Page 30 of Done Dirty

“Is it true?”

“None of your business,” he said.

“A man is dead, Mr. Ferriday. Everything is my business right now. When was the last time you had any contact with Wade Rivers? Phone, text, in person, anything.”

“The day I went into the studio. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

“You’re sure.”

“I just told you I was.”

“Where were you the night of July first into July second? Walk me through the whole evening.”

“Home. I finished up here around six thirty, went to the gym for an hour, picked up Sloane and we went to dinner at Rosario’s in Newcastle. Got home maybe nine thirty, ten.” He crossed his arms. “And before you ask, yeah, we banged a couple times before we went to sleep.”

“What time did you go to sleep?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t watching the clock.”

“You were home all night?”

“All night.” And then he smirked. “Then we banged again in the morning before I left for work.”

“Good for you,” Jack said, nonplussed. “Where do you work out?”

“Why? You want a membership?”

“So I can track your every move.” Jack smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “Don’t leave town, Mr. Ferriday.”

In the car, Jack pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Newcastle without turning on the radio.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Ferriday house stood out on its street the way a shout stands out in a library.

Modern construction, two stories of steel and glass and black iron railings, floor-to-ceiling windows that let you see straight into the living room from the curb. The neighbors had done exposed brick and reclaimed wood and tasteful lighting. The Ferridays had done a statement. I was going to assume Holt hadn’t had one iota of input in the decorating.

A white Porsche Cayenne sat in the circle driveway.

I got out of the car, and the evening heat hit me like a wall.

“You ready?” Jack asked.

“Sure,” I said. “I want to see the woman who’s managed to put up with Holt Ferriday for twelve years.”

“Takes all kinds,” Jack said. “She could be worse than he is.”

“I shudder to think.”

Jack rang the bell.

The woman who answered the door was not what I expected.

Sloane Ferriday filled the doorway in a white sundress that stopped at mid-thigh and left very little to the imagination about what was underneath it. She was tall and dark haired, and someone had invested serious money in her cup size over the years. Her lips were full and her cheekbones were sharp and her amber eyes were the color of good bourbon. She smelled expensive. She held the door open and leaned against it and took a long, unhurried look at Jack the way someone looks at a menu when they already knew what they wanted.

Then she looked at me and smiled like she knew a secret I didn’t.

Jack held up his badge. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves. She’s the county coroner.”