Friends Like These(72)

“Everybody does love you more,” I said, then stayed quiet for a minute. “So, what’s this bullshit about not going to rehab?”

“Oh, I’ll go,” he said unconvincingly. “I just need to talk to Finch first. He texted and wants to work some stuff out about his London show. I have a fiduciary duty to get things in order before I’m unavailable. But then I’ll go. I’m not trying to get out of it, I swear.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I don’t think that’s what happened. Maybe Finch texted, but not about London,” I said. “Or if he did, he’s fucking with you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Finch knows about his London show getting canceled.”

Keith winced. And all I felt was awful. “He does?”

“He told me this morning,” I said. “He came into my room, before everything with Crystal. Right before he left.”

“Your room?” Keith looked even more confused. “And why would he tell you that and not me?”

“Finch signed on with the Graygon Gallery a month ago.”

“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

I nodded. “I know. That’s because I didn’t tell you. I saw Finch’s contract with the new gallery, all signed and finalized.”

Keith’s brow furrowed even more deeply. “How did you see one of Finch’s contracts?”

“Because I had sex with him the night of the Cipriani party. I saw the contracts at his apartment.”

“You what?” Keith looked stunned. I turned away.

“I know,” I said, unable to bring myself to look at him again. “I don’t have an excuse. But it happened. And I’m sorry— he’s your most important artist. I knew that at the time, obviously.”

“Wait, that reception was a month ago. You knew about that contract this whole time?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I was just so embarrassed about the whole thing. I’m sorry, Keith,” I said. “Really.”

For the longest time, he didn’t say a word. Finally, he took a deep breath. “I know I told you to, like, live your life and feel things and whatever. But for the record, Finch was not what I had in mind.” Then he turned to me with a sly but forgiving smile, and I felt overwhelmed by relief.

We startled when Keith’s phone rang. He answered it. “Hi, hold on one second,” he said into the phone. He looked at me. “Sorry, I need to take this. Privately.”

“Is that Finch?” I asked. I’d grab the phone if I had to. Finch could fire Keith if he wanted, but he could not kick him when he was already down. Not on my watch.

“No, it’s not Finch,” he said. “It’s somebody else who is actually way more pissed at me than Finch, believe it or not. I’ve got to— I’m, um, trying to deal with it.”

There was genuine fear in Keith’s voice. And Keith didn’t get scared of things. It was actually a problem. “What is it? Do you need help?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said, smiling, but in a way that was distressing. “I’ve got this. You’ve helped enough.” He waved me toward the door. “Go, go. Please.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling increasingly uneasy as I crossed the room.

“But, hey, Stephanie,” Keith called after me. “Thank you. You’re a good friend. I mean, except for the part about sleeping with my most important artist.”

I raised a finger in the air at the door and forced a playful smile. “Former artist. That’s totally different.”





DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT


SUNDAY, 5:09 P.M.

The Falls is busier when I return, but not by much. There are maybe twenty people scattered around the tables, the bar stools mostly full. It takes a minute of waiting for me to get the bartender’s attention this time. He does not look happy to see me.

“I need to know if some people were in here on Saturday night.”

“Didn’t we already do this?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“Different people.” I hold up my phone and swipe through photos of Maeve, Jonathan, and Stephanie. “Did you see any of these people in here on Saturday night? I know they were here Friday. That’s when Crystal left with them in that SUV. But were they here last night, too? While the McGregor fight was on?”

The bartender is already shaking his head. “Not that blond one. I mean, she might have been here, but I didn’t see her. The other two, though . . .” He rubs a hand over his face, glances around to see if anyone is listening, then gestures toward an empty table at the back. “They were sitting over there with Luke Gaffney. They got into a thing.” The bartender shakes his head. “I didn’t see what happened. But there was some kind of dustup. A minute later they were gone.”

Dan is waiting for me outside, standing near my car. As I get closer, I can see that his mouth is turned down. He’s here to deliver bad news. I wonder if Seldon has already fired me.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to tell me we lucked out with those Arkansas prints for Derrick Chism?”

Dan shakes his head. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up on that. I didn’t get the sense they were real well-staffed. Or motivated. The NYPD is sending officers to collect DNA from their apartments. But, as you know, that’s gonna take some time. What’d you find in here?”