Keep Them Close(81)

“Yes.”

“But sometime about six weeks ago, maybe late February, you came to learn that Marlow Luckett had accosted your husband and demanded money from him.”

“That’s right.”

“Your advice was don’t pay him. You doubted he had proof. And if he did have proof, like some kind of video or something—your feeling was, if the incident was as Finley described it, you could defend it in court.”

“Correct.”

“And then several weeks ago, Marlow attacked you in your garage and made you wire money to him under duress.”

“Yes.”

“You gave him twenty-five thousand dollars and decided that it was probably worth the peace of mind. And you hoped that would be it.”

“Yes.”

“And on April first, by text message, Finley told you that Marlow was back for more money. And you believed that Finley might be driving that money to Marlow that very night.”

“It sounded like it. You read the text messages.”

“So my question, Mrs. Brice, is why didn’t you just tell us that right away? Like, the day we found his body? Instead, you took the Fifth for yourself and later for your son.”

Allison opens her hands. “Well, first, until you found him, I couldn’t even be sure Fin was deceased. He was being dramatic, feeling sorry for himself, seeking attention, lashing out. I wouldn’t put it past him to disappear for a few days and make me worried sick.

“And then, when you found him…well, yes, I thought it was probably Marlow who killed him. But I didn’t know for sure. I certainly couldn’t prove it. And more importantly, neither could you. Not yet. I know police procedure. I knew you were going to track phones and look for license plate hits. And I know that takes usually a week at least. So? Put yourself in my shoes. On day one, I say it was Marlow Luckett. You go to him. He denies it. You can’t arrest him. You have no probable cause. Not yet. Now I’ve got a pissed-off guy with a history of violence, both physical and sexual, who’s already attacked me once. I wasn’t looking forward to round two.

“But if I let you do your work, I knew eventually it would all come out. You’d find Finley’s car, you’d track all our phones and license plates, you’d read our text messages, and I assumed all of that would lead you to Marlow. But at that point, when you accosted him, you’d be ready to arrest him. And he’d be locked up. I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder every time I opened my garage.”

“You could’ve given us your phones right away.”

“You don’t need my physical phone to track its cell tower pings.”

“No, but we do to read your text messages.”

“Yes, and then you’d see that my son was furious with his father for being with another woman, and suddenly you lock down on him as a suspect, when he was the furthest thing. My son could no sooner kill his own father than he could fly a rocket ship to the moon. And he was traumatized. So the last thing I wanted was for you to home in on him as a suspect and take your eye off the ball. I wanted you to follow the evidence in a proper investigation without that distraction.”

Louise flips a hand. “Thanks for giving us no credit as investigators.”

“It was my son. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s move on, then,” says Bruce Ghadiali. “Let’s talk about those pills in Trinity’s trunk.”





72


Allison

So far, so good. They’ve eaten up everything I told them about Marlow Luckett, some of which was true, much of which was not. You know why they bought it? Two reasons. One, it’s a pretty solid story. All but impossible to disprove, and verifiable in many ways. Marlow, if he ever waives his right to silence and talks, will surely deny most of this and even say I was the one who hit him with the car, not Finley—but they won’t believe him over me, especially with the corroboration I’ve given them.

But the bigger reason they believe me? It’s not because they trust me.

No, they believe me because it was their theory first. Good, old-fashioned confirmation bias. They did their homework, ran out the ground balls, gathered the evidence, and built a case against Marlow themselves. They checked the cell phone and license plate tracking data. They read the text messages. They looked up Marlow. They tracked him down as the complaining witness in the road-rage incident at Luke’s school parking lot. They obtained the bank records and saw the $25,000 withdrawal.

They came to their conclusions on their own juice. And now I’ve walked in and told them, You’re right.

Do I feel sorry for what I’m doing to Marlow Luckett?

I do not.

I could check with the various women who were the object of his brutality, all of whom were afraid to testify against him. I think I would have their vote.

I could recall my experience in the Mortimer parking lot, Marlow’s plans for me that night, which included calling his buddies to join in on the fun.

No, I’m good with what I’m doing.

Besides, he is dead-to-rights guilty of aggravated battery when he attacked me in the garage. With his criminal record, he’s probably looking at double digits in prison for that alone.



* * *





“The pills in the car? That’s pretty simple,” I say. “That was Finley. He wanted to hurt Luke, and he wanted to hurt me.”