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“Her cell phone was never found.” Finley glanced around. “I’m surprised it wasn’t with her purse.”
“There was nothing else belonging to her in this building.”
Finley surveyed the floor. “What about in the crawl space? Since the structure isn’t on a slab, there could be some space under there.”
Houser nodded. “It sits about two feet off the ground in the back and maybe ten inches in front. There’s nothing down there, trust me. We had guys under there as well.”
“Good to know you’re being thorough.”
“Anything else you want to see?” He spread his arms apart to indicate the building at large.
“I’m here, I might as well go upstairs.”
Houser led the way. “There’s no attic. The ceiling up here is vaulted.”
“What’s your lieutenant saying about this case?”
“He thinks we won’t have enough to charge Johnson or anyone else.” He walked to the center of the enormous space, looked around as if he hadn’t been here before. “Like me, he wishes.”
Finley scrutinized the dingy, cracked plaster walls that may have once been white. The wood floor was a duplicate of the one downstairs. Up here, instead of plaster on the ceiling, there was more wood. The structure would have made nice condos. Too bad it was being demolished rather than renovated.
Her gaze landed on Houser once more. “Since you’ve repeatedly reminded me how bad the Johnson family is, tell me what I need to know beyond what I might find on the net or in another review of your case file. Save me the trouble of digging deeper into the family history.”
He walked toward her, his face serious, set in stone. “The old man, Raymond Senior, took his father’s real estate holdings and created a nice-size development empire. He bought up property dirt cheap, then hung on to it until the value in the area went through the roof. He had that kind of patience. There have been rumors of rent gouging. The storage and transport of everything from stolen goods to drugs and guns. Even people.”
Finley held up her hands. “But none of the rumors were ever substantiated.”
Houser looked away. Took a breath. “True, but here’s a perfect example of how they’ve gotten away with their dirty deeds all these years. About fifteen years ago one of his low-rent motels was connected to prostitution, but the whole thing ended up being put on the manager. The dumbass copped to charges and insisted the Johnsons knew nothing of his extracurricular activities. The manager’s wife and kids got a nice house in a nice neighborhood and a new SUV, while dumbass got a few years in jail. They’re all living happily ever after now with the ex-con running another motel for the Johnson family. I can give you half a dozen more examples very similar to that one.”
“The Johnsons are organized crime.” This wasn’t new to Finley. She’d found the rumors and suggestions. Bauer, Jack, and her own father had confirmed as much. The PI, Bauer, had mentioned that Louise Cagle had been working the human trafficking angle in the area. If Lucy knew this, and Bauer believed she had, she would have been going after that angle as well. Had she found it in Ian Johnson or his family, or both?The idea only reinforced Finley’s feelings about their new client, and none were good.
“They are,” Houser agreed. “But they don’t play by the usual rules. The old man made his own rules as he went along. He’s not the richest organized crime boss in the area, but he’s the old guard. No one messes with him, because he’s ruthless. There are rumors of torture and murder when it came to the competition.”
“But now he’s dying,” Finley pointed out.
“He’s dying, and the wolves smell blood in the air.”
Finley got it. “They’re all wondering if Ray is up to the job of taking over for real or if there’s a chance someone can take him out.”
“Exactly. If Ray had something to do with Lucy’s murder, we may be running out of time to prove it and see that he pays the price.”
“On the other hand,” she countered, “if a competitor wants Ray out of the way, what better means than to see that he’s charged with murder by stashing evidence at one of his properties.”
“I’m telling you,” Houser argued, “this family is involved.”
Finley studied him a moment. “What’s your connection to Lucy Cagle?”
He blinked, blanked his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She decided then and there that his earlier prickliness hadn’t been about religion or weddings. It was about this case.
“This is a flimsy case, to say the least,” she said straight up. “We both know it. But you’re pressing like you’ve got this one nailed. There has to be more evidence than you’ve told me about or a compelling personal connection. Trust me,” she reminded him, “no one is more familiar with the combination of personal and murder than me.”
He stared at her for a bit before he spoke. “She was my girlfriend.”
Finley’s instincts were on point. She bit back the first response that rushed to the tip of her tongue—like the fact that he could have told her this. If she waited a few minutes, maybe it wouldn’t come outlike an accusation. “I’ve been hoping to find details like this. Hard to do when there’s no family left and any social media she had is long gone.”
Houser stared at the floor, hands on hips. “It was a long time ago. She was seventeen, I was nineteen. She had bigger plans, and I thought we were meant to be together forever.”
