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“I was not even in Nashville last weekend,” she argued. “I was out of town.”
Finley knew the answer before she asked. “Where were you?”
“That’s none of your business. I didn’t come back until noon on Sunday.”
“Grady was out of town on Friday and Saturday. Were you with him?”
“I was not with him.” She glared at Finley then. “I don’t fool around with married men.” She shook her head. “That one time was a mistake.” She stood, squared her shoulders. “This interview is over.” To punctuate the announcement, she walked to the door and opened it.
Finley got up and joined her at the door. She tugged a business card from her bag and handed it to Marsh. “Call me if you think of something else.”
“Sure.”
Finley hesitated. “Just so you know, your refusal to answer more of my questions only makes you look guilty.”
When Marsh said nothing, Finley walked out, and the door slammed behind her. George Strait’s voice immediately filled the air loudly enough to shake the neighbor’s windows.
O’Sullivan Residence
Jackson Boulevard, Belle Meade, 8:00 p.m.
Forty-five—no, forty-six minutes. Finley had been in her childhood home for forty-six minutes, and already she wanted to light her hair on fire and go screaming through the night.
“Detective Houser dropped by my office today,” the Judge announced.
They were in the middle of dinner, and Finley almost choked on a brussels sprout.
“Why?” Finley stared at her mother. Houser was supposed to be attempting an interview with Flock. What the hell?
“He’s concerned about you,” Ruth O’Sullivan said. She patted her lips with her white linen napkin. “A man with connections to the one in the convenience store shooting was murdered, and your car was spotted in the vicinity of the shooting.”
“What on earth?” Bart O’Sullivan looked from his wife to his daughter. “Fin, what’s going on?”
“Houser is making something out of nothing. I was at the Turnip Truck,” Finley explained. “It was a pure coincidence that someone got themselves murdered across the street.”
The Judge glared steadily at Finley. Finley stared back at her. Her father nodded and went back to his meal. Matt pretended the exchange had been about the weather.
“They have good produce,” Bart commented. “But I haven’t shopped there since the Trader Joe’s came to White Bridge Road.”
“Trader Joe’s is the best,” Finley agreed, flashing a grin for her father. He loved Trader Joe’s. But mostly she did this because the Judge continued to watch her. The Turnip Truck was equally good.
“Judge, I’m hearing the mayor may not run again,” Matt said, cutting through the tension by shifting the subject.
Thank you, Matt.
“His poll numbers are dwindling,” the Judge agreed. “He’ll be seventy on his next birthday. He’s had a good run. A politician should never expect more than his constituents have already given him. When they’re done, so is he.”
The Judge loved Matt. She always thawed a little when he visited.
“He has indeed had a good run,” Matt confirmed. “Do you have a favorite for replacing him?” He smiled. “I’m certain you’ve kept your thumb on the pulse of the up-and-comers.”
A rare smile—at least rare in Finley’s presence—tugged at the Judge’s lips. “I have my thoughts on the matter, but I wouldn’t lay any odds just yet.”
“My vote’s going to Solomon,” Finley’s father said. “She has big plans for the city.”
“Oh, please,” the Judge argued with her husband. “She’s far too soft to handle the needs of this city. We need strength.” She turned to Matt then. “I’m hearing rumors about you.”
Matt grinned, ducked his head before meeting her gaze. “The governor has offered me the chief of staff position, and”—he glanced at Bart before settling his full attention on Finley—“I have officially accepted.”
