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“The evidence will support my innocence,” Ellen insisted firmly.
“Having no evidence against you is important,” Finley agreed. “But Ventura knows, as do I, that evidence can be manipulated, which will not permit him to stop at just the evidence or lack thereof. He’ll want motive and opportunity. Sometimes a detective can’t pull all three together, but most are more than happy to be able to pull together only two out of three.”
“They won’t find anything because I did not kill him,” Winthrop repeated.
“Your adamance will not stop them from trying, particularly since they have no other suspects at this time, unless this J.Grady can belocated. Take my word for it, Ellen: if there is no evidence and no other suspects, then all he has is you. The goal at that juncture will be to prove you’re a liar. That you keep secrets. That you can’t be trusted. That you’re unreliable. Remember, all the DA has to do is make the jury doubt your credibility. Then all bets are off. Perception is a large part of the game.”
More of that tense silence.
“I hit a low place,” she began. “Perhaps it was the idea that fifty was looming. I don’t know, but I felt off. Out of sync with myself. My friend recommended Dr.Mengesha. I attended a few sessions, and that was the end of it. I stopped going about the same time I met Jarrod. I suppose he was what I’d needed all along.” Her breath caught softly. “At least that’s the way it felt at the time.”
“Have you or do you take any prescribed medications?” Finley asked.
“No. Nothing.”
“I appreciate the clarification.” Finley softened her tone and provided a reassurance she hoped would smooth over the moment. “Trust me, Ellen. I know what I’m doing. I understand how this works from both sides of the aisle. Jack and I are onyourside. That said, and at the risk of sounding repetitive, the only way we can protect you is to find any flaws in your story first and clear them up before the police find those issues or, at the very least, be prepared to explain them away. I’m not looking for the dirty details to make you look bad. I’m looking to find whatever is out therefirst.”
Speaking of trouble, a small gray sedan pulled into the lot across the street.
“You’ve made yourself clear,” Ellen confessed. “I apologize for overreacting.”
“No problem. You should call me anytime you have concerns. But while I have you on the phone, was Jarrod on any sort of medication? Prescribed or otherwise?”
“Absolutely not. Both of us took the usual vitamin supplements but nothing else.”
“When I visited your home today with Detective Ventura, I noticed something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Of course,” Winthrop returned. “Ask anything you like.”
“You mentioned that before leaving the house on Sunday morning, you noticed the empty bottles lying about from your husband’s drinking the night before. Did someone clean up the mess he’d made?”
A moment of hesitation, then: “I suppose he must have picked up before going up to take his shower.”
Possibly. “Thank you,” Finley reiterated, her gaze fixed on the car across the street. “Remember to call me if you need anything.”
Finley ended the call. She watched as the driver backed into a slot near the stairs that went down to the lower level, maybe a receiving door or employee entrance. The driver’s face was turned away from Finley’s location, not that it would have mattered much at this distance. Seconds later, the driver got out and headed for the stairs. Dark hair. Medium height. Slim build. Probably a woman. Jeans and a black hoodie.
Once the person in the black hoodie was out of sight, Finley rolled out of the Turnip Truck lot. She took a right, drove along for maybe fifty feet, then made a left into the far end of the restaurant’s parking lot. She drove past the other car and backed into a spot several spaces away. Climbing out, she scanned the building in search of video surveillance. There was a camera on the old Two Hippies building but nothing on any of the surrounding structures. With the restaurant closed, there was no guarantee the security camera would still be active.
As she walked toward the steps, she paused to study the camera. Standing beneath its position, she recognized the camera wasn’t a camera at all. It was a mount and protective hood with no camera attached. Possibly the camera had failed and had been removed with the hope of installing a new one, but then the restaurant had closed.
Finley breathed a little easier. She pocketed her cell and her keys. She kept an eye out for company until she was down the steps and headed for the double steel doors markedEMPLOYEEENTRANCE. She steadied herself and opened the door. It wasn’t dark inside as she’d expected. Dim emergency-style lighting lit the corridor. She’d made it about three good strides when the person in the hoodie sidestepped from an open door about four feet ahead on the right.
“You can stop right there.”
Woman’s voice. Finley did as she asked. Thankfully Finley hadn’t seen a weapon yet.
The woman tugged off her hoodie, and recognition slammed into Finley. The woman from the Hidey Hole, where Finley had been watching Tark Brant. This was Brant’s lady friend. Finley’s senses moved to a considerably higher state of alert. A setup. No question.
Not good.
“How do you know my husband?” Finley asked.
“You mean your dead husband?” the woman taunted. “I don’t. I just needed something to get you here, and I read about your husband’s murder on Google. I guess it was a good plan, because here you are.”
Finley wanted to be seriously pissed, but she was too relieved to muster up the anger. She hadn’t wanted the caller to tell her about some other betrayal Derrick had committed. She wanted to at least be able to hang on to some tiny part of their relationship that had been real.
“Then what do you want?” The idea that Brant had used this woman to lure her into a trap was not lost on Finley. She glanced over her shoulder and then down the corridor beyond her lying host.
