The Judge might not be guilty of murder, but she was guilty of a charge equally malicious: betrayal. She had betrayed Finley’s trust. Pretending it hadn’t happened wasn’t an option. Nothing her mother did now was going to fix what she had done.
Their relationship could not be repaired.
“Of course she wants you there,” her father insisted, dragging her back to the conversation. “And it would mean a great deal to me if you were there. To our friends as well. Everyone will want to see you.”
Ah, the old “for appearances’ sake” excuse. Judge O’Sullivan was a revered woman in the community. A god. To have her only child not show up for her birthday party would be blasphemy. It would be all the buzz in social media and on the news.
“After all that’s happened this past year,” he implored, “can’t we have just one day of peace? You can go back to hating her after the party.”
“A temporary truce.” Finley almost laughed. “Historically speaking, I’m not sure this is going to achieve the effect you’re looking for.”
“Just do this for me,” he urged. “Even if you only stay a short time.”
There were many reasons the Judge didn’t deserve Finley’s father, and this was a perfect example. Barton O’Sullivan was far too kind and compassionate for her.
“For you I will put in a brief appearance.” Agreeing didn’t make Finley feel any better. The next couple of days would be sheer misery. The dread would overshadow all else. She slowed for the turn into the parking lot of the Drake. “I have to go now. Love you.” She made that smooching sound she and her father had used since Finley was a toddler and ended the call.
She sent Jack a text letting him know she was waiting. His room was on the first floor at the end of the building. It was actually two rooms that connected. He’d made a living room and home office in one and a bedroom suite in the other. Everything he needed was provided for in the room costs. Cleaning and laundry services ensured he was taken care of. Takeout and delivery kept him in hot meals.
What else did a single guy need?
He walked out of his room sporting his signature ponytail and wearing the navy suit that deepened the pale gray of his eyes—not that you could see them behind those dark sunglasses. He opened the passenger-side door and slid into the seat.
“Morning.”
Clean shaven and smelling good too. “New aftershave?”
“Same thing I always wear,” he argued as he tightened the knot of the tie at his throat. The red-paisley pattern looked good against the lighter blue of his shirt. “You don’t usually pick me up. By the time you show up at the office, the cheap stuff is worn off.”
She was no cologne aficionado, but it smelled damned expensive to her.
“You read the file?” He fastened his seat belt.
“Twice.”
“Thoughts?”
She eased out of the parking lot and merged into traffic. “Holmes has an agenda that has nothing to do with Jesus.”
Any fool could see that.
“What about the other players?”
“There’s a list of them for sure.” Finley navigated traffic as she ticked off the names in her head. “The two detectives involved, Jones and Montrose, interviewed everyone even remotely associated with Legard. They couldn’t find a link between Holmes and the Legard family. It feels like they pretty much stopped looking after their first round of questioning garnered nothing useful to the investigation.”
“That’s exactly what they did,” Jack agreed. “They had their guy, eventually he confessed, and that was that.”
“Saved the taxpayers a few dollars.”
“That’s what they tell themselves.”
As Finley made the turn onto Lealand Lane, she noted the three protesters, handmade signs held high, at the corner. JUST TELL THE TRUTH and CHARLIE HOLMES IS INNOCENT. Not protesters, she decided. His followers. Holmes had spent a few years searching for fame and fortune in Music City. Like loads of others, he’d decided playing the low-rent club circuit would get him noticed and maybe make him a star. Except it hadn’t. Eventually he’d given up and settled for being a session musician. He’d only managed a gig with a high-profile artist once, but he had found work often enough to survive. The rest of the time he mooched off the adoration of others. His life on the fringes of the industry, combined with his dark good looks, had garnered him a small but faithful following.
“You have to wonder about people who worship a killer.” Jack turned to Finley. “What the hell is this world coming to?”