Gabriel handed me the folder. I opened it to find transcripts from Alan's cell phone, specifically the thread of his regular text conversations with his wife. I only had to skim through a few elements--word choice, abbreviations, emojis--to let out a curse.
"Yes, they match," he said.
"But this might be the real reason her cell phone was taken. To imitate her texting patterns, to convince Alan that it was her."
"That is more likely."
I returned the pages to his folder. "Three scenarios. First, no one ever tried breaking in, and Heather staged it all. Second, someone did try breaking in, and Heather took advantage of the setup. Third, everything was staged by an external party, who either knew she had a gun or..."
I considered. "No, I don't see any other explanation. The only reason that the third party would summon Alan home with those increasingly frantic texts is if he knew Heather was armed. It's still far from foolproof. Like, a hundred miles from foolproof."
"Just because you see that doesn't mean a third party would. It's tunnel vision. He has set up his pieces, and he sees only the play that he intends."
"Or he's just not vitally invested in success. He's taking a chance. How to commit murder without being tied to it in any way. That's some trick."
"One that must come with the risk of failure. Significant risk."
"And it did pay off. Alan is dead."
"With Heather charged in his murder."
I glanced over at Gabriel. "Which isn't an incidental outcome, is it? This was staged so Heather would pull the trigger. So she would accidentally murder her husband. But she wasn't about to be charged, and the police weren't looking for any other suspects. Case closed. Yet someone didn't want it closed. The police got a tip on the texts, didn't they?"
Gabriel nodded. "An anonymous call from a person who claimed to work at the restaurant and knew text messages had summoned Alan home."
My theory was that Keith Johnson made that call. I had to dig deeper into the man himself.
My preliminary work revealed no obvious link between Johnson and the Nansens. Johnson was ten years older and hadn't gone to school with either of them. He was actually from New Jersey, and had moved to Chicago five years ago when he married. After his wife had died two years ago, he'd stayed, having settled into a job and a home.
As for his job, I'd shamed my profession by jumping to a conclusion based on circumstantial evidence. Johnson was a middle-aged guy wearing a good suit and driving an expensive car. Ergo, he must be a successful professional, maybe a doctor or lawyer or stockbroker. But there was at least one career that would explain the suit and car without necessitating a six-figure salary. Car salesman.
Johnson worked for a local Audi dealership. The car belonged to them--one of his perks. The suit exceeded his budget, but he wore it for the same reason Gabriel had begun wearing tailor-made suits before he could afford them: they made him look successful.
I'd thought maybe that was the link--that Johnson had sold the Nansens a car, which established a connection, maybe an infatuation with Heather. But the Nansens drove a Land Rover because Alan Nansen's brother-in-law owned a Rover dealership. Even that tenuous link didn't mean anything--the two dealerships were at opposite ends of the city, in no competi
tion.
Research wasn't getting me anywhere. I needed to talk to Johnson...and pray Ioan was right, that Johnson remembered nothing of the night he'd been hunted by giant hounds and hooded horsemen.
Fifteen
Olivia
I swanned into the dealership where Johnson worked and tugged off my Versace sunglasses.
"Hello?" I trilled. "Can someone help me? I need to buy a car."
A few heads turned, just bemused glances at first, no one exactly rushing from their offices...until they saw me. Then a tsunami of salesmen rolled into the showroom.
I wasn't exactly a supermodel, but when you're twenty-five and blond, sometimes that's all you need. In this case, that was only half the package. The rest was the outfit. Start with the sunglasses I'd snagged from my parents' place where I'd left them. Great specs, but they really did scream "spoiled socialite," and that wasn't the image I liked to project...unless I really wanted to project it. Take the sunglasses, add knee-high boots, leggings and a flowing scarf, and I was screaming spoiled socialite at the top of my lungs. To reduce the chance of being recognized, I'd covered my ash-blond hair with a platinum-blond wig and added two extra layers to my makeup.
"Thank you," I said with an exaggerated sigh as I put the oversized sunglasses back on. "I need a new car, and I'd like to trade in that."
A dismissive wave at the front window, outside of which sat a Shelby 427 Cobra. I swore I heard jaws drop.
One of the younger salesmen sputtered, "Is that...is that a... It's a replica, right?"
"Certainly not."