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“You have his address.”
“Yes.”
“See you there.”
She ended the call. Did she have his address? Please. She knew everything there was to know about the man responsible for the murder of her husband.
20
Dempsey Residence
Hidden River Lane, Franklin, 3:00 p.m.
Carson Dempsey did not live in the typical prestigious mansion. The pharmaceutical billionaire lived in an opulent twenty-five-thousand-square-foot house on a forty-acre palatially manicured estate valued by Zillow at just shy of twenty million.
Finley parked behind Houser’s sedan on the cobblestone drive that circled an enormous three-tiered fountain with statues of maidens standing beneath the spray of water. Finley rolled her eyes at the ridiculous opulence.
Houser emerged from his car and met her at the steps that led up to the front entrance, which looked more like the facade of a high-end hotel than a house.
“His attorney is with him,” Houser explained. “You can ask anything you like, as long as the answer does not incriminate Dempsey.”
“Got it,” she lied. She planned to ask him whatever the hell she wanted either way. It was up to him not to answer.
They climbed the stairs that led to a veranda with three sets of double iron doors. The center set opened, and a tall man dressed all in black stepped back, opening the door wider for them to enter. Theholstered weapon strapped to his broad chest and shoulder suggested he was a member of Dempsey’s private security.
“Detective, you will need to leave any firearm you carry with me,” the big guy said.
“My firearm is locked in my vehicle.” He removed his jacket, held up his hands and performed a turnaround for the guy.
The bodyguard nodded. “Straight ahead. They’re waiting in the great room.”
Finley and Houser walked side by side along the marble floor. Past the iron-railed double staircases with their matching marble treads that curved along and up each side of the enormous space to spill out onto the second-story landing. Beyond the dual staircases was the great room, with an extraordinary view of the back of the estate. A sparkling pool and endless stone pathways meandered through extravagantly landscaped gardens. Serving as a backdrop to all that were the acres and acres of beautiful horse pastures with stately barns and treed mountains.
She wondered how much of all this the bastard would be able to hang on to by the time his criminal trials were over.
Nothing, she hoped.
Carson Dempsey sat in an upholstered chair that likely cost more than she made in a year with his back to the awe-inspiring view of his property. His high-dollar attorney, Bernard Wellsby—a man Finley knew well—sat in a matching chair next to him.
Both men stood as she and Houser approached. Finley was surprised but not the least bit impressed.
“Please,” Dempsey said, “make yourself at home.”
Impossible.
Finley said nothing. She sat on the sofa, facing that view and the man she despised with every ounce of her body and soul. She could not take her eyes off him. He didn’t look away. Instead he stared right back at her, seemingly as curious as she was or perhaps hoping the pale-blue eyes and the fair hair that his son had inherited would remind her howshe had taken that son from him. Finley felt no regret. She was only sorry she hadn’t been able to prove his scumbag son had raped many, many other women. Wasn’t her fault that he’d ended up with a jailhouse shiv in his gut only days after his incarceration.
Carson Dempsey Junior, a.k.a. Sonny, had been a piece of shit who should have gotten his far sooner than he had.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Houser said as he joined Finley on the sofa.
“I have advised my client,” Wellsby said to Finley, “not to entertain a visit from you or speak to you and certainly not to answer any of your questions. However, Mr.Dempsey is sympathetic to your efforts to find the truth regarding your husband’s tragic death. With that in mind, he feels compelled to speak with you. Be advised that I will not allow his kindness to in any way jeopardize his own case.”
When Finley said nothing, Houser stated, “We appreciate your concerns. I will defer to my associate,” he indicated Finley, “going forward.”
Wellsby said something else, but Finley was too focused on Dempsey to hear or to care.
“Why do you have another thug following me?” she asked.
