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She took a slow, deep breath, then another. “Can you get me in to talk to him?”
“I can try. Give me some time, and I’ll do all I can.”
Her pulse slowed to a more normal rate. “Thanks. Call me when you get it worked out.”
“Hey, before you go, is Johnson still refusing the DNA comparison?”
“You’ll need to ask Jack that question,” she dodged. “But I’m guessing you can figure it out without going to the extra trouble. Thanks, Houser.”
Finley ended the call. She entered the code to open the gate, then climbed back into her car and drove up to the Cagle house. The gate closed automatically behind her. She sure as hell didn’t want that guy following her onto the property if he decided to cruise by again.
She got out and walked around for a few minutes to cool down. This was not Houser’s fault, and if he could get this meeting, he would be doing her a huge favor. She’d have to keep that in mind and reciprocate.
Deep breath. Time to focus.
She put Dempsey out of her head and focused on the house. It was brick. Old brick, like at least a hundred years old. She surveyed the landscape. Several acres, well treed and heavily planted with shrubs. Downey had someone taking care of the property as far as the lawn maintenance. That same person occasionally checked inside to ensure there had been no leaks or issues. The alarm system was active, so she’d given Finley the code.
Faded wicker rockers sat on the long, narrow porch. Finley paused at the front door and readied to tuck the key into the lock. The plaque announcing the home was a historically significant one confirmed her thoughts about the brick. The place was 153 years old, to be exact. She wondered if Cagle or her husband had inherited the property.
Inside, Finley entered the code for the alarm and then surveyed the entry hall, which was just that, a hall with a staircase to one side. Though it was plenty large enough, it wasn’t like the grand foyers of modern mansions. High ceilings. Original wood floors. Very nice. Near the door was a bench with coat hooks above it. A thin layer of dust covered the table that stood beneath an antique oil painting of a barn scene on the long wall leading deeper into the house.
A parlor on her left held the expected furniture, sofa, chairs, tables as well as a baby grand piano that seemed to gleam despite the layer of dust. She wondered who in the family had played it or if maybe the piano had been for show. A conversation piece to amuse guests. A marble-clad fireplace. A towering shelving unit lined with books—most looked to be first editions or collectibles—filled an entire wall adjacent to the fireplace. Finley walked around the room, checked in table drawers. The only painting on the wall was the one of the family—Louise, Lucy, and Scott—hanging over the fireplace. Finley guessed that Lucy had been ten or twelve at the time of the sitting.
She trekked through the rooms like a beagle on the scent of its prey. The usual family room was next. She checked the drawers and shelves. Fanned through books and magazines. Looked under any piece of furniture that didn’t sit flat on the floor.
The dining room was spectacular in a vintage sort of way. A large chandelier hung from the inordinately high ceiling. She searched the buffet and china cabinet and found nothing but dishware. Spanning the backside of the structure was yet another family room with a towering stone fireplace and vaulted ceiling that led into the kitchen. This part wasn’t original to the house, but both rooms were well done.
These final two downstairs rooms took some time for her to explore. She opened every cupboard. Checked every drawer. Didn’t leave out the appliances or the pantry. Most of what one would expect to be stored in a pantry was gone. No food at all, not even canned or dry goods.For the best, she supposed, considering no one had lived in this house for nearly thirteen years.
She moved up the stairs and to the bedrooms. There were five, each with its own bathroom. Three of the five were like hotel rooms, nicely decorated but with empty closets and drawers. Guest rooms. The owner’s suite was exactly as Louise Cagle had left it, or at least it appeared that way. Husband’s and wife’s clothes in the closet. Intimates and other personal items in the drawers. Finley took some time to carefully go through everything. She was purposely saving Lucy’s room for last.
Finley was surprised there was nothing in Louise’s room from her work. No notepads. Sticky notes. No books she or her husband might have been reading. There were framed photos, but not a whole lot of mementos otherwise. Finley looked through the jewelry box as well. Lots of high-dollar items in there.
Slowly, she turned around, taking in the room as a whole. There hadn’t been a home office downstairs. Not one up here either, so far. Where did the high-profile reporter do her homework?
With no ready answer at the moment, she moved on to Lucy’s room. The space was the typical teenage girl’s bedroom. Pink walls, white canopy bed. Fluffy, lacy bedding that had once been white but now was a little off-white. Stuffed animals were piled on her bed. Popular celebrities from the latter part of the first decade of the new millennium dotted the walls in posters. Lots of books on the shelves. Mostly fiction. If she’d had a laptop, it was gone. Finley checked drawers, under and inside pillows, animals, and even the mattress but found no journal or diary. No notes or photos.
As with the other rooms, she checked inside, behind, and under every single piece of furniture. Then she moved on to the walk-in closet. Finley smiled as she perused the space. The girl had a lot of footwear. She checked inside all the shoes and boots. Then moved on to theclothing, and there was plenty of it too. Nothing in the many, many coat and jacket pockets. Nothing in the dozens of purses.
Half an hour later, she had found nothing in or under anything. Lastly, she checked the bathroom. She picked through all the cosmetics and hair products, even peeked into the toilet tank as she had all the others. Nothing.
With nowhere else to look, Finley closed the door to Lucy’s room as she had all the other bedrooms. She walked along the hall in both directions to ensure she hadn’t missed a door. Nope.
No home office. Strange.
Finley moved down the stairs and wandered through the first floor again, just to be certain she hadn’t overlooked a space. She had to be missing something somewhere. She exited the house via the back door and had a look around.
Large back porch and outdoor kitchen. Lots of seating areas with faded, dry-rotting cushions. Beyond the house was a massive detached garage that was obviously not original. She would check there before she left. An enormous pool with a discolored and faded cover surrounded by iron tables and chairs that sported a little rust here and there. All flanked the wide porch.
Then her gaze landed on another, smaller structure. It was built from the same brick as the house and looked original to the grounds.
“Bingo.”
Finley headed in that direction. French doors fronted the small building. She wasn’t so sure they were original, but they were old. She checked the handle. Locked. She dug out the key ring Downey had given her and went through the keys until she found the one that fit.
Inside, Finley smiled. A brick fireplace stood in the middle of the maybe fourteen-by-twenty single room. Floors were the same wood as the ones in the house. The wood ceiling soared upward with crossbeams.The front of the space, nearest the french doors, was set up like a small parlor with a love seat–size sofa and chair. A metal-and-glass table. Framed photos of Louise Scott accepting her many awards lined the brick walls.
Beyond the fireplace was the second half of the space. This was what she had been looking for. A desk and chair. Anticipation fired in Finley’s veins. No laptop or other computer, but there were notes and notepads, a sticky note dispenser. All the things one would expect in a working office. A bookcase lined with research volumes. And a sizable bulletin-style board covered the majority of the rear wall. Lining the board were printed images, newspaper clippings, and notes—pages torn from a notepad and sticky notes—from side to side and top to bottom.
