Keep Them Close(6)
“So he was likely in that bin when it left the site?”
“Looks that way. That’s what the supervisor thought, too.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Bag and tag everything from this load, Jimmy. I want the full route from the hauler—time stamps, drivers, stops. I want to talk to whoever signed off on the pickup. And I want a list of everyone on that jobsite.”
Nardulli nods. “Got it.”
Louise allows a begrudging smile. “She was good,” she says. “Staged it well. Got him away from the crime scene. Bought her some time and distance.”
“Who’s that, Lou?” he asks. “You said ‘she.’?”
“The wife,” says Louise. “Or the mistress. But more likely the wife.”
Officer Nardulli lowers his notepad, reading her.
She winks at him, then smirks at Cutty. She’s kidding. Kinda.
* * *
The three of them stand under the humming fluorescent lights in the hallway of the Cook County Morgue. Cutty bends a stick of gum in his mouth and checks his phone. Allison Brice, dressed in a cotton shirt and stretch pants, folds her arms and tucks her chin. Perhaps a defensive posture, but even Louise must admit, the morgue is always so damn cold.
Allison reported her husband, Finley Brice, missing yesterday, April 3. They were estranged, she’d told the officer, negotiating the terms of a divorce. She stayed in the house in Grace Village. He was living in their downtown condominium on Erie Street. Louise looked up the condo online; fancy place, rich-person place, floor-to-ceiling windows with unobstructed views of the lake. Not surprising, considering Finley was wearing Ferragamo socks, for Christ’s sake, when they found his body.
Not that Allison’s identified him yet. But she will. Louise looked up Finley on social media, on a website regarding some start-up venture capital opportunity. No doubt he’s the man they found this morning.
The door opens. The attendant acknowledges them. Allison pushes herself off the wall and enters the viewing room. Too composed, Louise thinks to herself. Too still. True grief wears many faces, takes many different forms, no two the same, but there is always an element of struggle—struggle to maintain control, to tamp down the roiling chaos, to keep one foot moving in front of the other despite the pain.
Allison Brice is focused. She is concentrating. But not struggling. Not trembling. Her voice does not shake. She hasn’t so much as blinked hard. No, she is in complete control.
Louise glances toward the morgue attendant, who slowly peels back the top portion of the sheet. Allison leans over from the waist. She holds her stare on the body, her arms still folded. Her lips part. Maybe a quick intake of air; Louise isn’t sure.
She remains still as a statue, long enough that the attendant eyeballs Louise, who shakes her head.
Finally, Allison straightens. She turns to the attendant and nods.
The attendant makes a note on the clipboard.
Louise waits a beat, then steps forward. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brice.”
She studies Allison’s profile—the stiff jaw, the tension in her neck.
“Mrs. Brice, in your missing-persons report, you said you last saw Finley on April first at approximately three o’clock in the afternoon?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to harm him?” she asks.
Allison blinks her dry eyes. Works her jaw. “He was being erratic. Difficult. Very worried about money. Very.”
That’s not really an answer to the question. But Louise will let that go for now. “Money, as in, after the divorce?”
Allison’s shoulders lift slightly. “We weren’t communicating well. It was a…contentious split. We were not getting along.”
“Mind me asking why? Why so contentious?”
She takes a breath, like she’s holding something in, then releases it. She turns and looks dead-on at Louise for the first time since they met. “You ever been divorced?”
“Me? No, can’t say I have.”
Allison’s eyes shut. “I have to go tell my son his father is dead.”
“I’ll need to follow up. I’m sorry to ask you these questions.”
“I understand,” says Allison. “I’m the estranged wife. I’m suspect number one.”
“I didn’t say that, Mrs. Brice.”
Allison tries a smile. She turns for the exit. “I’m sorry, but I’m not answering questions.”
“I understand you have to attend to your son right now. Maybe tomorrow?”
“No.” Allison turns back toward Louise. “I mean I’m not answering questions, period. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She disappears out the door.
Louise looks at Cutty. “Did I just hear that right?”
He leans into her. “Well, now she’s definitely suspect number one,” he whispers.
* * *
“We got a singular prominent incised wound to the left anterior chest, approximately four centimeters in length.” Still in her lab coat, Dr. Roberta Boyd, a forensic pathologist with the Cook County Medical Examiner, snaps open a can of Diet Coke outside her office. “Nine millimeters in diameter. Penetrated the left ventricle.”