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The lab was closed, but Houser’s sedan sat in the lot as promised. Finley parked next to him. When she emerged from her Subaru, he was waiting for her on the sidewalk leading to the entrance.
“I take it we’re going in after hours to prevent any questions.”
He shrugged. “Let’s just say I have a friend.”
“Friends are good,” Finley acknowledged.
Houser started walking, and Finley did the same.
“He’s meeting us at the employees’ entrance.”
Where the sidewalk and the main entrance intersected, they headed left and skirted the front corner of the building. Once around back, she spotted a single car in the smaller rear parking area. Houser’s friend, she imagined.
On the way here, she had called Matt to say she might be around eight getting home, and he’d reminded her they were scheduled to have dinner with the Judge and her father at eight. Finley had forgotten. She always did. No matter. Now that Matt had reminded her, she didn’t have a lot of time for easing into the questions she wanted to ask Houser about the Cagle house. Going straight to the more sensitive queries was rarely the best route, but sometimes there was no help for it.
“Have you been to the Cagle home since the case was reopened?”
He sent her a questioning sideways glance. “I’m sure someone else lives there by now.”
“Nope. Maureen Downey, Cagle’s former employer and the managing editor at theTennessean, has been taking care of it all this time. When Cagle disappeared, she stepped in and kept the taxes paid and the necessary maintenance done. The place has been sitting there just as the family left it all these years.”
He stopped. She did the same. “Have you been to the house?” he asked, an urgency in his eyes.
“I was there this afternoon. I still have the keys.”
“Okay.” He seemed to consider her answer but said nothing, then suddenly started to walk again.
So that was not the reaction she had expected.
Just before they reached the employee entrance, she added, “Cagle kept a home office there. She turned it into a sort of murder room, complete with a case board and lots and lots of notes and photos.”
Houser hesitated again. His friend waiting on the other side of the door gave Finley a little wave. She waved back.
“And,” Houser prompted, his expression oddly devoid of tells.
Ah, he wanted her to spell it out, did he? She could do that.
“First off, there was a timeline that began the week before Lucy was murdered. The one notation mentioned afollower. Was there anything in the case file—maybe the part you couldn’t share—about a follower?”
Obviously, there were some things the cops on a case didn’t share until they had no choice, but this was Houser—her friend. She had hoped he wouldn’t do that with the sorts of details left hanging after the case went cold. How could she find the truth if relevant information was not revealed? She already had way too many others keeping little truths from her.
He shook his head. “No mention of a follower. Not from any of the people interviewed. Not from the mother or father. Are you sure the notation was about someone following Lucy?”
She tilted her head and considered the question. “I can’t be sure, of course, but that’s the way it looked based on the way the notes on other aspects were laid out.”
“Then Louise Cagle knew something we didn’t. Anything else?”
Finley looked him in the eye. “There was a photo of you—back then. Cagle considered you a person of interest. Any idea why?”
Finley didn’t like accusing this man of anything. He’d been a good friend to her ... taken a bullet for her ... but she needed the whole story. If this was the only way to get it, then so be it.
Houser glanced at his waiting friend before locking his gaze with Finley’s once more. “I suppose because Lucy and I dated for a while. I told you that.”
Finley tamped down her frustration. “Fine.” She gestured to the door. “We going in or what?”
Houser signaled to his friend, and the guy opened the door. Finley stepped inside and thrust out her hand. “Finley O’Sullivan.”
The younger man in the white lab coat gave her hand a quick, hearty shake. “Evidence tech Brett Taylor. I’ve heard all about you, Ms.O’Sullivan.”
