She rolled her pretty eyes. “No, Zeke. I don’t make it a habit to learn my boyfriends’ social security numbers.”
I didn’t point out that it might be a good habit to start.
“What about his year of birth?”
She gave it.
I mentally did the math. “So he’s thirty-five?”
“That sounds about right. He was thirty when we started dating, and we were together for a bit more than a year.”
The age also meshed with his photograph from social media. I opened the site again, copied the image and ran a reverse search to see if I could find it—or him—elsewhere. Several websites popped up. Most of them were from art galleries or blogs, with a couple of interviews in online magazines. I opened one of them and scanned the text. It was full of self-congratulatory bullshit.
“He sounds like a self-entitled douche,” I said.
“He is.” She didn’t sound mad. Just resigned. “That’s the kind of man I generally attract.”
Double ouch. I’d been flirting with her for years. Had she meant that as a slight against me or had she just not thought before she spoke?
“Did he work at all while you were together?”
“Only on his art.”
“And he’s strictly a painter?”
She waved her hand back and forth. “He dabbled in sculpture but he was never as good at it as he was at painting.”
“Does he have family? Do you know if he’s still in the city?” The more information I had, the better the instructions I could give my team.
“He has a mom who worships the ground he walks on. She didn’t have a husband and I’m not sure what the deal with Bergen’s dad was. He never told me. I’m not sure if he even knows him.”
“Siblings?”
She laughed dryly. “None. Lucky, because he’d never have been able to stand having his mom’s attention divided.”
“So, he’s a momma’s boy?”
“Only in that he adores her because she dotes on him. It’s good for his ego.”
“Right.” The more I learned about this guy, the worse he sounded. “Close friends?”
She scowled. “He makes friends easily but doesn’t keep them for long. In hindsight, that should have been a red flag. He always said they were jealous of him, and I bought it.”
“Jesus, Fi. How did you not see what a tool this guy was?”
She closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands, releasing a muffled growl. When she raised her face again, she looked so sad I wanted to pull her into my arms and hold her.
“I was blind, and apparently, the police are too. When you figure out how to fix that, let me know. I’d really appreciate it.”
