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They left the building. The sun was brighter than usual and damned warm for a December morning, making her wish she had reconsidered the sweater.
“Where to now?” Houser asked.
“I say we drop by his house.” Finley sent him a look. “Are you trying to hang around me to protect me or for some other male-ego-driven odyssey?”
He laughed. “No, actually I’m just trying to be eco friendly. If we’re going to the same place, we might as well go together.”
“Nice try, but with my neighbor in the hospital and not knowing when Jack might need me, it’s better to stick with two vehicles.”
Houser gestured to the cars. “Lead the way.”
Brewer Residence
Cherokee Lane, Nashville, 10:30 a.m.
The house was a smaller ranch style. Brick with a carport. On a large lot. Most of the houses along the block looked the same. A few were multilevel, but most were like this one. Fairly compact on one floor.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Houser said as he emerged from his car.
Finley closed the door of her Subaru. Though the carport was empty, there was a detached garage. “His car could be in the garage.”
Houser shook his head. “I’m betting not. The guy is a lifelong fixer. There’re no other buildings. No shed. He has to have a shop around here somewhere.”
She could see that scenario. “You figure he uses the garage for a workshop.”
“You got it.”
While Houser walked around the yard, Finley went to the door. She stood on the small stoop of a porch and opened the screen door to knock on the wood door behind it. Since no dogs came rushing toward her and none barked, she assumed they were safe from the possibility of being bitten.
Finley knocked again. There was no window in the door. No sound coming from the other side. She knocked a couple more times; then she did the sneaky-peeky thing. Any window not covered with shutters or blinds was fair game as far as Finley was concerned.
“Where are you, Mr.Brewer?” she mumbled.
Typical eighties-style furnishings inside. Tidy. Clean. The shrubs around the house were all neatly trimmed. The lawn was well kept. Probably fertilized and seeded for the winter. The man was meticulous with his maintenance. Never missed a day of work. If he was so meticulous with all that he did, wouldn’t he have been more careful than he’d let on about keeping up with Lucy?
Finley felt certain he knew more than he’d shared.
When she and Houser made their way back to their parked cars, she said, “Maybe he went to the doctor.” It wasn’t impossible, though he had looked fine last night.
“Guess so.” Houser jerked his head toward the garage. “There was a window. It’s a workshop.”
“Good call,” she said. She hitched a thumb toward the house. “I’ll leave him a note.”
She tore a page from her notepad and scribbled a quick message asking Brewer to call her. Some older folks didn’t check their voice mails regularly. She left her number just in case he’d lost her card. Once she’d tucked it in the wood door and ensured the screen door closed, she headed back to her car.
“Have you spoken to your father again?”
Finley hesitated but then decided she could use Houser’s help, which meant she couldn’t keep this from him. “I did. He’s still not telling me everything, but he explained his hesitation a little better.” She gave him a recap of her father’s late-night visit. Then added, “Although he didn’t say as much, I got the feeling Johnson may have been threatening him. Maybe he still is. The idea has me wondering if Johnson chose Jack’s firm for that reason. Or that maybe my working there was a part of it.”
Houser thought about all she’d said for a bit before reacting. “We certainly can’t rule out the idea. To tell the truth, I can see how Johnson may have been grasping at straws thirteen years ago. Trying to figure out if anyone could connect him or his family to Lucy’s murder.” His eyebrows went up. “By the way, I reinterviewed the two friends of Ian’s, and both claimed to have no idea if Ian was involved with Lucy or anyone else. Maybe they just didn’t want to rat him out to a cop, or maybe Johnson had them spoon-feed that info to you alone.”
The big question was why.
“What about the ex-wife?” Finley asked.
“Funny that you asked,” Houser said. “She called me back. Was happy to chat. She claims she has never met you. She has no idea why you would”—he made air quotes—“talk shit about her.”
Her frustration edging up, she shook her head. “He’s using me or trying to set me up.” No way to deny the idea. “Maybe because he believes my father knows something or, as you say, that he ratted him out.”
