The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(50)

“Three, I think.”

“Good, that means we have time.”

When Jack Finnegan made up his mind to do something, he didn’t waste time. Asking questions was pointless.



Riverbend Maximum Security Prison

Cockrill Bend Boulevard

Nashville, 2:40 p.m.

Finley peeled her fingers loose from the armrests once the vehicle was in park. Jack had one speed: full throttle.

He’d called the warden on the way and arranged a visit with Rudy Davis. Once they were signed in, a guard escorted them to the visitation area. Davis had been set up in a private room. Inmates like Davis and Holmes weren’t allowed any sort of freedom during visitation. Typically, visitors were separated by plexiglass with only a handset to speak through. If the meeting was face to face, the inmate had to be secured. Suited Finley just fine.

Davis was a lifer who’d murdered three people and managed a plea deal. Though she understood the methodology behind plea deals, she didn’t particularly appreciate the system.

The guard paused at the door and reminded them of the rules. No personal contact with the inmate. And so forth.

Finally the door was opened, and Jack waited for her to enter first. They sat in the two chairs across the table from Davis, who was shackled wrists, belly, and ankles to the floor. His trademark Bible was clenched in his hands as if he might break into prayer. He was forty-five, not very tall, but fit as far as she could tell with him wearing prison garb. Dark hair and eyes. His face was nondescript. He was well educated. An undergrad degree in psychology, which made him all the more dangerous in Finley’s opinion.

Davis glanced at Jack, but his gaze lingered on Finley. No surprise. He expected her to be the easiest to intimidate. She stared right back at him.

“Afternoon, Mr. Davis,” Jack said, kicking off what would likely be a one-sided conversation.

Davis shifted his attention to Jack but said nothing.

“You had a visitor this morning,” Finley said, taking a shot at him. “We”—she gestured to Jack and then herself—“are representing her and her daughters. We asked that she speak with you and see if you would help us understand why Charles Holmes is trying to hurt her family again.”

This was mostly a fabrication, but he couldn’t know for sure.

His eyes tapered into slits as he studied Finley, looking for some sign she was lying. He wouldn’t find it. Finley was very, very good at lying. She was an attorney. She had to be good at it.

“I called her,” he said, his voice not nearly as deep as she’d expected. Almost feminine.

“How did you get her number?” This from Jack.

Davis flashed him a look but gave his answer to Finley. “Information is easy to secure if you have the means.”

Like drugs and basically anything else an inmate wanted.

“Why did you call her?” Jack asked.

Davis pressed the Bible against his chest as if what he had to say were coming straight from the heart. “I had a message for her.”

Finley felt Jack stiffen. She placed a hand on his leg, then asked, “From Mr. Holmes?”

“No, no. From the Lord.” He nodded somberly. “She badly needs to confess her sins before it’s too late. The wrath is coming. Very soon.”

“Did your friend Mr. Holmes ask you to convey that message?” Finley restated the question.

“The Lord asked me to convey the message, ma’am. She and her whorish daughters are doomed to the fires of hell if they don’t confess their sins.”

Jack pushed back his chair and stood. “We’re done here.”

Finley stood more slowly. Jack was already at the door by the time she pushed in her chair. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Davis.”

“She’s marked,” Davis said quietly. “You’ll see. They all are.”

Then he launched into fervent prayer.

Jack didn’t say a word until they were through security and out of the building. “Son of a bitch! Holmes is up to something. He’s added a new level to this twisted game of his.”

When they’d settled into his vehicle and had the air struggling against the heat, Finley reminded him, “You can’t play a game without a willing participant. She came to see him. What does that tell you?”

Jack’s mouth stayed shut in that thin line of fury while he drove through the gate.

“It tells me,” Finley went on, “that Sophia Legard has reason to be worried. To jump through hoops. What do you think will happen when Siniard or the DA get wind of her little visit? She just wrote guilty across her forehead.”

“I want to talk to her. Get her side of this story.”

“Is that Jack the attorney talking or Jack the lover?”

He shot her a look. “Are you really asking me that, O’Sullivan?”

He barreled into traffic. Finley held on to the armrests.

He was pissed. He never called her O’Sullivan. She was his namesake.

“It’s a reasonable question under the circumstances,” she argued.

He drove. Said nothing.

“She’s our client,” Finley pressed. “Of course you need to find out why she felt compelled to visit the bastard. But the emotion I’m hearing in your voice is about more than the case. I’m not saying your heart is involved,” she said when he continued the silent treatment. “I’m saying your ego is leading you. For whatever reason, she has dragged you into this case. And maybe you feel like you have to do a better job protecting her this time or some stupid macho thing like that.”