The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(5)

Finley forced the echo away. The concept of the Judge and grandchildren was completely incongruent. Judge Ruth O’Sullivan wouldn’t think of taking time from her prestigious career for anyone. Just ask Finley’s dad. He’d retired last year to help Finley with physical rehab after . . . what happened. The idea wouldn’t have crossed the Judge’s mind. But Barton O’Sullivan, a mere director of community and social services, was expendable. His career had always come a distant second to her mother’s.

Finley turned to Matt. “Are you sure the Judge didn’t put you up to this? I know how you love staying on her good side.”

He braced his arm on her door. “You know better, Fin. I’ll see you at seven.”

A little salute, and he was off.

She watched him walk away. Yes, they were friends. In truth, he was her only real friend. It wasn’t that he didn’t invite her to dinner fairly regularly, actually.

It was the timing.

He must have heard about her follow-up interview with Detective Graves.

Which meant tonight wasn’t just two old friends getting together to catch up.

Matt had gotten a heads-up on something that concerned her . . . something related to the shooter at the Shop Easy, maybe. The thought unsettled her more than it should have.

Apparently, she really was a suspect.

Oh well. It wouldn’t be the first time.





3


3:00 p.m.


Finnegan Law Firm

Tenth Avenue

Nashville

The law office where Finley worked as an investigator wasn’t really an office. Not in the traditional sense, at any rate. It was an old church in a forgotten neighborhood only blocks from downtown. Some years back Jack Finnegan had taken it as payment from a client who’d been real estate poor at the time. With his law career’s resurrection, Jack had decided that working out of a church was fitting. He’d turned the former house of God into a well-laid-out suite of offices for himself and his staff. Trees lined the parking area, providing a barrier between the former church and its neighbors, a mixture of early-twentieth-century homes and small low-rent businesses.

Inside, Finley paused at the reception desk to pick up her messages.

“The boss is MIA.”

Finley looked from the cluster of messages to the lady who’d spoken. Actually, Nita Borelli was more of a drill sergeant than a lady. She kept the firm and its handful of employees on their toes. Jack was the boss in name only. Everyone understood Nita was the real boss.

“He didn’t call?” Worry stirred in Finley. Jack was always the first one to arrive and the last one to leave . . . except when he was fighting a relapse—as he called it.

“He did not, and I’ve called his cell a dozen times.” She paused in her typing and looked over her glasses at Finley. “The last time this happened, we didn’t find him for three days.”

Finley groaned inwardly. The high-profile wrongful death case he’d been working on for months had closed yesterday with the kind of settlement attorneys lived for. If Jack had decided to celebrate, he may have fallen off the wagon. It hadn’t happened in years, but once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.

“I’ll find him,” Finley assured the other woman. Though Finley had worked with Jack only since leaving the DA’s office last year, she knew him better than anyone else on staff.

Nita returned to her furious typing. “Wallace went to the Drake after court, around noon, and Jack wasn’t there.”

The Drake was one of Music City’s oldest motels. In its heyday it had been a popular place. Now it was just another old icon that had lost its luster. For Jack, it was home.

“Did Wallace go inside?” Finley asked.

Adan Wallace was the other attorney on staff. He handled most of the firm’s smaller cases. Helped out wherever Jack needed him. He was a good attorney but lacking the ruthless aggression required to take on the bigger cases. Jack called him a kitten in a lion’s territory. Not a bad thing—in legal battles it took all kinds.

“He did,” Nita said as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Wherever Jack slept last night, it wasn’t there.”

“Did you call—”

“I called all hospitals and the morgue. If he’s hurt or dead, no one’s found him yet.”

That was a good thing. Possibly. “He’s probably at his cabin. I’ll head there now and bring him in.”

Nita grunted an affirmative without taking her eyes off the computer screen.

Finley shuffled through her messages as she headed back to her car. Nothing that couldn’t wait. Percy Priest Lake was only about twenty-five minutes away. She would try Jack’s cell on the way, but chances were it was dead by now. The man never remembered his charger.

Afternoon traffic slowed her exodus from the city. She frowned at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her ever-present ponytail needed refreshing; strands of stray black hair hung around her cheeks. Way too many lines furrowed her brow. Frowning had become her customary expression. These days smiles took effort. Large, dark sunglasses hid the circles under her eyes.

Derrick would have said she needed sleep, worked too hard. He would have insisted she needed a break. She should have appreciated more the way he’d tried to take care of her. But she hadn’t, and now it was too late.