Chapter 25
Louise
The Grace Park Municipal Police Station is a two-story brick building tucked off Miriam Street, squat and unremarkable from the outside, running with the low, steady current of a department that knows its town: mostly small crimes, tight budgets, always slightly off guard when something bigger lands on its doorstep.
The front lobby smells like lemon floor wax and Lysol.
Josie, the civilian receptionist with a tidy bun and caustic sense of humor, has the front desk for the evening shift.
The walls are lined with faded photos of retired officers, a community bulletin board, a clock that nobody trusts in the age of smartphones.
“How we doin’, Lou?” Josie asks Louise, sipping from a thermos with cat stickers.
“Happy as a puppy with two peters,” she says.
Past the central hallway, past the patrol sergeants’ bullpen and a door labeled Evidence—Authorized Use Only, sits the detectives’ bureau, a room with eight desks, four shared file cabinets, a scuffed whiteboard covered in case numbers and initials.
The walls are institutional beige. The tile floor is only cracked in about ten different places.
The fluorescent lights flicker; the radiators hiss. The space reeks of burnt coffee.
Louise drops her bag by her desk, the second from the end with a view of the parking lot and the steeple of a Presbyterian church.
Her desk is chaotic to the naked eye but organized to her, everything where it should be.
Paper files are stacked beneath a worn leather-bound notebook.
A World’s Best Grandma mug, faded from years of use, rests beside a coaster she never uses.
Taped to the computer monitor are two sticky notes: one with a password scratched out and replaced three times, the other with the reminder Listen longer than they expect.
Lining the back are photos. A framed black-and-white of her academy graduation, back when her badge still gleamed and her hair was strawberry blond. And three separate frames for her three children and their families, seven grandkids in total.
Cutty sits at his desk across from Louise. “I remember Luke Rankin,” he says. “From growing up. He must be forty-two now. Younger than me, but just a year younger than my brother. They played youth baseball together.”
“He was really good?” she asks. “Before that accident.”
“Oh, yeah, it was crazy. Nobody could hit him. It became so ridiculous, he had to stop playing little league and just played travel ball. He played kids two, three years older than him, and they couldn’t hit him, either. That accident was real news around here.”
“Well.” Louise checks her phone for the time. “He should be here any minute now.”
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Rankin. Wish it were under better circumstances.”
They are inside Interview Room A at the station.
The room is as plain as a coffin: gray-painted cinder-block walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, chairs facing each other.
A single light buzzes faintly overhead, leaving a pale glare.
In the corner, a wall-mounted camera watches with its unblinking red eye.
A slim stack of files rests on the table.
Dressed in a long-sleeved purple shirt, the words Mortimer Baseball in small print at the breast, Luke Rankin sits in the plastic chair across from them. Handsome, athletic, looking much younger than his forty-two years with a strong jaw and full head of thick, curly dark hair.
Interesting that he’s not represented by counsel. Louise certainly isn’t going to remind him of that option. “Would you consent to us searching your phone?” she asks.
“Um, sure. But…how long will you keep it?”
“Won’t take our tech long to download the contents. She’ll be in at eight in the morning.”
“Fine.” He slides his phone across the table. “I’ll pick it up around ten?”
“Sure.”
Well, that was easy.
“Guess I’ll start with this,” says Louise. “When was the last time you saw Finley Brice?”
Luke’s eyes narrow. “Maybe…a month ago?”
“Was that at the Brices’ condo downtown?”
“No, it was at Trinity’s house. Trinity Casto’s townhouse. She was interviewing him for her documentary.”
“Sure. I’ll want to come back to that documentary. When was the last time you were at the Brices’ condo downtown?”
“Oh, wow. The last time…” His eyes trail to the ceiling. “Years? Years.”
“All right. Mr. Rankin, do you know anyone who’d want to harm Finley?”
He makes a face, lifts a shoulder. “You’d have to ask Allison.”
“We did. She won’t talk to us.”
His head tilts a fraction. “Allison won’t answer questions? Why not?”
Also interesting. “That’s news to you, Mr. Rankin? Have you spoken to her recently?”
Louise knows for a fact that he has. She saw him at Allison’s house last Sunday.
“Well, I mean, sure, after the news hit. I spent pretty much all of Easter at her house. But I didn’t know she was refusing to talk to you guys.”
“Okay, well, how was your relationship with Finley Brice?”
“Eh…” He angles his head. “Didn’t really have one anymore. We were close growing up. But I think as the marriage got bad, he kind of turned off from me, too. We didn’t hang around together or anything. I’d see him when I went over to my sister’s. That’s about it.”
“What about your relationship with your sister?”
“We don’t…have one anymore, either,” he says.
“No? Why not?”
He shrugs off the question. “Brother-sister shit.”
“Would that have anything to do with your arrest?”
“Wow.” Luke sits back in his chair. “That didn’t take long.”
“What didn’t take long?”
“I’m still charged for that crime,” says Luke. “And I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came here to answer questions about Finley.”
“We think they might be related, Mr. Rank—”
“I lost my job over that case,” he says, his anger rising, drilling a finger into the table. “I’ll fight that charge. But I won’t be tricked into answering questions about it.”
“No, no, no.” Louise puts out her hands. “That wasn’t my intention.”
Luke pauses, rolling his tongue against his cheek. “How is my case related to Finley’s?”
“That’s not—we’re not at liberty to share that with you,” says Louise.
“Oh, you’re not at liberty.” He smiles, then drops his head. “Then I guess I’m not at liberty to share with you.” He pushes himself out of his chair.
“You can’t leave,” says Louise, but Luke has already walked out.
Louise looks at her partner. “What the hell just happened?”
“Whatever it was, it was exactly what he had planned,” says Cutty. “That was an acting job, Lou, if I’ve ever seen one. He was never gonna talk to us.”
That night just before eight, a gray sky overhead, Louise and Cutty ring the Brices’ doorbell. Allison answers quickly but shows no sign of opening up her house to them. “Hello, Mrs. Brice,” says Louise. “We were wondering if you still refuse to answer our questions.”
“Yes,” she says simply, with an expression that would make a poker player proud.
Louise shakes her head. “Mind telling me why?”
“I just told you I won’t answer questions, Detective. And then you ask me one?”
Cutty jumps in, sensing Louise’s anger. “May we inspect your phone?”
“No,” says Allison.
Louise plants a smile on her face, an old trick to contain her emotions. “I don’t understand what you’re doing here, Mrs. Brice.”
“Bruce Ghadiali will,” she says. “Tell him hi for me.” She shuts the door.
Louise stands, flat-footed, trying to form a word with her lips.
“You live long enough, you see everything,” Cutty whispers.
Louise turns and walks down the brick walkway, Cutty following.
“We can get her phone, at least,” says Cutty. “Maybe we don’t have probable cause yet, but we will. Then we’ll get a warrant.”
“I know that,” says Louise. “You know who else knows that? Allison Brice. She knows it’s just a matter of time and she’s pissing us off. Why, Cutty? What does she gain by a delay?”