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She hesitated, jacket in hand. His murder remained unsolved as far as the Nashville Metro Police Department was concerned. Her parents, friends ... they all believed the same. But not Finley. She knew exactly who had murdered Derrick.
Proving it was the issue. She shrugged on her jacket. But she wasn’t giving up. No way. She would not stop until justice was done. Which was why she typically spent a great deal of her personal time, including Sundays, tuned in to that singular goal.
As much as Finley liked having her off-the-clock time for her own purposes, working with Jack Finnegan, she had come to realize that criminal lawyers never knew when duty might call. Business hours weren’t nine to five or Monday through Friday, so Finley kept a work jacket in the car. Lightweight enough for any season and black to match basically any outfit. A black jacket could elevate even an overly casual outfit like jeans and a tee to reasonably presentable attire.
Half an hour ago, her boss had called to say he was headed to the Brentwood police precinct and he needed her to meet him there. They had a new client. Finley wasn’t a lawyer anymore, by choice mostly. Last year, after a great deal of pleading from Jack, she had accepted the position of investigator at the Finnegan Firm. She had never fully recognized just how important the role was to any law firm. Frankly, she enjoyed the work more than she’d anticipated. In part, she supposed, because Jack—her boss—was also her godfather. But the ability to see the case from another perspective was definitely an added perk.
She liked the view. A lot.
Finley shifted her focus to the here and now and walked toward her boss’s vintage Land Rover.
Their new client’s husband had been murdered, and she, one Ellen Winthrop of Winthrop Financial Consulting Group—the very same one featured inTimemagazine last year—was obviously the prime suspect. The woman had built a Fortune 500 financial empire and operated it exclusively with the help of other women. Her history as a women’s advocate and as a force to watch in the financial world was unparalleled. Sadly, with power often came other, less desirable assets and liabilities. All manner of crimes—or in this case motives—from fraud to embezzlement flitted through Finley’s mind.
“Hey, kid,” Jack said as she slid into the passenger seat next to him. “Sorry I had to interrupt your day.” He shrugged. “Murder waits for no one.”
This was true.
“No problem.” Finley was well aware of the urgency involved in a murder case. Their new client would need protection from a potential murder charge. Whether the client was guilty or not, it was Jack’s job to disprove her responsibility in the matter or at least to cast enough doubt to sway a jury.
The concept was a whole different ball game from Finley’s days in the district attorney’s office, where the sole goal was to prove guilt beyond a shadow of doubt. “What do we know so far?”
“Not much beyond the fact that Winthrop’s new husband, Jarrod Grady, was murdered this morning,” Jack explained. “She and Grady married just two months ago. Whirlwind-style, according to some of the gossip on social media.”
Finley’s eyebrows reared up. “Since when do you do social media?” This was news to her. She’d never known Jack to acknowledge any of the platforms even existed, much less to scroll the feeds. Interesting. Maybe an old dog could learn new tricks, though she had her doubts.
He sent her a sidelong glance. “I leave that unreliable and completely obnoxious resource to you, but a ‘just breaking’ clip interrupted my favorite rerun ofPerry Mason. The reporter mentioned the social media buzz that had surrounded the wedding. This is one old dog with no interest in learning new tricks in that arena.”
Had she mentioned he was a mind reader? Not really. She’d tossed the old-dog tag at him too many times, she supposed. Jack remained an old-fashioned-news guy. TheTennesseanwas delivered to the office every day. He still watched the news on a local cable television channel rather than streaming it.
“Have they arrested her?” she asked.
“Not yet, but we both know unless they find another suspect, it’s only a matter of time before she is.”
No question.
“Do you know Ellen Winthrop?” Finley imagined he did. Jack seemed to know everyone in Nashville. A woman in Winthrop’sposition likely wouldn’t retain an attorney she’d never met for such a serious matter.
If the woman wanted the best on her team, she’d made the right decision. Jack was, unquestionably, the best. Admittedly, her godfather’s reputation as a legal eagle had taken a bit of a beating a few years back, but that hadn’t changed the community’s awareness of his legal prowess. If anything, he was viewed as a bit more cutthroat these days—a bit more of a rogue. Who didn’t love a wounded hero? He even looked the part, with his long grayish-blond hair secured at the nape of his neck and his comfortably aged vintage suit worn with the kind of confidence only a handsome, damned-good-at-his-job rogue would possess.
Jack glanced at his watch—the one on his wrist and not on his cell. Another throwback. “The detective should be ready for us now.”
“Let’s do this thing,” Finley said, already reaching for her door. The beginning of a new investigation was always exciting. There was nothing more satisfying than taking all the jumbled pieces and putting them together one by one to recreate the picture—the story—of the crime in question.
They exited the Land Rover and headed across the parking lot. The main office was closed at this hour, but a tall figure—presumably the detective on the case—now waited at the door. Any reporters who had shown up had abandoned the hope of a statement and left at this point.
As they approached the entrance, the man in the wrinkled “it’s been a long day” suit opened one of the doors. “I’m Detective Sid Ventura.”
Finley stifled a grin at the thought of the pet-detective movie. Derrick, her late husband, had claimed it as his favorite. God, she’d forgotten that bit of trivia until just this moment. Strange how even after more than a year things popped back into her head with the right trigger. Somehow it always seemed to happen at the most unexpected times. Like when she was completely exhausted or when she was in the middle of work—times when her guard slipped and she couldn’t pushthe still-raw emotions away. She exiled the thoughts. Now was certainly not a good time to drift off in the past.
“Jack Finnegan,” Jack said with a nod as he waited for Finley to enter the precinct ahead of him.
“Finley O’Sullivan,” she offered as she sidled in past the detective. She chastised herself for allowing her focus to slip.
Ventura gave her a nod. Once Jack was inside and the door closed and locked, the two men shook hands. The detective reached for her hand next. He had loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. His strawberry-red hair was tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Along with the light-red hair came a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His hazel eyes were bright, but the bags beneath spoke of weariness. The most telling was what Finley didn’t see—that hardened bearing of a seasoned homicide detective.
“How do you want to do this?” Ventura asked Jack.
The question confirmed Finley’s assessment that the guy didn’t have a tremendous amount of experience with investigating homicides.
