The third condo down belongs to Christian Newsome, who has been screwing Vicky for the last couple of weeks.
Yeah, I know about that. I’ve even seen Christian out on his patio a couple of times when I’ve come here for my nightly runs. Sometimes Christian sits out there alone. Sometimes he’s out there with his friend Gavin.
Never Vicky, though. No, Vicky would be far, far too cautious to allow herself to be seen in public with Christian.
Am I upset about Vicky having sex with another man? Of course. I’m only human. But one could argue that I lack standing to complain under the circumstances.
I’m trying to be reasonable about this. Sometimes I am a perfectly reasonable man.
Other times, I let things bother me more than theyshould.
THE DAY AFTERHALLOWEEN
40
Jane
Conrad Betancourt sits slumped against the couch in his living room. His eyes are glassy, with thick, dark pouches beneath. His only saving grace is a decent suntan.
An officer met him at O’Hare, where he landed about two hours ago. He was driven to the Cook County morgue, where he identified the body of his wife, Lauren. The report from the officer was sparse: Other than uttering the words “Sweet Jesus” and confirming the deceased was, indeed, his wife of three years, he asked for a few private moments. If he cried softly or bawled like a devastated husband or remained steely and steadfast, Jane wouldn’t know, because her officer didn’t know. When he emerged from the exam room, he said nothing on the way to his house.
“Who did this to my wife and why?” Conrad asks.
My wife.NotLauren.Since he arrived at the house, he hasn’t uttered her name, just referred to her as a possession. How very male. Jane has wondered how she would feel if she were married and her husband referred to her that way, instead of by name. It would be nice to find out, someday.
“Help us figure this out,” Jane says.
“Well, she didn’t commit suicide.”
“No? Why not?”
“She wouldn’t do that.” He doesn’t elaborate. He seems like a boss, a leader, issuing authoritative statements without the need to explain. She’s reasonably sure she would not enjoy working for him.
“Was she depressed?” Jane asks.
“Not in the way you mean. We—we were getting divorced,” he says. “So I suppose that’s not ahappytime.”
“One of you had already filed?” she asks, though she already knows from his ex-wife Cassandra.
“I did.”
“May I ask why?” She questions herself, whether she phrased that question properly, as if she needs permission. She’s a cop investigating a murder. She’s entitled to that answer, however personal it may be. She makes a mental note.
Betancourt sizes her up, eyes squinted in disapproval. “Irreconcilable differences.”
“Can you elaborate?”
He seems to find that amusing at first—pushy, he’d probably say to her if she weren’t a cop,a pushy broad—but then breaks eye contact and fixes his stare on the wall. “The marriage wasn’t working out.”
“Did your wife agree with that assessment?”
That question, he finds even more amusing. “I am sure she did.”
“When did you file?”
“Couple weeks ago.”
“So in October, mid-October.”