Keep Them Close(71)

“Also pull the ECU,” she adds. “If the car’s onboard system’s intact, I want the ignition logs. Time stamps on when it started, when it stopped. And the nav system. Maybe he had a destination punched in. Did I mention rush job?”

“You did.”

Louise takes a breath, looks around the neighborhood. Fairly standard middle-class, blue-collar hood. People who live paycheck to paycheck, go to church on Sunday, help each other out but mind their own business.

“Why here?” she says to Cutty. “Why does Finley come here?”

“If Finley drove,” he says. “Maybe he was already dead. Someone else drove him.”

“Okay, but why come here?”

Cutty looks around, purses his lips. “Maybe it has no meaning. Maybe that’s the point—an anonymous suburb, no connection,” he says.

Louise strolls toward their car. Cutty follows. “We need something to break here.”

“Now I’m gonna mimic you,” says Cutty, “and remind you that it’s still early. We just got Allison’s and Grayson’s phones. We haven’t even glanced at them yet. That could be a treasure trove of information. And we’re being told that tomorrow, we’ll have the historical cell phone tracking data on all four of our principals—Finley, Allison, Luke, and Grayson. And probably the license plate camera data, too. We put all that together, I’ll bet we’ll have a pretty complete story.”

“I guess.”

“Tell you what.” Cutty pats her back. “We get that big info dump tomorrow with the cell site location data and the license plate cameras. We have their phones. So let’s just sit and review that information. Friday and over the weekend. I’m not doing anything this weekend. And come Monday, we might have the story.”

Louise sighs. “You’re right. I like that plan.”





April Fools’ Day





63


Allison

—9:40 p.m.—

I sit on the floor of the bedroom, panting. I almost can’t believe I did it.

I thought wrapping Finley would be the hardest part. And it was difficult. Lifting up one side of him enough to shove the cloth beneath him. Lifting him from the other side to pull the cloth through. Repeating that process over and over to cover his entire body, though the legs were admittedly easier. I got one wrap around him, not exactly mummy-like, but a start. I used duct tape to fasten the cloth in the front.

Getting Finley onto the luggage cart was the single greatest physical challenge of my life. I braced the cart against the dresser and forced him forward, a little at a time. There were times I thought it wouldn’t happen. But I got there. And I laid a second drop cloth on the cart, so that once I had him on there, I could wrap a second cloth over his front and duct-tape it closed.

Now I’m ready to roll the cart to the elevator—a small risk, to be sure, but my unit is close to the freight elevator, so I only need about thirty seconds’ worth of luck. Then I’ll be in the elevator down to the parking garage and ready to load Finley into the rear of his Wagoneer.

Before that, I have some additional cleaning to do. I won’t wipe down every surface of the place. That would look suspicious. They will know that Finley’s been living here a while. They will know Grayson came to visit tonight. They will know I came to visit earlier. And I plan to return tomorrow, under the guise of checking on things out of worry.

I will do enough to remove evidence of struggle. The fireplace, for example, will need to be cleaned up. I will double-check that the family room looks generally in order.

Oh, and before I forget, I open Finley’s phone to send a text message to Trinity:


I apologize for my behavior. Haven’t been myself lately. You didn’t deserve that. Stressed about that thing I have to do tonight but that’s no excuse.

I hit send. Trinity will have no context for this. It will freak her the hell out. But I’m saving her ass. This proves Finley was alive as of…9:47 p.m. Long after she left the unit.

You’re welcome, Trinity.





After April Fools’ Day





64


Louise

—Investigation, Day 9—

Monday morning, Louise and Cutty stand at the base of the uneven front steps, the early-morning sun glinting off the brown shingle roof. The house is tired, weary. Aluminum siding flutters loose in spots, and the porch leans just enough to suggest its best days are decades gone.

The houses on this block are mostly humble brick bungalows packed closely together with detached single-car garages and plenty of vinyl siding and shingles and porch swings. Street parking is commonplace, up and down the block on both sides.

“You know taxes are due in two days?” she says. “You started yours?”

Cutty chuckles. “I’ve spent the last three days and nights with you. I’m half-blind from reading cell site location data, license plate camera reports, credit card statements, bank records, and text messages. I’ll do ’em last minute as always.”

The door opens after the second knock. A large man with a goatee, hair standing on end, wearing a flannel shirt and sweatpants, stands in the doorway. “Who are you?” he asks.

“Detective Louise Pratt, Grace Park Municipal Police. This here’s Detective Sarkisian. Are you Marlow Luckett?”