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“O’Sullivan.”
“Ms.O’Sullivan, this is Detective Ronald Graves.”
She stood on the brake for an extra few seconds even when the oncoming traffic had cleared. Ronald Graves was the detective working the convenience store shooting from back in July.
The dead guy, Billy Hughes, was one of the three who’d invaded Finley’s home last year and murdered her husband. He was the first to get his.
“Detective, what can I do for you?” Finley eased into the street and headed for the office. She had a bad feeling she wouldn’t be making it to that destination.
“I’d like to discuss a homicide case that landed in my lap this morning. Do you have a few minutes to stop by my office?”
That certainly hadn’t taken long.
“Sure.” Putting him off wouldn’t help. She might as well find out what he had. “When did you have in mind?”
“Does now work for you?”
“You’re in luck. I’m between appointments. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
At the next red traffic light, Finley sent a text to Nita letting her know she had been waylaid by Detective Graves. She would catch up with Jack after that.
Assuming she wasn’t about to be arrested.
Metro Police, East Precinct
East Trinity Lane, Nashville, 12:30 p.m.
Detective Ronald Graves kept a countdown calendar on his desk. He would retire in less than two hundred days. He had the gray hair, sagging jowls, and slightly rounded belly to prove he’d done his time in a demanding career. Had the tiny office too. Most of the other detectives were stuck in cubicles in the bullpen, but not Graves. He had what Finley felt confident had once been a coat closet.
Despite his age and the size of his office, he was sharp. He had Finley’s number, and she expected he was waiting for the opportunity to prove she had lied about the convenience store shooting. Not that she had shot the guy, because she hadn’t. The store’s video footage showed the whole thing in vivid detail. But he understood she wasn’t sharing everything. That part nagged at him. His persistence nagged at her. It was a vicious cycle.
She wouldn’t be sharing anything today about the most recent shooting of a piece of shit who got what he deserved.
Sometimes the grieving widow beat down the former ADA, and the ugly came out. This was one of those times. The excuse was one thatoverrode much of the guilt about who she had become since Derrick’s murder.
“I appreciate you coming in, Ms.O’Sullivan.”
Whenever someone called her Ms.O’Sullivan, she couldn’t help feeling a certain guilt that nothing seemed to override. Choosing not to take her husband’s name, Reed, when they married had come back to haunt her over and over the past year. So many career women didn’t change their names. Ellen Winthrop, for example. Still, after Derrick’s murder Finley had felt guilty about it, because no matter that he’d said he understood, the decision had pained him a little. She’d seen it in his eyes, however fleetingly.
His lying pained you. Get over it.
She blinked away the voice. “No problem,” she said to the detective. “You have something new on the convenience store shooting?”
She didn’t see how that was possible. The security footage showed the store clerk shooting the man with the gun who had attempted to hold up the store. Case closed. But bringing up the older case would suggest to the detective that she had no idea about his newest case. Going straight to questions about the new case was a misstep made by many—particularly when a seemingly insignificant detail slipped out, and then you attempted to explain how you’d seen or heard it on the news. At this point, she wasn’t supposed to know about the new case.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have anything new on that one, but there was a murder last night. Downtown at a restaurant that’s been closed for a while.”
Finley made a sad face. “Violence downtown is on the rise.” Then she frowned. “I didn’t realize that was your jurisdiction.”
It was a petty comment. She was aware it wasn’t his jurisdiction. But there was an overlap in one of his cases. She knew this as well. Whether Graves could prove the connection or not, whatever detective had caught last night’s shooting would gladly have pitched it to him.
And they both understood that connection was the reason he’d called Finley in for questioning. He just couldn’t prove what she did or didn’t know.
“The victim”—he glanced at his notes—“a Tark Brant.” He looked to Finley then. “You might know him as the partner or buddy”—he shrugged—“of the man, Billy Hughes, who died in that convenience store shooting back in July.”
Blood splattering across her face flashed in her brain.
Finley exiled the image and pretended to consider the possibility; then she shook her head. “No. Sorry. I’ve never heard of him.”
