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“I was alone,” I say. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Or boyfriend,” she says. “Not trying to pry into your personal life, but you get my point. A special someone.”
“I don’t have anyone like that in my life. I was home all night on Halloween,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I was binge-watching Netflix. I can prove that on my phone.”
Jane nods, like that all sounds great to her. “I would expect nothing less of you, Simon. I’ll bet you can tell me exactly what show you were watching and describe it for me, too.”
“House of Cards,” I say without enthusiasm.
Andy taps Jane on the arm. “Loved that show. It’s about a guy who manipulates everyone around him to get them to do things for him. Kills some people, too.”
“You know what I love about streaming shows on your phone?” Jane replies to Andy. “You hit ‘play,’ and once one episode ends, the next one begins automatically. You could let the phone just sit there all night, and it would play one show after another, as if you were binge-watching. And the cell phone, of course, will be pinging the local cell tower all the while.”
“Right, so if you’re a fan of CSLI,” says Andy, “y’know, like, if you’re a law professor who specializes in the Fourth Amendment and knows all about historical cell-site location information—it would seem like a pretty good cover. Like you were sitting home all night.”
Jane nods along. “Right. But in the end, what does it prove? It provesthat yourcell phonestayed home all night. It doesn’t tell us anything about whereyouwere.”
She looks at me.
“Does it, Simon?”
“That’s quite a theory you have there,” I say. “My cell phone was home all night, therefore Iwasn’thome. That should get you far.”
“Ah.” Jane waves a hand. “Just a stumbling block. We still have some more work to do. Well, Sergeant Tate, I guess we’re done here. Yeah?”
“I think so, yeah,” he says. “Just one more person to talk to.”
“Let’s do it,” says Jane. “Let’s go talk to Vicky.”
95
Simon
“What?” The word escapes my mouth before I can think. Vicky. They have Vicky’s name. It was one thing for Gavin to have it—another for thepoliceto have it.
How?
Jane Burke, seemingly in the act of pushing herself off the couch, preparing to leave—though it’s obviously just that, an act, a bit of theater—sits back down again. “Vicky,” she says. “Vicky Lanier.”
They have herfullname.
I shrug, but I’m sure the color has drained from my face, if it hadn’t already. “Don’t know the name.”
“’Course you don’t,” she says. “You don’t know Nick Caracci, you don’t know Christian Newsome—so I’m sure you don’t know Vicky Lanier, either.”
How? How do they have her name? The bogus “divorce petition” I wrote up for Vicky to show Christian? An entry from my bogus journal? Did Christian take photos of those on his phone? Vicky was sure he didn’t—but maybe she missed something—
“Something wrong, Simon?” Jane asks. “You seem a little... hot under the collar. Upset.”
“Are you upset, Simon?” says Andy Tate.
“No, I’m... curious, I guess. You’re throwing out all these names without telling me anything else.”
“That’s true.” Jane slaps her hands on her knees. “Okay, I guess I can fill in a few blanks.”
I sit like a casual listener, though I feel anything but casual right now.
“Nick is this real handsome guy,” says Jane. “And successful. A financial investor type of guy. He’s in a relationship with Vicky. We know they had sex in Nick’s office downtown. They all but kicked out the receptionist one afternoon, sent her home early. And before the receptionist was out the door, she was already hearing some interesting sounds coming from that office.”
