The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(72)

“As far as we know, he had no siblings. He was born in a small community—more a curve in the road—called Francisco, Alabama, near Huntland on the Tennessee-Alabama line. His parents died when he was very young. Murdered. He moved from foster home to foster home until he was seventeen, and then he took off. He’s spent most of his life as a drifter. A thief. And, as we learned after his arrest, a murderer. The strangest thing about him, to me, was the fact that he was never caught in any of the bigger crimes he later confessed to after his DNA came up a match in those scenes. There were never any complaints from foster parents. At least none we found. I found it quite strange there was nothing in his past that even hinted at violence.”

“You discovered nothing that suggested he may have seen his parents’ killer or participated somehow in their murders?”

Montrose shook his head. “Since he was only seven, I guess no one really considered the possibility. Looking back, maybe they should have.”

“The reason I’m asking is that Sophia had been stabbed, although there’s reason to believe the stabbing was not the cause of death. If he ordered someone to do it, he may have had the knife left behind to show us it was him.” Lance Legard had been stabbed multiple times with a switchblade-style knife.

Montrose contemplated the idea, then nodded. “It’s possible. She was killed at home, you say?”

Finley added, “With the security system active.”

“Who else knows the code besides Olivia and Cecelia?”

“We could be looking at a large number of people. Olivia said the code hadn’t been changed in years. It was still the same as it was before her father’s murder.”

“Definitely a complication, but I might be able to help you there. What about the cameras?”

“All the cameras were inactive.”

“Then you need a list of everyone who had the code back then.”

“If you have that list,” she said, hopeful, “I might just have to hug you.”

“I do.”

He directed Finley on how to find the list in his office. He was far too weak to be puttering around the house. The home health nurse had stepped out for a break during Finley’s visit. She would return shortly, he assured Finley.

The list was in the file on the desk just where Montrose said it would be. She had never been so grateful for an organized man. She wandered back to the living room, already skimming the list.

“This is fantastic,” she said, shooting him a grateful smile.

“I can’t guarantee you it’s complete. Any of those people could have told anyone else.”

Unfortunately true.

“Was there anything else . . .” He paused for a breath. “That you wanted to ask about?”

Finley realized he was losing his battle with exhaustion. “Yes, thank you for reminding me. Holmes said when he died he wanted to go to Paradise. That he’d always done his best there. I assumed it was a line he learned from his pal the Preacher.”

“Paradise?” The detective’s eyes perked up. “There was a place—maybe it’s still in business—in one of those back alleys around Broadway. It was called Paradise. It was one of those places you had to know about. Not listed on the net or anywhere else. As I recall, it was a favorite hangout of his.”

Finley’s anticipation spiked. “I will definitely check it out.”

“Be careful,” Montrose warned. “It’s not the sort of place nice girls hang out.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I really appreciate everything.”

She considered telling him that all the nice had been beaten out of her the night her husband was murdered, but she changed her mind.

The nurse appeared just as Finley was leaving. She started the engine to get the air-conditioning going, then sat in her car long enough to send Jack a text telling him where she was headed. Even as an ADA she’d never gone out into the field without letting someone know where she would be.

A rap on her window made her jump. She stared at the man standing outside her driver’s side door. Older, fifty or more. Shaggy gray hair. Needed a shave. Wore a plaid shirt. All these things she noted as he pointed to a piece of folded paper he held, then started to unfold it. Once the page was open, a single handwritten word filled the larger portion of the white space.

HOT.

The man pointed at her and then walked away, the paper fluttering to the ground.

She was close to the truth, it seemed.

When the Holmes follower had disappeared from view, she shifted into drive, but her phone chimed with an incoming text, stalling her. She read the message. Jack confirmed that he’d heard of the place and echoed Montrose’s warning urging her to be careful.

Finley drove away. She might not be as nice as she used to be, but careful was her middle name.



Paradise

South Broadway

Nashville, 5:00 p.m.

According to the posted hours on the door, the club didn’t open until six, but there were people inside prepping for the night. Finley had checked in with Sandy, and the owner of the property was Maurice Cosgrove. He had been the owner/operator of the place for twenty years.

No reason he shouldn’t remember Charles Holmes since, according to Montrose, he had been a regular here. No live bands, but there was always a DJ in the house. Lots of wild lights and even elevated cages those who wished to show off their dancing skills could utilize. Alcohol was served. A good many drug arrests had gone down outside the building over the years. But never inside. Word was Cosgrove was obsessive about keeping the place clean. This venue catered to the rich and famous. Even the infamous, apparently.