Keep Them Close(75)
“That’s what we think, yes. Finley’s cell phone gets turned off then. Marlow probably realized it wasn’t a good idea for Finley’s phone to be active while he drove him to his burial site. But we have the license plate cameras. They track Finley’s Wagoneer up to Grace Park, where he dumped the body at a residential construction site.”
“Why Grace Park?” Bruce asks.
“Two reasons,” says Louise. “One, he wanted the body far away from him, away from Cicero. Several towns over, at least.”
“Makes sense.”
“And two, he knew of this construction site in Grace Park,” she says. “Because he worked on that job site for a couple weeks in March.”
“No shit.”
“No shit. He did some excavation work. This fancy home on a double lot on Cherry Oak Avenue in Grace Park that belonged to one of Al Capone’s former lieutenants back in the day. We got a list of every worker on the worksite where the body was dumped. We’ve had Marlow Luckett’s name on a damn list since day one. But he didn’t jump out immediately at us.”
“So anyway, he dumped Finley’s body in the dumpster and…”
“And drove back to Cicero. Parked Finley’s Jeep Wagoneer about a mile from his house. So not too close to home, but close enough that he can walk home after ditching the Jeep.”
Bruce slaps his hands down on the table. “Is he talking?”
“Marlow? No. His lawyer’s got his mouth sealed tighter than a knot in a rope.”
“Well.” Bruce lifts himself from his seat. “Looks like game, set, and match for Mr. Luckett. Oh, hey.” He snaps his fingers. “So…Allison Brice?”
“Home all night on April first,” says Louise. “Or at least, her phone stayed put. So did her car.”
“And Luke?”
“Same. Never left his house.”
“I’ll be damned.” Bruce removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Think I’ll stick around for the interview with Allison, now that she’s willing to talk to us.”
April Fools’ Day
67
Allison
—11:10 p.m.—
The town of Cicero is sleepy as a frigid midnight approaches, save a few living room windows emitting the glow of televisions. The 1300 block of South Cedar Street is narrow, with cars lined up fender to bumper on each side. I pass Marlow’s house on my right, reach the end of the block, and turn right, rolling the Wagoneer forward until I’m near the alley.
I send a final message from Finley’s phone to mine: I’m truly sorry for all the pain I caused you. I love you and Grayson more than anything. I hit send and whoosh away Finley’s last words to me. If only he’d said anything like that when it counted.
Luke should be receiving that message now. That will be his cue for the very last thing I need from him tonight.
I grab Finley’s fancy Italian leather gym bag and leave the car. Marlow’s is the third house from the corner. I should be able to access his backyard from the alley. If I’m fenced off completely, I’ll probably just toss the bag over the fence and hope it lands behind a bush. But if I can access his backyard, I’ll stow the bag somewhere. Someplace not too obvious, but not so expertly hidden that a team of police officers executing a search warrant couldn’t find it.
* * *
I’m back in the car less than ten minutes later. The woodpile was perfect. But it’s too soon to leave. At least twenty minutes need to pass. There has to be enough time, reconstructing tonight’s events with cell phone pings and license plate hits, for Marlow to have killed Finley and dragged him to the Wagoneer. It’s not easy sitting still when you’re so close to putting this to bed, when all you want to do is go, go, go! But discipline and care got me this far.
After twenty minutes in total have passed, I’m ready to leave. I turn off Finley’s phone, which is what Marlow would do if he were thinking clearly. Besides, if Fin’s phone stays on, the police could find him with real-time cell tracking. I don’t want his body found for a few days. I want at least a day or two to see how things look, to wrap up any loose ends I may have missed.
* * *
It’s just a few minutes shy of midnight when I reach Grace Park. The streets are quiet, a light mist now falling. As I drive down Cherry Oak Avenue toward the construction site, my eye catches motion along the sidewalk.
It’s Luke, on his bike, riding toward me. He stops me on the road and rolls up to my window. “How did you know to pick this house?” he asks. “You know this is one of those old mobster houses? Rico Cagnola or whatever his name was, one of Capone’s guys?”
Yes, I do, as Marlow Luckett explained to me in my garage.
Every story needs a villain. Marlow, welcome to the story.
“All I know is it’s been under construction for months, so it would have a dumpster.” The less he knows, the better.
“Well, you’re right about that,” he says. “The dumpster’s in the back.” He thinks a moment. “Kill your lights and don’t pull into the driveway. Drive onto the lawn and pull around to the back of the house. It’s private back there.”