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For a woman who had made her life’s work keeping the public informed of the news, Downey’s answer to that particular question seemed a bit naive. Intelligence and privilege were hardly foolproof safeguards against mistakes, especially during the teen years. The names of the friends she had mentioned had been a part of the original investigation. Both teenagers, at the time, had spoken to the police as well as reporters about their relationships with Lucy. Much of the information about the investigation had been used in the tenth-anniversary documentary. But there was one name Finley abruptly realized hadnot been mentioned in any of her research. One that Downey had not mentioned even now.
“Still,” Finley countered, “ifLucy had a secret friend, how could her mother have been confident she would know? The girls at school might not have been completely forthcoming. Lying is more often than not a part of the teen years. Loyalties are tested, and the parents are frequently on the losing end.”
“Because my daughter would have told us after ... what happened,” Downey said, obviously flustered. “Jessica would never lie to me.”
Jessica had not been named in a single article or commentary about Lucy’s death. Her mother would have seen to that. From the moment Downey mentioned having a daughter the same age as Lucy, Finley had instinctively known that the daughters would have been friends. They grew up with moms who were dear friends—who worked together. If the two girls hadn’t been friends, there would have been a compelling reason. Either way, Finley had needed confirmation.
Finley shrugged. “Your daughter may not have known,” she countered. “Just because—”
“You’re wrong.” Downey’s posture stiffened. “Jessica would have known. She and Lucy were best friends. Closer than any of the others.”
And there was the answer Finley had really wanted.
Had she asked about Lucy’s friends, Downey would have given Finley what she wanted her to know—the names of the two girls she’d first mentioned. Certainly, she wouldn’t have put her own daughter in the line of fire.
“Thank you,” Finley said before exiting the woman’s office.
Finley thanked the assistant and headed for the elevator. She imagined Downey would be on her cell, calling her daughter at that very moment, warning her not to talk to Finley if she showed up.
Funny how in a murder investigation everyone wanted the truth so badly—unless it somehow hit too close to home.
Mel’s
McGavock Pike, Nashville, Noon
Mel’s was an East Nashville European-style café and wine bar created from a restored 1930s craftsman bungalow. Inside was reminiscent of a French bistro, with bar seating as well as a small dining room. Eric Houser knew the owner and had ensured he and Finley were given the proverbial corner table. Finley ordered a white wine and the house ricotta-and-local-blueberry tartine. Houser had gone for the braised lamb torta. Since he was on duty, he chose sparkling water.
After her meeting with Maureen Downey, Finley had intended to track down her daughter, Jessica, but there hadn’t been time before her lunch with Houser. With his busy schedule, she might not have another opportunity in the next twenty-four hours to talk with him face to face. Passing up the opportunity wouldn’t be smart. In murder cases, timing could turn out to be everything.
“Have you spoken to the detective who was in charge of the case thirteen years ago?” she asked after their drinks were brought to the table.
Houser glanced at Finley’s stemmed goblet, then studied his water glass as if he wished it were something else. “Daniel Blake died a couple of years ago, but I’ve been reviewing his notes. I’m happy to fill you in on anything you’d like to know as long as the offer goes both ways.” He lifted his gaze to hers and smiled. “I’m sure that’s why you called.”
Finley made a face, feeling deservedly guilty. “I know, I know. I haven’t talked to you in a while, and then I call and it’s about a case.” She turned up her hands. “I’m seriously out of practice with thefriendsthing. I’ll try to do better.”
She really should be ashamed of herself. Houser had taken a serious beating and a bullet because of her. He’d almost died. She owed him. He was one of the few who had gone above and beyond for her.
His smile widened to a grin. “It’s okay. I get it. We’re all busy. And you’ve got this new man in your life.”
“Matt is not new,” she countered, unable to prevent her own grin. “We’ve known each other forever. Been best friends for as long as I can remember.”
“But you’re more than friends now,” Houser pointed out.
Finley sensed a touch of jealousy. Was that even possible? Did Houser have a thing for her? He was single. Handsome. Very good at his job. Surely not ... but maybe. If so, she hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe she was overreacting to his comment. She’d spent so long being excessively protective of her personal life, she still found it difficult to speak so freely about it—even with a friend. A friend who was a lot like her. He came from a family of medical professionals, but he’d decided being a doctor wasn’t for him. He’d dropped out of premed and joined the Nashville Metro Police Department. He was a rebel. A true friend. One she didn’t want to lose for any reason.
She pushed the idea away. “We are.”
Houser gave a nod. “Good. You should move on with your life. You punished yourself long enough.”
Okay, so maybe she had gotten that wrong. Good. She liked Houser. “Thanks. I’m getting used to the idea of not being miserable. It feels good.”
“I’m glad. Really glad.”
There was a moment of silence, of knowing. It felt comfortable.
“So hit me with your questions,” he said as he raised his glass for a drink.
Finley shifted into full investigative mode. “Is there a complete list of Lucy’s friends in the notes? I’m looking for anyone close to her, particularly anyone she seemed to be involved with on a romantic level at the time.” She had the names she’d read about online—the same ones Downey had confirmed, save her daughter, of course. But there could be others in the official case file that she had not seen as of yet.
