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Winthrop Financial Consulting Group
Commerce Street, Nashville
Before heading out for this morning’s interviews, Finley had rendezvoused with Jack at the office to hash out their agendas. He would be in court a good portion of the day. Finley’s goal was to start nailing down the big picture and then to begin the process of homing in on the details that spoke the loudest.
Last night she’d spent a good amount of time researching their client on the net. Nothing had jumped out at her. Nothing unexpected floating on the World Wide Web. Endless career accolades and achievements. Winthrop had reached a pinnacle few could hope to attain.
But no one was perfect with only great things in their history. There was always some amount of ugly. It was only a matter of finding it.
Finding the rest of Winthrop’s story started now.
Finley nosed her Subaru into a slot as close to the ground floor exit as possible. Parking garages were always too dark, and there was never enough security. No matter the number of muggings or assaults thatoccurred in downtown parking garages, the incidents never seemed to get the attention required from the right people to change the issue.
A perfect example of not homing in on the details that mattered most.
A grin stretched across her face. Maybe Matt could put a bug in the governor’s ear.
She surveyed her surroundings before getting out, then locked her doors as she walked toward the exit. Part of her was always on alert for any sign of the two thugs who kept an eye on her for Dempsey. So far, she hadn’t spotted either this morning. Not that they watched her every day, more that they checked in at mostly irregular intervals. She did the same. Tracking one or both down from time to time, like last night.
It wasn’t that difficult. She had studied the thugs fromthatnight: Billy Hughes, deceased; Chet Flock; and Tark Brant. She had ferreted out where they lived, their preferred hangouts. The vehicles they drove. A background search had given her a good many details. The two still breathing were longtime muscle for hire. Hughes had been as well. Criminal records were lengthy but mostly ancient history. Flock, the oldest of the trio, had the least interesting criminal record. Brant, on the other hand, had a list of small-time transgressions on his rap sheet from his twenties. His thirties had proved cleaner, save a couple of assaults. At forty-one, he appeared to have learned how not to get caught. Getting caught looked bad on one’s résumé. Hughes’s history had looked pretty much the same. All three appeared to have been on Dempsey’s personal security payroll for the past five years, at least until Hughes had screwed up and gotten himself fired. He’d fallen back into his old holdup habits, a bad decision that led to his untimely demise in a convenience store back in July.
One down, two to go.
Shifting her thoughts back to work, Finley exited the parking garage.
Commerce Street traffic was negligible at this hour, since most of the white collars who worked in these high-rises were already in their offices. She hesitated. News vans lined the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Evidently building security had kept them away from the entrance. Finley considered her options. Not that great, but she could manage. She hustled across the street in the middle of the block rather than walking to the end and using a crosswalk. She didn’t move toward the building until she was parallel with the entrance; then she darted for her destination.
She had reached the glass doors by the time anyone noticed. Evidently none of the reporters recognized her, since no questions were shouted. A security guard opened the door, she flashed her ID, and she was set.
The thirty-story building had a shiny glass facade. Winthrop’s offices occupied the top floor. A personal assistant would be meeting Finley and showing her around as she interviewed those closest to Winthrop in her professional world. Their client had meetings all morning and, of course, was required to be at the investigating detective’s beck and call. Finley didn’t consider the woman’s need to work the day after her husband was murdered particularly odd. God knew Finley would have worked the day after Derrick’s murder if she hadn’t been in a coma. Work was essential to her survival—to her mental health. Admittedly, Finley would most likely have been working on finding those responsible for his murder, but she and Winthrop were different people from different worlds. Winthrop had never been involved in law enforcement and would instinctively look to the police to find the killer while she distracted herself with her business.
Assuming the killer wasn’t her. Finley didn’t have a clear picture of innocence or guilt quite yet, but she also had no reason to doubt Winthrop’s story. Finley’s singular task was to ensure no one else could doubt it either.
Finley showed her ID again at the security desk in the stylish lobby and was directed to the appropriate bank of elevators. Sleek concrete floors and glass walls were flanked with enough potted trees and plants to feel like a conservatory. On the top floor the car stopped and the doors opened to a smaller, more intimate lobby.
A young woman, late twenties maybe, waited for Finley. She smiled broadly, white teeth gleaming, makeup light and flawless. A pink blouse with a ruffled neckline and cuffs accented the casual yet elegant gray suit. Finley wore brown slacks and a scooped neck tee with a khaki jacket. Her version of casual didn’t even get close to elegant. The wrinkles didn’t help any more than the well-worn mule loafers. She should shop for new shoes. Maybe unpack the iron she was certain she had purchased a million years ago. It was in a box somewhere in Derrick’s garage.
One of these days, she promised herself.
Liar.
“Good morning, Ms.O’Sullivan. My name is Tobye.” The assistant extended her hand. “Whatever you need, you let me know, and I will make it happen.”
Finley shook the outstretched hand. “Good morning. I appreciate your time.”
“Ellen has provided a list,” Tobye explained as she blithely turned and moved toward the corridor ahead, “of partners you will want to interview.”
“Partners?” Finley hadn’t been aware any of Winthrop’s employees were business partners.
“Ellen prefers to think of all her employees as partners in our common goal of maintaining excellence. Those on your list are the senior partners.”
Interesting strategy. The lobby, though small, was tastefully designed. Lots of light poured in through the glass wall that made up one side of the generous space. The layout was three specific seatingareas along with an inviting reception desk. Tobye led the way beyond the space and into a wide corridor flanked by doors on either side. Even the interior walls were glass, allowing Finley to see the conference table in a large meeting room and desks in the private offices beyond. Some were darkened for privacy. Her host noted the names of the partners at each office space.
Music played in the background, but the volume was turned down to a soft level that was barely audible. The distant sound was somehow relaxing. Unlike the lobby, the floors in the corridor were softened with thick carpeting. The walls were a taupe so pale it was almost white. Very soothing environment.
Tobye paused at a door labeledConference Room Four. The room beyond the glass wall was smaller and had a cozier seating arrangement than the other conference area Finley had seen. A woman was already seated at the table. She appeared to be reviewing an open notebook.
“Here we are.” Tobye passed a single page to Finley. “Those are the five names Ellen provided. Jessica Lauder, first on the list, is waiting for you.” She gestured to the woman beyond the glass. “If you wish to speak with anyone else, just let me know, and I’ll track them down for you. Otherwise, the partners will come to you, one after the other, for a private meeting as requested.” She opened the door to the small room. “I’ll be in my office just over here.” She gestured to the room directly across the corridor. “If you need anything at all.”
