SíMON QUIT work at five o’clock sharp, spent an hour pushing weights around a boutique gym, then hit a local fast-food chain, where he sat by the window scarfing a three-tier cheeseburger and curly fries. No doubt about it: the man had assimilated.
From the restaurant I followed him to a ritzy wine bar in Sunset Park. Lucky for me, the place had a glass storefront. I parked across the street, watched through binoculars from behind my Jeep’s tinted windows. Símon was halfway through a demicarafe of red when a woman in a sequin dress tapped his shoulder. He hopped up, smiled, gave her a very polite peck on the cheek. For a second I thought it was Serena. Right height and shape, wrong age: Símon’s date was robbing the cradle.
They carried on what looked like a lively conversation for the better part of an hour, then made their way to the movie theater around the corner, an indie house showing two titles, one French and one German. Símon was eager to impress.
I looked at my watch, figured I had a couple of hours to kill before they came back out. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I grabbed three slices at the pizza parlor across from the theater, then strolled over to Símon’s Honda Civic and opened the driver’s-side door with a slim jim.
I was looking for any sign of Serena: a receipt from a store in Anthony Costello’s zip code, one of the ESL workbooks my wife was always giving her, a piece of Anna’s jewelry. But the interior was spotless. Of course it was: if Símon played his cards right, he’d have company on the ride home.
I checked the glove compartment. Nothing but the vehicle’s registration and an illustrated primer on the flora and fauna of the Everglades. Nothing much in the trunk, either. Just a spare tire, a jack, and a stash of environmentally friendly grocery bags.
Símon was starting to annoy me.
I glanced at my watch. The movie was only a half hour in. Chances were they’d stop for another drink after, maybe even a late meal. Unless Símon’s sister planned on crashing date night, there was no point in my continuing to tag along. It occurred to me that I could break into his apartment just as easily as his car. If Serena was there, camped out on his couch, so much the better. If not, there might be something to indicate where she’d gone. I copied Símon’s current address off the registration, then locked up and walked back to my car.
Símon lived in Ybor City in a funky but upscale building, a nineteenth-century boarding school that had been converted into condominiums in the nineties. I got past the lobby door with a bump key and some elbow grease, took the stairs two at a time up to his third-floor apartment. For a while, I just stood there listening, hoping to hear a television or radio, something to tell me Serena was home. But the only noise came from children fighting in a corner unit.
I rang the bell just to be sure, then slipped on a pair of latex gloves and let myself in. The lights were off, the windows open. I heard sporadic traffic coming from the street below, but otherwise the place was silent. I switched my phone to Flashlight, passed its beam over the living room, then kept going through the rest of the apartment. No doubt about it: Símon had done well for himself. French doors led to a balcony with a wrought iron railing. The raised kitchen was loaded with stainless steel appliances. Art from multiple continents hung on the walls. The hardwood floors were gleaming. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Not in the bedroom, the bathroom, the study. Almost as if he had a full-time maid.
Well, this was a bust, I thought.
When Vincent called tomorrow for his daily update, I’d have nothing to give him. Unless…
I was on my way out the door when it hit me: what if Símon killed Anthony? It was a theory with no supporting evidence, but still it felt plausible. When it came to women, Anthony was pure predator. His type always is. And Símon, from what I could gather, was pure gentleman. On a day picked at random, I’d seen him cry with an old woman over her dead cat, then greet his date with an innocent peck on the cheek. Símon, champion of the fair sex. He wouldn’t take kindly to someone pawing his kid sister.
Maybe I’d laid it on a little thick with Heidi, but I’d meant what I said: it was borderline impossible to believe that a 120-pound woman could bring down a mammoth like Anthony. Símon, on the other hand, acting as Serena’s white knight—that was easy enough to picture. Maybe he’d gone there to beat some manners into Anthony. Maybe his rage had gotten the better of him.
The idea struck me so hard that, without realizing it, I backed up and dropped onto the couch. But before I could think things through, I heard keys jangling outside, and then Símon’s front door swung open.