AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Wilson Pike, Brentwood, 7:15 p.m.
The nurse let them in. Matt waited in the main room downstairs while Finley was escorted to the old man’s bedroom.
“He hasn’t been doing so well today,” the nurse said. “The doctor said he’s taken a turn for the worse and it wouldn’t be long now, so be brief.”
“Of course.”
The nurse left her at the door and went on her way.
Finley knocked, then opened the door. “Mr.Johnson, it’s Finley O’Sullivan from the Finnegan Firm.”
“Come in,” he said, his voice low, weary.
She walked closer to the bed. The only light in the room was the one at his bedside. This time there was an oxygen line running to his nose, helping him breathe.
“Do you have news for me?”
Finley smiled. “I do. I found your son Ian. He’s alive.”
“I want to see him.” He tried to sit up but failed. “Where has he been?” He put a frail hand against his chest as if his heart needed help to steady its rhythm. “How did you find him?”
“I’ll make sure Detective Houser fills you in and that he knows you would like to see Ian. Hopefully he can arrange a meeting for you in a few days.”
“In a few days?” he demanded. His legs moved restlessly, as if he wanted to get up but couldn’t make his limbs execute the necessary actions. “Why can’t he come here now? Who knows if I’ll still be breathing a few hours from now?”
Finley refused to feel one iota of sympathy. “You can’t see him now because he’s being charged in connection with the murder of Lucy Cagle.” This was not true, but it would hopefully prompt what she’d come here for.
The old man stared at the ceiling; his thin lips formed a hard line as if he were contemplating how he should respond to this news.
“That’s why he’s been in hiding all this time,” Finley lied, the second one rolling off her tongue as smoothly as the first.
Johnson moved his head side to side, his stringy hair scrubbing against his yellowed pillowcase. “He didn’t kill her. He didn’t have the guts. I ordered him to, but he couldn’t do it.”
Tension moved through Finley. She had known this was the answer he would likely give, which was the primary reason she was here. There was one little loose thread she needed tied into a neat little knot. “Why did you want Lucy dead?”
A heavy breath rattled from his frail chest. “Lucy made him weak,” he said listlessly. “When she’d wrapped him around her little finger, he told her things he shouldn’t have. He was young and foolish.”
“Like the fact that one of your businesses was a cover for human trafficking, specializing in children?” This was just one of the many operations Ian had listed off for Houser. Drugs. Prostitution. Human trafficking. All those crimes the family had been suspected of for far too long.
The old man laughed, a dry, wretched sound. He scratched at his head. “Who told you such nonsense?”
“Ian did. He said Ray made a deal to traffic children in the Nashville area and you sanctioned it. When Ian learned what was going on, he wanted out.” All true. He wanted to be with Lucy. Finley’s chest tightened with the regret she felt for Lucy and Ian and the anger at this old bastard that throttled through her.
Johnson cut her a look. “I sanctioned nothing of the sort. I wasn’t even aware of how this deal had happened. Ray was trapped into that deal. He had no idea what would really happen. And together we put a stop to it.”
Possibly there was some degree of truth in the statement. Maybe the “do anything for money” Johnsons had standards and human trafficking of children was the line in the sand. Although they apparently had no issues with trafficking adults.
“But that didn’t stop Lucy. She had the goods on both your sons,” Finley suggested.
“The little bitch was just like her mother. She trapped Ian with her lies.”
“You ordered him to deal with it, but he couldn’t do the job, so you did. You killed Lucy Cagle.”
He stared at the ceiling. “I did. My sons didn’t touch her. You can call the detective, and I’ll give my statement.”
How easy was that? Finley rolled her eyes. Ian had already told the whole story about that night. Finley needed—wanted—the old man’s confirmation of those events. She had known how this would play out if she didn’t intervene in exactly this way.
“Funny thing,” Finley went on, ignoring his request, “you see, when the evidence—Lucy’s purse—was found, there were also a couple of cigarette butts. Kool menthol. DNA showed you were the one who had smoked those cigarettes.”
