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“Send me her name and contact info, please.”
“Sure thing.” He dragged out his cell and shared the info.
When her cell had vibrated with the incoming contact, she said, “I’d like to see the photos taken while the body and the evidence were in situ.”
“I can make that happen.”
He should have made it happen at this meeting. She opted not to say so and risk pissing him off this early in the game. So far, he was Mr.Agreeable.
“I read up on you.”
She looked up. Ventura stood in the doorway, one shoulder leaned against the doorframe. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re not a typical law firm investigator.”
She surveyed the blotter pad, read the notes jotted there. “More typical than you know.”
“Don’t play it down,” he tossed back. “You’re super smart. Graduated at the top of your law school class at Vandy. Made all kinds of big splashes at the DA’s office.” His mouth quirked into a smile. “And now you’re killing it as an investigator at a top law firm.” He gave a succinct nod. “But the one thing that tells me more than anything else about how good you are is that most of the detectives who’ve worked with you don’t like you.”
His assessment prompted a kick of pride. A girl had to get her thrills where she could these days.
“How do you know that?” She rounded the desk and walked toward him. Finley had had no idea she was so popular around the watercooler.
“Plenty have filed complaints against you.”
She paused face to face with him. “You probably will too.”
“No.” He didn’t withdraw from her probing glare. “I won’t.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “We’ll see. Can we go upstairs now?”
He backed out of the doorway and indicated she should precede him.
They climbed the stairs. Marble treads. No carpet. At the top of those gleaming steps, she waited for him to provide the direction from there. He headed right. She followed. He immediately slowed his stride to ensure she caught up with him.
Give him another five years on the job, and he’d shed all the futile chivalry. He would learn that no matter how nicely he played, she and others like her would rarely do the same. Winning always got in the way.
The owner’s retreat was quite large. The bed made. Everything from pillows to picture frames just so.
“There was no indication anyone slept in the bed on Saturday night?”
He shook his head. “According to Winthrop, she slept in her office and the victim slept on the sofa downstairs. Forensics is checking the hair found there to confirm.”
Grady lived in the house. His hair would likely be found whether he’d slept there or not. Unless the housekeeper vacuumed daily. Maybe even then.
“Did the first unis on the scene ask if Grady was a singer in the shower?” Finding out would save her the trouble of tracking down the two uniformed officers who were first on the scene.
“There was nothing in the report about his vocal skills.”
Finley drifted around the large bedroom space. Studied the framed photographs strategically scattered about. Checked the jewelry boxes and the drawers. She found nothing that didn’t appear to belong. Then she moved to the en suite. The markings of a crime scene as well as a pool of dried blood marred the stunning surfaces. Lots of polished tileand glass. Big windows along the upper portions of the walls allowed light to fill the space while maintaining privacy. She walked carefully around the room. Whatever towel the victim had used was gone, as was whatever he’d slept in.
She scanned the counters. Perfumes, colognes, and other cosmetics. A cabinet towered from the counter to the ceiling between the two mirrors stationed above the matching sinks. She opened the doors and reviewed the contents of the cabinet. Band-Aids. Antacids. Vitamins. Supplements. The usual over-the-counter necessities found in most bathrooms.
“No scripts?” She turned to her guide.
“None we found.”
Not particularly surprising for Grady and maybe not for Winthrop, but she was fifty. No blood pressure issues? No anxiety? Finley would ask their client.
