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Ray Johnson stood as Finley entered the room. He appeared to be in his mid- to late forties. Blond hair that was going gray fast, which likely explained why he wore it short. Pale skin, freckles. Nice suit, but the silver wasn’t a good color for him, even if it did provide a sense of cool reserve, which she doubted he possessed. This she based on the tattoos peeking above the collar of his shirt, the hard lines of his face, and the stone-cold gaze from those deep-blue eyes.
Not a friendly-looking guy for sure.
“Mr.Johnson.” She extended her hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” His grasp was firm. Hands callused. This close, it was obvious the man worked out, probably lifted weights. “Call me Ray. Mr.Johnson is my pop.”
“Ray,” she said with an acknowledging nod.
Finley counted three rings on his right hand, two on his left. She’d also spotted another tattoo when his cuff slid back as he reached forher hand. Nothing against tattoos or jewelry, but if they ended up in court, Finley would ensure that he ditched the extra rings and wore a dark-blue suit that would flatter his coloring. There was makeup for the tattoos, considering some folks saw the markings as negative, particularly in the defendant of a criminal case.
The three of them took their seats, and Jack kicked off the meeting with “Ray, why don’t you walk us through what’s happened since the discovery of the handbag at the construction site?”
Johnson gave a succinct nod, held Finley’s gaze without looking away, as if she’d been the one to make the suggestion. “My pop received a phone call from one of the cops on the scene. A guy he knew from way back. That was on Wednesday of last week, but we didn’t get the official visit from the detective on the case until Friday.” He relaxed deeper into his chair. “Frankly, I wasn’t that worried about it until the call I got this morning.”
So, a cop the father knew had tipped them off, and Johnson hadn’t been worried that evidence from a thirteen-year-old murder had been found on his property. Seemed strange that he hadn’t been at least a little concerned.
“Why weren’t you worried?” Finley asked, more curious than anything.
He glanced away now. She’d called his bluff. He was worried. Who wouldn’t be? There was no statute of limitations on murder. His pretense was likely related to wanting to come off as innocent of any possible connection to the find. Or maybe he wanted to prove how unimportant all this was in the grand scheme of his life.
He did give off a bit of an arrogant vibe.
“First, no one in my family, including me, even knew Lucy Cagle.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “Obviously we saw the news back then, and what happened to her was a damned shame. But it had nothing to do with us. Second, the warehouse sat empty for two decades. We were always running the homeless out of there. Anyone could have left thepurse on the premises.” He stared directly at Finley then. “I damned sure would have moved it if I had hidden it there.”
Yeah. She figured as much. So far, stupid didn’t appear to be one of his unflattering assets. This was something else most folks recognized about Finley right off the bat—she could be on the skeptical side. Hazard of her past career. Trust was something people had to earn, at least from her. She didn’t blindly go in believing all she was told.
“The police obviously understand that to be the case,” she pointed out in an effort to lower his tension. The fact that he hadn’t been arrested implied as much.
Johnson nodded. “I think so, but they’re still looking at me closer than I’d like.”
“Meaning?” Finley prompted.
He glanced at Jack, then settled his gaze on hers once more. “The detective called this morning. He found no prints on the bag, except the girl’s—the one who got murdered. But he says there were a couple of cigarette butts found near the purse. He wants me to agree to a DNA test to rule me out, considering I smoke.” He patted his chest where a pack of cigarettes was ensconced in a breast pocket. “Have for thirty years.”
Not exactly a point to brag about, in Finley’s opinion.
“This could be a problem,” Jack indicated.
Finley did not agree. In fact, she felt quite the opposite—assuming their client had nothing to hide. “If you weren’t involved in the victim’s murder, why not allow the detective to rule you out? It’s a common practice that could basically end any further issues for you.”
Johnson looked from Jack to Finley, hesitated long enough to release a big breath, then spilled the reason for holding back. “My DNA could potentially link me to other crimes from my younger years. I’d just as soon not go there.”
Well, that was certainly an acceptable answer, even if it wasn’t one an attorney wanted to hear from a client.Jack, Jack, Jack.How had he managed to accumulate all these not-so-upstanding friends?
Because on some level, he was broken, just like Finley. There were some fractures that never healed, no matter how much time passed and no matter how you moved on. They were just there ... marring the person you wanted to rise above. But those fractures, those dim little scars ... wouldn’t go away quietly.
She shifted her attention to Jack and waited for him to spell it out for this guy.
“I won’t sugarcoat the situation,” Jack said. “This is a problem.”
Johnson gave a nod. “This is why we need your firm. My pop says you’re the best defense attorney on the planet,” he said to Jack. Then he turned to Finley. “I’ve heard things about you, Ms.O’Sullivan. The cops can’t prove I killed that girl, but I can’t prove I didn’t, which only leaves one choice: find out who did kill her. You can do that ... I know you can.”
Finding the truth was sort of Finley’s specialty. She did so often, even when their clients would prefer she didn’t. As for her reputation, most cops didn’t like her. Didn’t want her involved in a case. Because, ultimately, finding the truth was not necessarily about simply finding the evidence. Motive, means, and opportunity were not always the perfect storm for closing a case. Cops didn’t like it when Finley interfered with their tried-and-true methods. She complicated things, forced the assigned detectives to work harder to wrap up the case. Johnson had opted not to mention this part in his little speech about his faith in her, but she suspected he was well aware.
“Is that what you want, Ray?” she asked point blank. “You want me to find the truth?”
The hesitation was ever so slight ... just the tiniest hint but enough for Finley to comprehend that whether he admitted it or not, he had some reservations about the idea. What he wanted, she understood perfectly, was for this to go away. Sooner rather than later.
