The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(41)

Before Finley could ask her to go over what happened that night, Bethany grabbed her cell.

“Speak of the devil,” she announced, “that’s him right now.”

Briggs. “I’ll get out of your way so you can speak to your father in private.”

Finley started for the door.

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

The door opened, and a lady rushed in with a veil. “It’s here!”

Finley escaped during the delighted squealing that came next. Briggs would figure out she’d had this little chat with his daughter soon enough. No use making it easy for him. If she were really lucky, the preoccupied bride would forget all about Finley’s visit.

As she exited the boutique, she removed her cell from the front pocket of her messenger bag and shut off the record option. Just in case Bethany tried to walk back her statement.

Finley started her Subaru and powered the windows down to allow some of the built-up heat to escape while the air-conditioning struggled to cool things off. She strapped on her seat belt and checked her phone No missed calls.

She called Jack’s cell again. Straight to voice mail. “Damn it.”

Frustrated, she called the office, then merged out onto the street. Nita answered after the first ring with her practiced greeting. “Finnegan Firm. How can I help you?”

“Hey, I need to talk to Jack. Does he have a client in his office?”

“He does not. He received a call about an hour ago and rushed out of here like his house was on fire. He said I should cancel his last two appointments and he’d see me on Monday. Mumbled something about having some stuff to do at home.”

“Who was the caller?”

“No clue. The call came in on his cell. But I can tell you this: All together I’ve worked with Jack for twenty years. He never cancels his appointments unless he’s in trouble, Fin, and he won’t listen to anything I say.”

“I’ll find him.”

“I want to hear from you when you do.”

Nita was right. Jack was in trouble. Since he’d painted the entire interior of his cabin already and he had mentioned home when he left the office, Finley decided to start at the Drake.



Drake Motel

Murfreesboro Pike

Nashville, 6:00 p.m.

Finley grabbed her bag and was almost to Jack’s door when the manager rushed out of his office. Norton, Niles—whatever his name—he looked rattled. His colorful shirt and trousers always made her think of the Caribbean.

“Thank God you’re here!”

A loud thump from the direction of Jack’s rooms punctuated the frantic words. Her first thought was that maybe Jack was slugging it out with someone in there. But it was way too loud for that. More crash than a thump, maybe.

“What the hell was that?” She glanced around the neighboring lots. No moving trucks or construction vehicles close by.

“It’s Jack,” the manager cried. “He says he’s renovating his rooms. Please, you have to stop him before someone complains and a city inspector shows up!”

Now she understood. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Another thump or thwack made her jump as she reached his door. She tried the knob—locked. She listened a second or two, then pounded on the door with her fist. “Jack, open the door!”

The door flew inward. Jack stared at her, safety glasses on his face, white dust on his gray tee, a sledgehammer in one hand. “What?”

She raised her eyebrows at his harsh bark. “We are in the middle of a huge case, and you’re renovating your place?”

He removed the safety glasses, glanced over his shoulder. “Get in here and lock the door before Nelson comes back.”

So that was the manager’s name. She did as the boss said, and just in time—a round of knocking ensued, followed by, “Do not start making that noise again, Jack! Not today. Rooms are full! People are complaining.”

Nelson had gone from terrified to pissed. Finley being here to run interference had given him a boost of courage.

Jack dropped the sledgehammer and tossed the glasses aside. He dusted off the thighs of his jeans, which were covered in that same white dust. Drywall dust, she suspected, since he’d torn down a sizeable portion of the half wall that separated his living area from his office. Chunks of drywall and a few battered two-by-fours lay on the plush blue carpet. Clear plastic, the sort used when painting, had been draped along the middle of the room, protecting his office area from all the dust. On his coffee table sat an open bottle of bourbon—still full—and the requisite tumbler. Oh yeah, he was doing battle again. Not a positive sign.

“You know if you drink that, we’re both in trouble.”

He looked from the bottle to her. “I’m not going to drink it. I just needed to have the option available while I did some thinking.”

“Nita said you received a call that sent you rushing out of the office.” She glanced around at the demolition he’d started. “Was it your interior designer?”

His hands went to his waist as if he couldn’t decide what to do with them. “It was the Judge.”

Now there was an answer Finley hadn’t seen coming. “Why did she call you?”

“She was returning my call.”

“I see.” Was she going to have to excavate every single word out of him? “And?”