Keep Them Close(14)
“Bruce Ghadiali?” she says into the phone. “I haven’t heard from you in a dog’s year.”
“Louise! Glad this number still works for you. How’s life in the suburbs?”
“I sleep more,” she says. “You still at the state’s attorney’s office?”
“Guess I’m a lifer. Sorry to call on Easter. Are you with family?”
“Not ’til later. Right now, I’m sitting on a house,” she says. “Homicide victim’s wife.”
“That wouldn’t be Allison Brice’s house, would it?”
Louise lurches forward.
* * *
“I didn’t know you still worked cases,” says Louise. “A big supervisor like you?”
“I don’t, but it became news,” says Bruce. “Y’know Luke Rankin was the coach of that local college team that went to the World Series? And then his big-shot sister comes in to represent him. The office didn’t want to be embarrassed on a high-profile case. So I was summoned.”
“I only know a little about the case. He was caught with prescription drugs in his car a couple months back? I figured that would wrap up pretty quickly in a plea or even a quick trial.”
“I did, too.” Bruce laughs. “We were both wrong. It’s taken some crazy turns.”
“How crazy?”
“Batshit crazy,” he says.
“And…you think your drug case is related to my murder case?”
“I’d bet my life on it,” he says. “Which is why I’m assigned to your murder case, too.”
* * *
Three more women, one accompanied by a man, stop by the Brice house over the next hour. Louise zooms in and snaps a photo of each person. If they drove, she takes a photo of their license plate and runs it.
In contrast to Grace Park, on Chicago’s western border and essentially a miniaturized version of the big city, Grace Village is like an exclusive club. The plots are larger, the streets quieter and smoother, full of manicured landscaping. Lots of family money, multigenerational residents. The consummate bedroom community.
The Brices, who likely bought their house back when Allison was a government prosecutor, not a fancy private lawyer, seem to have followed the advice of purchasing the least expensive house on the nicest street. They have a corner lot that’s smaller than most, a narrow Tudor with stucco and red wood trim, likely three bedrooms at most, all very well attended.
Around eleven, about the time Louise is readying to leave for an Easter service with her family, another car pulls up. A Corvette. A woman gets out, a walk that’s more like a strut as she crosses the lawn to the front door. Louise raises her binoculars to her eyes. The leather jacket’s the giveaway.
“I’ll be damned,” Louise says. “That’s Jennifer Harper.”
* * *
Louise waits until Harp leaves a half hour later and follows her Corvette. She doesn’t bother being subtle, finally putting the cherry on her dashboard, as if Harper couldn’t spot an unmarked cop car with her eyes closed. They both pull into a gas station by Main Street.
“Louise Pratt, I thought that was you.” Harp looks the same as always as she gets out of her car. Leather jacket and attitude, great hair.
“Harp!” Louise worked more than one joint task force with Harp, who was one of her favorite FBI agents. Some of that was a natural alliance, two women in a world dominated by men. Still, Harp had bigger brass than most of the boys, who couldn’t decide if they were intimidated by her or wanted to fuck her. Or both.
Her problem was the drink. Not because it affected her work but because it affected her personal life, which spilled over into work. But damn, before they ran her out, she was a force.
“Happy Easter,” says Harp. “You’re…here now? Grace Village?”
“Grace Park Municipal Police,” says Louise. “Currently investigating the Brice murder.”
Harp isn’t one to easily betray her thoughts, but Louise detects a brief wince. “I go way back with Allison at the G,” says Harp, explaining her visit. “We’ve stayed buds.”
“Is she a client?”
“Well, don’t beat around the bush or anything.”
Louise smiles. “You may recall I’m direct to a fault. And that’s not a ‘no.’?”
Harp allows for that. “If she were a client, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Right, but if she weren’t a client, you’d tell me she’s not. C’mon, Harp. A dead husband and a wife who was divorcing him? A contentious divorce, Allison’s words? And now I see she had a private investigator? That’s too good for an old detective like me to resist.”
Harp slaps her on the shoulder. “You wanna grab a drink and talk old times, I’m your gal. Otherwise, Lou, I’m not interested. Good seeing you, though.”
“I’m asking nicely so far,” says Louise.
Harp, halfway back to her car, stops and turns. “Come again?”
“Look, Harp, tell me you only work for her on the law firm side. Look me in the eye and tell me that? I won’t bother you. Hell, I’ll buy the drinks. But I think you were doing personal work for her. And the more you don’t wanna talk to me, the more I wanna talk to you.”