’t discount that possibility.”
“No, I can’t,” she concedes. Andy’s right. That’s all possible. “But I don’t like it.”
They check out the one major office, an impressive office atthat—Nicholas Caracci’s attempt to be “Christian Newsome,” the wealthy, super-smart investor. A wet bar in the corner and cushy couch. Electronic banners scrolling indices from the Dow Jones, the Nasdaq, and the Nikkei. Flat-screen TVs on the wall. A massive, sleek metal desk. Expensive rugs. He definitely looked the part.
But nothing in the drawers. Nothing in the cabinets. No computer anywhere.
No signs of who was here or what they did.
—
They find the building manager down in the lobby.
“Anything else I can do for you, Sergeant Burke?” he says, on his best behavior. Most people are when the cops come a-calling.
“We appreciate your help,” says Jane. “We’re just going to need one more thing. You keep visitors’ logs?”