Enough said.
10
7:00 p.m.
The Murder House
Shelby Avenue
Nashville
Finley tossed the burger wrapper into the bag as she slowed for the turn onto her street. She’d gone over the Collins and Henderson interviews with Jack. The P-trap business had intrigued him. His orders were for Finley to track the woman down one way or the other. Not a problem. Finley knew where she lived.
Jack had an update as well. Siniard had shared the evidence that supposedly supported the claim by Holmes. A handwritten letter from Cecelia Legard. Cecelia, of course, denied writing it. However, analysis showed it was her handwriting. That said, lots of teenagers wished their parents dead. Plenty talked about it, but that didn’t mean they really intended to do it. Not to mention, the note stated Cecelia wanted it—and, for the record, it was not elaborated on—done as soon as possible. The trouble was, there was no actual mention of the victim. Holmes couldn’t prove Cecelia asked him to murder her father. The letter only showed she had contacted him and wanted something done. Siniard was obviously hoping to raise enough doubt to win.
Finley braked to turn into her drive, and the gray sedan parked at the curb had her frowning. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and street parking was par for the course in the neighborhood. Could be a visitor for any house on her block. She parked. Washed down the last bite of burger with a slug of water. She crumpled the fast-food bag and grabbed her water bottle, all the while watching the rearview mirror.
The driver exited the vehicle. Tall, male. He strode around his trunk and started up her drive. So not a visitor for one of her neighbors.
Older. Sixties, maybe. He adjusted his jacket.
Cop.
The instinctive adjustment that allowed for the comforting feel of the badge and the holstered weapon was unmistakable.
Maybe this was the new detective—something Houser—assigned to Derrick’s case.
Finley got out, tossed the bag into the trash receptacle that sat at the corner of her driveway, and headed for the front door, which was apparently the visitor’s destination as well.
“Can I help you?” she asked since he hadn’t spoken yet.
He paused before reaching the steps, allowing her to go up to the porch first. “I think I might be able to help you.”
She’d heard that line before. “How about some ID?” She paused and turned back to him. The two steps up to the porch separating their positions gave her the perception of an advantage.
He reached beneath his lapel.
“Easy,” she reminded him.
His eyes tapered with impatience, but he obligingly displayed both hands palm out, then pulled back his lapel to show he wasn’t wearing a weapon. Or a badge.
So maybe not a cop? Private investigator?
He reached into an interior jacket pocket and removed a credentials case, which he held in front of her face.
Richard Montrose. Retired Metro PD.
The face, the eyes, and the hair she hadn’t recognized. Montrose had sported black hair five years ago. Still tall and fit, he couldn’t have been retired long, though she hadn’t run into him during her four-year stint as a Davidson County ADA.
The name, however, she recalled from the Legard investigation reports. Detective Richard “Dick” Montrose was one of the two detectives involved in the investigation.
“Finley O’Sullivan,” she said, turning to her door. “But then I guess you knew that.” She unlocked the door but didn’t open it.
Montrose had joined her on the narrow porch, making it feel all the more restrictive.
“I hear you’re looking into the Legard case.”
On the street a dark sedan rolled slowly past. She watched. The driver, whose face was concealed with dark glasses and a beard, glanced her way. As if in slow motion, his mouth spread into a grin.
Finley didn’t have to wonder who he was. She recognized him instantly.
He’d been watching her more closely since the shooting at the convenience store.
She smiled back. You’d better be watching, asshole.
She blinked and he was gone.
“The Legard case,” the man next to her repeated.
Finley drew back to the here and now. “Sorry. What?”
“You’re looking into the Legard case.”
His voice was smoother than she’d expected. Inordinately deep. He probably sang in his church choir. Had a wife who had been his childhood sweetheart and a couple of kids in college. He looked exactly like the type.
“I am. My firm is representing the Legard family.”
He nodded. “There are things you need to know,” he said more quietly.