Keep Them Close(57)
“That’s right. And they organized them in the order they’d appear on the phone, reverse chronological order, most recent first. So turn to the second page. An exchange on the Thursday before April first—March twenty-sixth.” She reads along with him: Thu, Mar 26 at 7:44 AM
Did you really look hard at the state’s evidence in my case? I think you missed something in that car inventory.
Allison
I see the thumb drive. What’s on it?
I think we both know, don’t we?
Allison
What are your intentions? What are you going to do with it?
Wonder what Finley will say about it
Allison
Please don’t. Not Finley. I’m begging you.
“Does this exchange make sense to you?” Louise asks.
“Well…we did a standard inventory on Trinity Casto’s car. I’d already disclosed it in list form, and I’d given Allison photos of every item.”
“So…I take it that one of the items found in Trinity’s car was a thumb drive?”
“I’m looking that up right now. Yes. Yes, a thumb drive.”
“Did you look at it? Check what’s on it?”
“No. I just thought it was another random item found in someone’s car. For a drug possession case, it didn’t seem significant.”
Louise leans forward. “What about now?” she asks.
He laughs. “Yes, obviously, it seems significant now. I don’t have it here. The evidence was shipped off until trial. But I can get it, probably by tomorrow, and share it.”
“Please do. Whatever it was, Allison seemed pretty desperate that Finley not see it.”
“Know what I find just as interesting?” says Bruce. “Luke Rankin.”
“How so?”
“Well, he won’t talk to you, right? He cut off questioning almost immediately.”
“Correct.”
“Yet he freely hands over his phone. Doesn’t demand a warrant. Just hands it over.”
Louise nods. Cutty does, too. “You think he wants us to see this.”
“I do, Louise. I think our friendly neighborhood baseball coach, the one whose hair we think was found in the Brices’ condo bedroom—I think he might be trying to deflect attention away from himself.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe he truly believes Allison killed Finley. These two don’t seem to have much of a relationship anymore.”
“Let’s just see what the video shows,” says Cutty. “We’ll take it from there.”
Two Days Before April Fools’ Day
48
Allison
The restaurant is alive at six o’clock, voices overlapping, the scrape of chairs against the polished floor, servers weaving between tables with trays of salads and cuts and glasses of wine. Through the tall front windows, Michigan Avenue hums with traffic, the blur of cars and shoppers and suits reminding me how close I am to my office.
“Thanks for agreeing to this.” Finley, dressed in a sport coat and dress shirt, open collar, stands as I find him in the restaurant. “I know you’re busy. I picked a place close to your office.”
Twelve days into our separation, Fin looks good, better than he’s sounded by text or over the phone in boozy late-night calls to me. The formality shakes me a bit; we’ve been together forever, and now he’s grateful I’ll meet with him. But such is one of the many challenges, I am discovering, of breaking apart a marriage.
The air smells of roasted garlic and seared fish, the kind of careful, curated menu that Finley has always favored. The booths are leather, the tables crowded closer together than I’d like, forcing us into proximity not just with each other but with the strangers sitting three feet away. The neighboring tables are animated. Lawyers talking too quickly, sales reps pitching ideas, friends sipping white wine as if time is not an issue.
Then there’s us. Awkward, uncomfortable. And he’s right, I’m busy. Swamped. But I’m the one who couldn’t wait until the end of the Childress trial to split up.
“Remember when this place was Jeremiah’s?” he says. “You burned the roof of your mouth?” His expression changes when he sees mine, though I’m not sure what my face reveals.
Yes, I remember. Of course I remember. It was cheese fondue. A romantic dinner that turned comical. Finley was so kind, so sweet, so attentive.
He orders red wine. I’m good with water. When the waiter leaves, Finley clears his throat. “I’ll get right to it, I guess.” He puts his hands together. “I’ve been doing some thinking. I realize you’ve made up your mind. I won’t fight you. I won’t fight the divorce.”
It wouldn’t matter if he did. He can’t stop me from divorcing him. That’s no concession.
“I was thinking that, if we’re gonna break up, we should make it a clean break. Instead of us being entangled financially forever, maybe it’s best we handle this with just a one-off.”
A one-off? A onetime, lump-sum payment?
“Makes more sense just to, y’know, have separate money,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “I already told you, I’m willing to split everything down the middle. Including my salary, year-end bonus, whatever. We can split up our assets, each of us takes one of the homes. I assume you want the condo downtown, but I’m open to whatever.”