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Jack finally shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past the old man to have someone watching you.”
“Call him,” Finley said. She had specifically questioned Ray Johnson about this. Damn it. “Ask him.”
Jack didn’t hesitate. He made the call. Turned out old man Johnson wanted to see them both. In person.
Johnson Residence
Wilson Pike, Brentwood, 5:15 p.m.
The house wasn’t as grand as many of those belonging to the city’s old money families, but it was very nice and quite stately looking. Neatly landscaped. Wide, welcoming driveway. Finley had followed Jack there in her Subaru, since she needed to go by the hospital after this to see her neighbor. Matt had called; he wouldn’t be home before seven or so, which worked out well with her schedule. If he got there first, he would feed and walk the dog. Check the water bowl and take Roberts’s mail in the house. If Finley was still at the hospital, he would text her with an update and a photo she could show Roberts. Seeing her dog might make her day.
Ray Johnson met them at the door. He looked Finley up and down. “You didn’t get enough of me this morning?”
She smiled rather than tell him that she’d had enough of him before they even met. “Your father asked to see us.”
He gave a nod. “Follow me.”
They entered through the double front doors into a spacious-for-its-day foyer. Nice wood floors. Crisp white walls. The decorating was sparse, but it was well done. Minimalist with class, she decided. Not what she’d expected from this family. But then she hadn’t met the old man, and the mother had died more than two decades ago. She doubted Ray’s ex had a hand in the sedate decor.
The dining room and kitchen were recently updated, clean and sleek. There had to be a housekeeper. Ray Johnson wouldn’t know a broom from a mop.
They passed the home office on the way to the staircase that was in the back of the house rather than the front. Ray’s office, she assumed—the one to which Lucy would have had access. No lock that Finley could readily see.
The stairs were tucked away in the kitchen–family room area. Again, Ray led the way to the second floor. Jack followed behind Finley. The father’s bedroom was the first at the top of the stairs.
The smell of death assaulted her senses the instant they entered the room. A nurse ducked out once they had gathered around the hospital-type bed. An IV line ran from a bag on a pole to his right arm. A couple of medical machines stood next to the bed. A water pitcher and prescription bottles sat on the bedside table next to his unencumbered arm.
Raymond Johnson Senior and his son could have been twins if not for the heavy wrinkles and a completely gray, quickly receding hairline. The older man’s skin was paper thin, with equally thin and feeble muscle beneath.
He was the image of death when cancer was called to mind. Not a good way to go.
“Pop, this is Finley O’Sullivan, and you already know Jack.”
Mr.Johnson nodded while he eyed Finley far more keenly than she would have thought him capable. Maybe his vision was failing too.
“She any good at what she does?” He turned to Jack with the question.
“There’s no one better,” Jack said.
Finley thought that might be a bit of a reach.
Johnson looked to his son. “Leave us. I want to speak privately with our guests.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Pop.”
Ray executed an about-face and walked out, closing the door behind himself.
Finley wouldn’t have expected him to take a dismissal so well.
“How’re you feeling, Raymond?” Jack asked.
“I’m dying,” Johnson tossed back. “I feel like I’m overdue.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Johnson laughed. “You and maybe one other person.” He shifted his attention to Finley. “You know about my other boy, Ian?”
“Yes. Ray told me.”
