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Graves picked up his pen and made a note. Probably just a scribble to make her nervous. Didn’t work.
“So far we’ve got nothing on the weapon used,” he went on. “The shooter obviously wiped his prints.”
His.So maybe they really didn’t have anything.
Finley waited. Another of the biggest mistakes a suspect or person of interest could make was saying more than absolutely necessary. Asking leading questions out of curiosity. Never a good move. Better to say nothing.
“We’re attempting to track down the victim’s girlfriend, one Whitney Lemm. What we have so far is that she was seen with him most recently on Sunday night. She’s a known junkie. Has a long list of arrests for prostitution. It’s possible they had a falling-out that didn’t end well.”
No comment.
“A bartender at a downtown tavern saw her with the victim.”
Silence dragged on as if he were waiting for her to say something.
There was always the chance the bartender had remembered Finley as well. If so, there was no law against patronizing a particular establishment at the same time as someone who turned up dead. It happened.
“Did you have a question that pertained to me?” If he had a point, he should get to it. She and Jack needed to catch up.
“Oh. Hazard of getting older. I get off-track way too easy.”
She had no thoughts she felt inclined to share on the matter.
He reached across his desk and picked up his laptop.
A thread of uneasiness slithered through her. Had she missed a camera somewhere?
Shit.
Graves pulled up a video. Finley instantly recognized her Subaru sitting nose out in a slot at the Turnip Truck parking lot.
“Is that your Outback, Ms.O’Sullivan?”
Finley peered at the screen. “It’s the same color as my car, but there are lots of cars that color on the road. Black is a very popular color.”
“It’s a Subaru Outback. Isn’t that what you drive, a black Outback?”
“I do, but as you know, lots of people drive them. It’s a very popular car in a very popular color.”
Graves stared at her. He wasn’t enjoying her evasiveness.
“When was this video done?” she asked as if that might help her memory.
“Last night just before six.”
She made one of those overdone aha sounds. “Yes. Yes. The Turnip Truck. I shop there occasionally.” She frowned. “Did this guy get shot in the Turnip Truck? That is bizarre,” she added before he could respond. “I may have to stop shopping in person.”
He played the video.
She held her breath.
The footage showed her pulling forward and making a right onto the street that ran between the Turnip Truck and the restaurant where the shooting happened.
The video continued for a few seconds more, but her car was no longer in view. The camera’s reach only went as far as the middle of the street. It didn’t show the parking lot on the other side. Relief swam through her.
“You went home from there,” he suggested.
She almost said yes, but she instinctively understood this was a trick question.
