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Finley instantly searched her memory for one where she might have seen Marsh write something down. Memories of seeing her write messages at Mengesha’s office filtered one after another through her brain. Yes! Lena Marsh, a.k.a. Mina Arnette, was left handed. Son of a bitch.
“Sounds like,” Finley offered, “you’ve found Grady’s killer and it is not our client.”
“I’m not quite ready to go there yet,” Ventura insisted.
While Jack argued the point, Finley motioned that she had to go.
He gave her a nod as he delved into the package from Winthrop with Detective Ventura.
Marsh was still a wild card for sure. But why kill her partner? Seven point eight million dollars was quite a large motive. Had she planned the coup all along? Or had Grady’s marriage to Winthrop tripped some trigger for her?
The one snag in the theory was the meeting Finley had had with Marsh at Starbucks. Why pitch Finley the spiel about Nora Duncan? Was the story only to throw Finley off Marsh’s scent? And what about the timing? Marsh had been only hours from disappearing. Why stop to throw out that bone?
Whatever the reason, Finley damned well intended to find out.
She was in her car when her cell vibrated.
Matt.
Her heart stumbled. Maybe his guy had gotten back to him already. She hoped. Needed something ... to explain why. Why had Derrick sought her out? Was she really the reason he was dead?
Please, you know the answer to that one.
She exiled the voice. “Hey, tell me you have good news.”
The silence that followed had her heart sinking.
“Sorry, Fin, the thumb drive was a bust. The only things there were those stalker photos of you.”
Regret. Frustration. And then anger pummeled her. “Thanks, Matt,” she managed around the knot in her throat. “I’ll talk to you later. I’m on a mission for Jack just now.”
She ended the call before the emotion in her voice betrayed her.
Another dead end.
Former Duncan Residence
Shadow Green Drive, Franklin, 9:45 a.m.
Nora Duncan had lived in a town house in a quiet neighborhood only minutes from downtown Franklin. Though someone else lived there now, Finley hoped the neighbors would remember her. Better still, perhaps one had known her well.
Winthrop had debunked to some extent the Duncan lead, but Finley was banking on Lena Marsh, a.k.a. Mina Arnette, having planted that seed for a reason. Either way, Finley had an obligation to follow it through.
The town houses sat in a connected row, but the facades were different, lending some amount of individuality. Finley first went to the door on the right of Duncan’s former home. She rang the bell and hoped someone was home. The community wasn’t a senior-living one, but those listed on Finley’s go-to people-search site as Duncan’s closest neighbors were retirement age.
Fingers crossed.
“Whatever you’re selling,” a voice said from the other side of the door, “you’re not allowed to be in this neighborhood. Didn’t you see the signs?”
Finley smiled in the direction of the door’s security peephole. She held up her credentials—the expired ones from the DA’s office. “Ms.Rantz, I’m Investigator O’Sullivan, and I need to ask you a few questions about your former neighbor, Nora Duncan.”
The lock turned, and the door opened a crack, the security chain pulling tight. The woman was older, seventyish. The one blue eye Finley could see was chock full of suspicion.
“Nora passed back in the spring. Her mother is over at Blakedale if you have questions about her.”
Finley kept her smile in place. “I spoke with her mother. She asked me to say hello while I’m here.”
Liar.
