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Finley smiled and exited the car. The woman had no idea.
Once she’d changed her flight and tackled the security line, Finley called Jack to give him an update.
“I’ll pass Marsh’s details along to Ventura,” Jack said. “The sooner they start looking for her, the better the chances of finding her.”
Finley agreed. “The Miami destination was probably a ruse. If she headed out of town in her car, she could be halfway across the country.” Nothing they could do about that. “I’ll let you know when I land.”
“There’s been some developments here, Fin.”
She didn’t like the sound of his voice. “Developments?”
“That detective. Eric Houser, the one working on Derrick’s case.”
“Yeah,” Finley said, her heart rate starting to climb. She should have called him at some point today to follow up on Whitney Lemm, but she’d gotten so caught up in her search here that she’d forgotten. “What about him?”
“He was shot last night at a dive motel over on the west side. He wasn’t found until this morning. Apparently, the housekeeper went into the room and—”
“Is he dead?” Ice filled Finley’s veins.
“No,” Jack assured her. “He’s alive. Barely. His ID was missing, so the staff in the ER didn’t know who he was when he went into surgery. Obviously, he didn’t show at work, and his partner couldn’t find him, so he started checking in with hospitals. The partner got to the hospital and was able to see him briefly while he was in recovery. He says Houser roused long enough to say your name. It took his partner a while to figure out that Finley was you. He called here looking for you. He wants to talk to you as soon as you’re back.”
“What about the woman?” Finley’s chest felt on the verge of exploding.
“The prostitute they found in the room with him?”
“She’s not a prostitute,” Finley argued, frustration joining the other emotions raging inside her. She was on her feet, walking back and forth in front of the row of chairs at the gate. “Houser went to the motelto pick her up and to talk to her. She’s Brant’s girlfriend—Whitney Lemm—the one who shot him.” Finley’s hopes sank. “She’s a possible link to Dempsey.”
“Sorry, kid, but she didn’t make it. The setup in the room looked like Houser picked her up and things went south. The motel manager claimed he didn’t even know she was in the room. It was supposed to be empty.”
Outrage roared through Finley. “The fucking manager knew because I rented the room from him and took Whitney there. Houser was going to move her to a safe house and then interview her.”
“Slow down,” Jack said. “Explain this to me.”
Finley took a breath, fought the urge to cry. What the hell was wrong with her lately? “I decided to do the right thing. I told Houser everything. He was going to help.”
“Damn, Fin,” Jack murmured. “You’re killing me here. You have to be more careful. That could’ve been you dead in that room with Lemm.”
“But it wasn’t,” she argued, renewed outrage blasting through her. “Just tell me if Houser’s going to make it.”
“The partner called me again a little while ago. He says the prognosis is good. But he’s bugging the hell out of me about talking to you. I told him you were out of town and you’d talk to him when you got back.”
“Thanks, Jack. Sorry I didn’t tell you about Houser before I left.”
“No problem, kid. Just promise me you’ll do like we talked about and stop all these clandestine meetings with shady characters.”
Finley managed a tight laugh. “Then how would I ever dig up the stuff our clients hide?”
Jack was the one laughing now. “You’re right. Secrets are never hidden in safe places with nice people.”
Never. They were in places no decent or sane person wanted to look.
27
5:50 p.m.
The Murder House
Shelby Avenue, Nashville
