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.
A car door closes nearby. I sit still at my desk and listen.
Footsteps coming up my walk. The porch light goes on, activated by the motion sensor.
The doorbell doesn’t ring. No knock on the door.
Who’s out there?
I go downstairs to the front door and open it. Standing there is Sergeant Jane Burke, expressionless, a bag slung over her shoulder.
I open the screen door. “Little late for a search warrant, isn’t it?”
“I’m not here to search your place,” she says, angling past me, walking through the foyer.
“I don’t believe I invited you in, Jane.”
“I’m not a vampire.”
“No, you’re a cop. Who doesn’t have the right to enter my house without consent or a warrant.”
She walks past the living room into the family room. “Simon, you can take your Fourth Amendment and shove it up your ass.”
I join her in the family room but don’t sit down. “Can I quote you on that?”
She takes a load off and reaches into the bag she’s carrying. “I brought you something,” she says.
Out of her bag she pulls a bottle of champagne and two plastic champagne flutes, tinted red, and places them on the coffee table.
The champagne is Laurent-Perrier, “ultra brut.” I never knew what that meant. Is that different than kinda, sorta brut? Is that one step up from really brut?
“What are we celebrating?” I ask.
She makes a face. “A bottle of that exact brand of champagne, with two cheap red plastic flutes just like those, were found at your father’s crime scene.”
“I don’t have the exact brand committed to memory,” I say, “but yes, I remember that he was hit over the head with—”
“Oh, Simon, Simon, Simon.” She sighs. “Tell me. What kind of a person keeps an empty bottle of champagne for years upon years, waiting for the right moment to exact revenge?”
“I don’t know, Jane—”
“A champagne bottle that your father and Lauren shared. Probably pissed you off but good. And the champagne flutes, too. You kept them foryears, Simon, waiting for the right moment to go down to St. Louis to hit your father over the head with it before stabbing him.”
“The right time?” I ask. “The week of my final exams was that ‘right time’ I’d been waiting for?”
She wags a finger at me. “Had a nice talk with Lauren’s father, Al Lemoyne,” she says. “Lauren did come back, once, while she was living in Paris. For two weeks, to celebrate her parents’ thirty-fifth anniversary.”
“How nice,” I say.
“Yeah, how nice. Lauren’s parents were married May 18, 1975. So their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary was May 18, 2010.”
I open my hands. “Okay...?”
She fixes a stare on me. “Lauren stayed that week and through Memorial Day in Chicago. Memorial Day was May 31, Simon. May 31, 2010. You know what that means.”
“I don’t.”