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She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind, and yes, I have started arrangements. Something simple.” To Finley she said, “Under the circumstances I’ve decided on cremation.”
“Understandable, but I wouldn’t make that public,” Finley advised. “The decision could be seen as an opportunity to conceal evidence the police may not yet know to look for.”
Winthrop nodded, conceding the point.
Jack saw their client out, fending off the reporters. Finley grabbed her notepad but lingered in the conference room. The morning had been intense with Jack’s abrupt revelation and then the need to get Brant’s girlfriend to a safe place. Finley had hardly had the time to consider the info dump about Jack and the Judge.
How had she missed Jack’s true feelings for the Judge? He’d always been such a good friend to Finley’s father—to the whole family. It was a shock. And the idea that her mother might have felt the same way ...
Finley gave herself a shake. Hard to believe. Since adolescence she’d considered her mother cold. She’d wondered how her father, who was so demonstrative with his feelings, had tolerated her standoffishness.
Finley loved Jack, but she loved her father more. She wouldn’t want to have to choose between them.
Had the Judge felt that way when Jack drunkenly announced his true feelings? Had she loved Jack and Bart, but all those years of marriage and having a child had tipped the scales in her husband’s favor?
“You pick up any vibes today?”
Finley jerked from the thoughts and looked to Jack standing in the doorway of the conference room. “She’s still not being completely forthcoming. Whether it’s relevant to who murdered her husband or the circumstances surrounding his death, the jury is still out.”
“You should check with the spy shop and confirm Grady bought the code grabber there.”
“My next destination,” she agreed.
Jack nodded. But he didn’t move.
The silence twisted like barbed wire around Finley. She didn’t want to feel this uncertainty ... this uneasiness. Not with Jack. Not ever.
“We okay, kid?”
She walked toward him until they stood face to face. “Whatever happens, past, present, or future,” she said, “we will always be okay, Jack Finnegan.”
Spy Shop
Fesslers Parkway, Nashville, 12:15 p.m.
The low-roofed midcentury-style building sported a generic spy logo in black against tan brick. The shop was in a more commercial area on the fringes of Nashville proper. Not the sort of place one would notice while out shopping or having dinner. To find this shop, a buyer would need to have either taken a recommendation from a friend or searched the internet. It wasn’t exactly on the beaten path or easily spotted.
Finley nosed into a slot right next to the entrance. She got out, grabbed her messenger bag, and pushed the door shut with her hip. She surveyed the area. The large parking lot served a number of other businesses, but none appeared to be particularly busy. The area was quiet, only a few vehicles around. There was none save hers near the spy shop, but according to her internet search, it was open.
A bell overhead tingled when she opened the door. Inside was as bland and generic as outside. Plain gray vinyl tile on the floor. Dingy white walls. Faux-wood counter spanned the middle of the retail space. Dropped ceiling with florescent lights.
A man stood behind the counter, his forearms resting on the top. A few feet down the counter, a young woman appeared to be packing gadgets. Or maybe unpacking them. Shelves behind the counter displayed a wide variety of available devices created for following, monitoring, or watching unsuspecting victims. Not that she was judging. Sometimes the results of a good spy device made all the difference in closing a case.
“Good afternoon,” the man, who looked on the far side of middle age, with thin gray hair and glasses, announced. “What can I help you with today?”
“Good afternoon to you.” Finley withdrew her credentials from her bag. Her current credentials. “I’m Finley O’Sullivan. I’m an investigator for the Finnegan Firm.”
A broad smile split the man’s face. “Jack Finnegan! Oh boy, he’s the man. I see stuff about him in the news all the time. If I’m ever in trouble, I want Finnegan on my side.”
Finley produced the expected smile. “That would be a good decision.”
The guy laughed, glanced at his coworker as if she should laugh as well. She managed a stiff smile.
The laughing guy said, “I’m Charlie Howard. How can I help you?”
Finley produced the receipt and the bag with the bug inside. “Did this man”—she held out her phone for him to see Grady’s photo—“buy this from you? The receipt is from your shop. It’s dated August sixteenth.”
Howard stared at the pic, his face pinched in assessment. “Oh yes, I remember him. Quiet fellow. Didn’t have a lot to say. Just told me what he wanted, and that was that.” He moved on to the receipt and the bagged device.
