The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(27)

Finley got out, tossed the bag into the trash receptacle that sat at the corner of her driveway, and headed for the front door, which was apparently the visitor’s destination as well.

“Can I help you?” she asked since he hadn’t spoken yet.

He paused before reaching the steps, allowing her to go up to the porch first. “I think I might be able to help you.”

She’d heard that line before. “How about some ID?” She paused and turned back to him. The two steps up to the porch separating their positions gave her the perception of an advantage.

He reached beneath his lapel.

“Easy,” she reminded him.

His eyes tapered with impatience, but he obligingly displayed both hands palm out, then pulled back his lapel to show he wasn’t wearing a weapon. Or a badge.

So maybe not a cop? Private investigator?

He reached into an interior jacket pocket and removed a credentials case, which he held in front of her face.

Richard Montrose. Retired Metro PD.

The face, the eyes, and the hair she hadn’t recognized. Montrose had sported black hair five years ago. Still tall and fit, he couldn’t have been retired long, though she hadn’t run into him during her four-year stint as a Davidson County ADA.

The name, however, she recalled from the Legard investigation reports. Detective Richard “Dick” Montrose was one of the two detectives involved in the investigation.

“Finley O’Sullivan,” she said, turning to her door. “But then I guess you knew that.” She unlocked the door but didn’t open it.

Montrose had joined her on the narrow porch, making it feel all the more restrictive.

“I hear you’re looking into the Legard case.”

On the street a dark sedan rolled slowly past. She watched. The driver, whose face was concealed with dark glasses and a beard, glanced her way. As if in slow motion, his mouth spread into a grin.

Finley didn’t have to wonder who he was. She recognized him instantly.

He’d been watching her more closely since the shooting at the convenience store.

She smiled back. You’d better be watching, asshole.

She blinked and he was gone.

“The Legard case,” the man next to her repeated.

Finley drew back to the here and now. “Sorry. What?”

“You’re looking into the Legard case.”

His voice was smoother than she’d expected. Inordinately deep. He probably sang in his church choir. Had a wife who had been his childhood sweetheart and a couple of kids in college. He looked exactly like the type.

“I am. My firm is representing the Legard family.”

He nodded. “There are things you need to know,” he said more quietly.

“I have the case file.” Like that always gave the whole story.

He took a long breath as if the exchange had exhausted him. “I only want to help, Ms. O’Sullivan.”

The exasperation that made a brief appearance on his face didn’t show up in his voice. It seemed he really needed to get something off his chest but wasn’t prepared to simply blurt it out.

She pulled her cell from her bag and held it up to photograph him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“By all means.”

She snapped the pic. Sent it to Nita with the hashtag #visitor.

Then she reached for the door. “Come on in, but I warn you my place is a mess.”

She switched on the overhead light to chase away the gloom. Didn’t help that much. One of the bulbs had blown. Derrick always took care of those things. Not anymore.

She closed the door behind her visitor. “We were in the middle of renovating.”

Derrick would have laughed and said, The middle might be optimistic.

An ache pierced her. “Have a seat if you’d like.” She gestured to the one empty chair. Took her a moment to clear a spot on the sofa for herself. “I may have a couple of bottles of beer in the fridge if you’re interested.”

He shook his head. “Don’t go to any trouble for me.”

She placed her bag at her feet. “So, what is it I need to know?”

“My partner and I were the investigators on the case.”

She made an agreeable sound. Leaned back into the sofa to prevent sitting awkwardly on the edge and crossed her arms over her chest.

“He was senior.”

“Detective Raymond Jones,” she said for clarification.

“Yes.”

He shrugged, his whole body seeming to be a part of the movement. “I couldn’t get right with the confession Holmes gave. The Jag was too clean except for all the blood and the perp’s prints. There wasn’t even any of the victim’s prints, or a member of the family’s. It was like someone cleaned the car very carefully, then tossed the dead guy and a bucket of blood inside. Then Holmes made it a point to touch everything.”

That part was definitely not in the reports. “Why was that aspect of your observations kept out of the reports?”

“The word was, we had the killer. No need to muddy the water by asking unnecessary questions. Close the case.”

“Did you voice your objections to anyone other than your partner?” His partner was deceased. Montrose would be in the clear if the shit hit the fan over whatever he said now. Lay it on the dead guy.