Well, maybe you can look back alittle.
THE DAY AFTERHALLOWEEN
50
Jane
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to talk about this, but... Lauren and Conrad were getting a divorce.” Shari Rowe sits back in the chair in the interview room and awaits a reaction. She is the last of a circle of Lauren’s friends, most of whom live downtown, that Jane Burke and Andy Tate have interviewed tonight.
“We’re aware,” Jane tells her. “How did Lauren feel about that?”
“I mean, it’s not happy times, but...” Shari is thirty-six, divorced, a schoolteacher downtown. Glamorous and confident, one of those women with whom Jane never really felt a kinship, but traits that generally matched all five of Lauren’s band of friends. Lauren’s Facebook page is full of photos of these women out at clubs, brunching on weekends, in yoga class, chill moments on “movie nights.”
“But what?”
“Lauren was ready to move on, I’d say. It had been bad with Conrad for a while. It’s not like any of us were surprised. But an affair? She never said anything about that.”
“Would you expect that she would? That she’d tell you?”
Shari thinks about that. “People have their secrets, right? But we were pretty open with each other. We talked about every other damn thing. We had each other’s backs. I’ll say this much, if she wanted to have an affair, she’d have plenty of takers.”
“Men were drawn to her?”
“Oh, yeah, when we’d go out, sure. She started going out with us again over the last year, when things got bad with Conrad. Men would swarmaround her. I mean, just look at her.” She freezes on that comment, her eyes misting, realizing that nobody will be looking at Lauren again. “You think she was having an affair, and the guy... killed her?”
“We’re just checking every option,” says Andy, who has clearly enjoyed these interviews with Lauren Betancourt’s attractive friends.
“I think...” Shari inclines her head. “I think she was looking forward to getting out there again. She said she ‘missed sex.’ I know from firsthand experience that when a marriage is breaking down, sex is the first thing to go.”
“Yeah?” Jane tries to sound disinterested. “When did Lauren say she missed sex?”
“Oh, that was the last time we were out.”
“Last Thursday, October twenty-seventh?” Apparently all six of the women made it out to a dance bar in River North last Thursday.
“Right. God, just a week ago. I still can’t... can’t believe she’s gone.” She shakes her head, blinking away tears.
Jane sneaks a look at Andy, whose eyebrows dance.
—
“Give me the latest,” says the chief, arching his back. It’s past nine o’clock, and it seems like nobody wants to be the first one to leave tonight, after the discovery of Lauren Betancourt’s body this morning.
“Okay, first, the phones,” says Jane.
“We tracked down the telecom provider for both Lauren’s burner and the burner she was texting,” says Andy Tate. “Same carrier, as we figured. We tried real-time CSLI for the other burner, but we couldn’t locate the phone.”
“His phone’s turned off,” the chief says.
“His phone’s off, yes. So no signal.”
“Maybe it’s with him in the bottom of a river.”
Jane lifts a shoulder. She’s not so sure about the suicide angle. Yes, no question, the last text message Lauren’s boyfriend sent more than suggested he was going to take his own life—I’m coming to you now, let me love you in a way you wouldn’t in this world—but talking about suicide is one thing. Actually going through with it is another.
“We should have historical data in a day or two,” says Jane.
“Good. What else?”