“Any other evidence of struggle in here?” she asks.
“The carpet won’t be any help for indentations,” says Mendoza. “Dense, high-pile plush—the fibers are too springy. Comfortable, but not helpful from an evidentiary standpoint.”
“Got something,” says one of the techs on his knees, leaning over the carpet. He teases out a stray fiber with a pair of forceps. “Hair follicle,” he says, dropping the strand into a paper evidence bindle. “We’ve got a root.”
Meaning they’ll be able to cull DNA from it.
“Dark, curly hair, Lou,” says the tech. “Several strands.”
Louise takes a look, then turns to Cutty. “Know anyone with dark, curly hair?”
“Luke Rankin didn’t tell us much,” says Cutty. “But he did say he hadn’t been inside this condo for years.”
“That he did,” she agrees. “We’ll test it, but it sure looks like his.”
Cutty nods his head. “So why would Luke lie about being in thiscondo?”
The Week Before April Fools’Day
38
Allison
The Monday after. I’ve spent three days recovering from the Marlow Luckett incident last Friday, downing painkillers, wearing ice on my face, getting very little done for my trial. It was time I did not have to waste. Today is the twenty-third of March, forty-nine days from trial.
One more day working from home. The bruising on my face and neck hasn’t completely faded, but if it’s still visible tomorrow, I’ll just add extra layers of concealer. My ribs are still sore, too, but clothes will hide that problem.
I’m constantly texting and jumping on the phone with Vivian and Aaron, doling out instructions, drafting pretrial motions, and preparing for my Zoom conference later today with the congressman. He doesn’t like the idea that we are going to point the finger at his chief of staff. I keep reminding him that juries don’t like politicians, and they will need to blame someone. They will need a villain.
During all the back-and-forth with my lawyers, Finley is setting records for communications with me:
Today 9:52 AM
Should we talk about this? Doesn’t 19 years of marriage deserve at least a conversation?
I won’t change my mind. I don’t want to hurt you. For Gray’s sake, if nothing else, I want this to be amicable.
You think getting divorced doesn’t hurt me? It’s killing me.
Is there someone else? Did you meet someone?
You did, didn’t you? Someone at work? Some rich lawyer? Some pencil-dick egghead?
The silence is deafening. You have a boyfriend!
I don’t even care. We can get past that. Just give me one more chance
When my phone buzzes, I don’t recognize the number. I answer anyway.
“Ms. Brice? This is Ken Ratliff. The baseball coach at Benedictine?”
Oh, right. I’d forgotten. I reached out to him after Luke was arrested five weeks ago, just to get some preliminary information. Benedictine was the squad that Luke’s team was supposed to scrimmage the day Luke drove Trinity’s car. The scrimmage had been canceled, freeing up Luke’s time. I just wanted to confirm the cancellation, cross my t’s and dot my i’s.
“Sorry it took over a month to call back,” he says. “I was confused about your message.”
“How so?”
“Well, you said you wanted to confirm that I canceled the scrimmage. But I didn’t cancel. Luke did.”
