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Desperate times called for desperate measures, and right now Finley was way past desperate.
32
10:30 p.m.
Winthrop Financial Consulting Group
Commerce Street, Nashville
Finley parked on the street. She climbed out of her Subaru and stared up at the towering glass building where Ellen Winthrop waited on the top floor. If someone had told Finley five days ago that she would be here meeting their latest ex-client for help with her own husband’s murder, Finley would have laughed.
It was surreal.
Go big or go home.
Finley wasn’t going home. She was desperate, and Winthrop had the resources she needed.
Thankfully there were no reporters loitering about. Jack and Ventura had released statements earlier in the day. Winthrop was no longer a lead item for the news.
A security guard opened the front entrance and allowed Finley inside. She walked straight to the bank of elevators and climbed inside a waiting car. Her chest tightened as she moved upward. The likelihood that this thumb drive would be nothing, like before, was great. But Finley had to be sure.
The elevator doors slid open, and Winthrop was there, waiting for Finley. She stepped off the elevator, and the doors closed with a whoosh behind her.
“Thank you.” Whatever she was about to learn, Finley appreciated her help.
Despite their differences, this one thing—a dead husband, one who had betrayed them—bonded the two of them in some strange way. More likely it was all the shit they had done related to their dead husbands that really tied them together.
“Don’t thank me,” Winthrop said, “until you’ve seen the files. No one has gone beyond the gate. Whatever is inside, I made sure all understood that it was for your eyes only.”
Fighting that damned hurricane of emotions again, Finley followed the older woman to her office. Dim lighting beyond all the glass walls showed the empty offices and conference rooms. By the time they reached Winthrop’s office, Finley’s pulse was hammering. An open laptop sat on the conference table. With monumental effort, Finley restrained herself from rushing to it ... to what Derrick might have left there, if anything. Instead, she stood in the middle of the other woman’s office, oddly at a loss for words.
“I like you, Finley,” Winthrop said.
When Finley met her gaze, she went on, “I’m aware you know things that could change the course of my husband’s homicide investigation.”
Finley took a deep breath. This was completely off the record. The Finnegan Firm no longer represented Winthrop. It was late, and Finley cared only that maybe, just maybe, she was about to find some answers.
She shrugged. “I know you didn’t kill him.”
Winthrop’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “How can you be sure?”
Finley shook her head. “I know a cold-blooded killer when I interview one.”
“You’re that sure, are you?” Winthrop countered.
“I am.” Finley inclined her head. “But you did protect the person who killed him, and I don’t think it was Marsh. It would have been too risky for her to come into your home and carry out the act. She would have chosen more neutral, safer territory unless she was doing you a favor, and I’m guessing that isn’t the case.”
“But her prints were on the murder weapon,” Winthrop challenged, her face clean of tells.
Finley laughed. “We both know how easily that can be done.”
Really there was only one possibility beyond Marsh. Only one partner who was left handed. Finley and Jack had discussed this scenario; it made the most sense. As it turned out, they had been right.
Winthrop opted not to comment.
Finley figured she might as well say the rest. “You expected better of her, but she let you down. All those years you kept her close, took care of her, and still she betrayed you.”
Ellen assessed Finley a long moment. “When did you know for certain?”
